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Summary: Para Liaison Summers, meet the Losers. Crossover with the 2010 movie. Drabble-verse.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Movies > Losers, The(Past Moderator)FaithUnbreakableFR152445,8033830159,75216 Oct 106 Oct 13No

NOTE: This chapter is rated FR18

Buffy's Night Out

A/N: Sorry for the lack of updates, my dears. I've spent the past three weeks more or less incapacitated by a very stubborn flu-bug. And school. There's always school... Meh. Sorry. Thanks for your awesome reviews.

This one is actually a collection of several prompts Amuswithaview gave me, so if it seems a bit disjointed... that's because it is.

Heed the warnings below, please. Triggery themes.


Buffy’s Night Out


In which we learn fun things to do in bars; drinking games, dancing and violence. (Warning for almost-rape and ensuing violence.)


For most soldiers, downtime was like Christmas come early. Being stateside, being with their families, sleeping in their own beds, eating real food. No danger, no excitement, no-one shooting at their asses.

The Losers were bored, mostly. Miller, who didn’t count a Loser no matter what paperwork said, disappeared as soon as they landed and they wouldn’t see him again until five minutes before the plane lifted off again.

But the rest of them? Roque and Clay had apartments with dead plants and an inch-thick layer of dust. Buffy and Snake had couches with their names on them in the homes of relatives. Pooch was the only one with a real home and Jolene wasn’t there this time, so there was no reason for him to go home. They ate pancakes and apple pie until they were close to throwing up, slept for twelve hours straight and then they were bored.

See, thing is, it wasn’t like they liked being shot at. Except they kind of did. Adrenaline junkies, the lot of them and they really, really didn’t know what to do with themselves if there wasn’t someone to hit or shoot at. It was kind of sad, really.

Summers suggested scattering and going their own ways for some random vacationing, but only Snake had anywhere he wanted to go. He hadn’t gotten a chance to visit his parents since Texas had died and he wanted to catch up, so they were down to four with nothing to do and too much time on their hands.

Naturally, they went partying.


There where wolf whistles and cat calls when the four Losers made their way to the carpool to get the hell off the base they called their home this week. Not because of the three guys and jeans and shirts but because of the one woman in their middle.

Clay tried not to look, he really did but, Jesus, the woman cleaned up well. He was used to her in tight jeans and shirts so the body underneath the clothes really didn’t come as a surprise. The short cocktail dress, the long, golden curls and the endless expanse of tanned skin kind of did, though.

She had linked her arms through Pooch’s and Roque’s and their tall black made her short blonde stand out even more. She was dazzling. Clay was tempted to send her back to change. He would have done it, too, if he hadn’t known that she would find something shorter still to wear just to spite him for playing daddy.

They drove a ways out, none of them keen on spending their night drinking with cherries fresh out of Basic, and found a nice and crowded bar two towns over. They had enough food on the menu to feed all four of them and after that, Clay went and bought the first bottle of booze, as was tradition.

“Game?” he asked as he slipped back into the booth, dropping a handful of shot glasses carelessly on the table.

They each grabbed one and Pooch suggested, “I Never?”

Everyone rolled their eyes because I Never had been Pooch’s favorite drinking game since he figured out all the crazy shit they’d all done over the years. The game was the easiest way to check if rumors were true and get ammunition on people. Since the night was young and they’d all split to find their own fun as soon as the bottle was done, no-one complained too much.

They played two rounds where no-one had to drink much before Roque sent a shit-eating grin Clay’s way and said, “I never fucked anyone that tried to kill me beforehand.”

Since everyone knew that Clay picked his women based on the statistical probability of them going bat-shit insane in the foreseeable future, no-one was surprised when he glared and then downed his drink. They were kind of surprised when Mom followed suit.

Everyone stared at her. “Seriously?” Pooch wanted to know.

She nodded and went a bit starry-eyed. “The sex was awesome, though.”

The Pooch grinned and decided to investigate further. “I never slept with anyone who tried to kill me after.”

Clay drank. Summers matched him.

Clay’s turn. He stared at the slayer and then said, “I never shot at a lover.”

A frown. “Does a rocket launcher count as ‘shot at’?”


“Okay.” She drank, refilled her glass, eyed the already half empty bottle with derision and thought that the military made people alcoholics. She topped Clay off, too, and shot back, “I never slept with anyone who shot at me.”

He drank. She didn’t.

Roque again. “I never slept with someone I had a knife fight with.”

Surprisingly, he didn’t drink. Summers hesitated, then did. When she got questioning looks, she shrugged. “It was an axe. And it happened years before we had our first civil conversation.”

“The Pooch does not believe that shit. You’re worse than Clay, girl!”

She smirked and turned to Clay with a triumphant look. “Now, hold on,” the Colonel complained, feeling a bit insulted. Not that he enjoyed his misadventures with women, but they were his trademark, damn it. “One of them tried to blow up my car. With me in it.”

“So? One of mine helped lead me into a trap that was supposed to end with me dead by demon in the sewers.”

“I got chased through the Everglades by a pissed off husband with a shotgun.”

“I got kidnapped by the guy because he wanted to prove his undying love to me by killing his ex in front of me.”

“Did he?”

“No. Speaking of the crazy bitch, I should probably figure out where she disappeared to. Huh.” She made a face, then focused on their fearless leader again.

“One of the bitches tried to stage a coup in a third world country.”

“My first boyfriend tried to literally suck the whole world into hell.”

“O-kay!” Pooch interrupted, holding a hand between them, arm outstretched. “I’m calling it like it is. Boss, Mom’s got you beat. Her relationship luck is even shittier than yours.

Summers beamed. “Thank you!” Then she considered what she’d just won and her expression fell a bit. “I think.”


Roque went to fleece a couple of college kids at pool and Clay followed him, never one to pass up a good laugh. Pooch settled at the bar to quietly drink and not have sex with anyone who wasn’t Jolene and possibly keep an eye on Summers, who was taking the dance floor by storm, her short skirt flying and her smile flashing.

There was a high probability of drool puddles forming on the floor and the Pooch found himself looking at what was on display against his will. It wasn’t that he was hot for the woman, no. Lord knew he had his hands full with the one he had waiting at home. But it was kind of impossible to look away from a woman that knew her body inside out and trusted in it. There was something magnetizing in a woman that was utterly unreachable. And yet the blonde seemed mostly unaware of the attention she was getting, simply dancing to amuse herself and work off some of the endless energy she had.

A few guys walked up to her, dancing with her a bit, trying to flirt. She was kind to all, but sent most of them packing. A couple were content to just dance and talk for a while without expecting more. She kept those around longer and they parted with smiles.

And then there were the persistent ones. If Pooch hadn’t seen Summers kick the asses of half a dozen heavily armed men twice her size, he might have been worried for her. As it was, he simply pitied the poor fool that thought he could touch her without express permission and get away with his fingers attached to the rest of him.

Suddenly there was a commotion by the pool tables and Pooch stood, trying to figure out if he’d have to bail his superiors out again. Roque looked ready to skin a cat, but Clay interfered and talked the whole thing down to non-lethal territory. Sometimes Pooch wondered what Roque had been like before he’d had Clay to smooth over his edges.

Most of the time, though, he really didn’t want to know.

Once he was sure there’d be no fighting he took a trip to the bathroom and then spent ten minutes waiting for another seat at the bar to open up. When he finally found one and turned to seek out Summers in the crowd, she was dancing with a big, burly guy, a cocktail in her hand, smiling. Pooch recognized the guy as one she’d sent packing earlier. Apparently, he’d come back to make amends.

He ordered another beer and sent a passing waitress to fix up Roque and Clay, hoping that the alcohol would mellow them both enough that they wouldn’t get banned from this place, too. Really, the list of watering holes the Losers were not allowed to set foot in anymore was ridiculously long. And down time like this? Tended to make it even longer.

Ten minutes later Mom was done with her cocktail and still dancing with the same guy. He slid an arm around her waist and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, handed her glass off to a waitress and led herself be pulled through the crowd toward the exit. Pooch frowned. Picking up random stranger in bars wasn’t really the blonde’s style. Sure, he hadn’t known her all that long, but it seemed out of character for her.

Then someone jostled her and she capsized into her date, almost falling and Pooch cursed, long and loud. The guy had come on to her, she’d turned him down, he’d come back with a drink. And now she was stumbling. Summers never stumbled. She wobbled sometimes when she was drunk, but it took a lot more than she’d had tonight to get her there. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

That little fuck had slipped her roofies.

Pooch didn’t bother fighting his way through the crowd. He simply stuck two fingers between his lips and whistled loud enough to make everyone in a ten foot radius wince. Then he waved, catching the attention of his team mates, and waved toward the exit where Buffy was just disappearing, a beefy arm wrapped around her waist.

Clay looked questioning, raising one shoulder in a half shrug. Pooch shook his head and mimed drinking something. The CO’s eyes grew wide as he understood.

Ten seconds later three pissed off special forces soldiers were shouldering their way to the door, the expressions on their faces promising murder.


When Pooch signaled them across the entire bar, Clay thought he was simply commenting on the fact that Mom had found someone to take home. Unusual, but it was her business. But then the driver mimed drinking something and Clay felt his own eyes widen as Roque stiffened next to him.

“Motherfuck,” Roque growled, sounding murderous. He slammed his beer down hard enough to make the college kids he was playing pool with jump and go wide-eyed. One of them opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but suddenly there was a knife in Roque’s hand and he backed up quickly.

“Imma cut that fucker,” the big man rumbled and Clay found himself nodding as they started across the room, the crowd parting before the cloud of menace Roque was projecting in front of him. They hit the exit in record time with Pooch joining them, hands balled into fists.

“If that guy manages to hurt her,” the growled and Clay was a bit impressed with the usually easy-going driver.

They stalked outside, automatically spreading to take in their surroundings and look for their lost team mate. Clay was the one who spied a flash of her red dress disappearing into a nearby alley and took off at a run, glad that he’d left his gun back at the base. He’d have a hard enough time keeping Roque from killing the fucker without the added temptation of shooting his balls off himself.

The others were right behind him as he skidded into the alley and what he saw made his blood boil. The soon-to-be-dead dick had Summers pressed up against the wall, her skirt bunched around her waist, his hands fumbling at her underwear. She was batting at him with the power and precision of a dazed kitten, which was more than a normal woman would have been able to do after being slipped roofies, but still not enough.

The guy was sucking and licking at her neck and whispering something filthy in her ear. She squirmed, making a small, hurt noise, and Clay lunged, pulling the guy off her and punching him in the face with the force of his whole body behind it. The fucker went down like a sack of shit and stayed there. That might have had something to do with the boot Roque dug into his back to keep him down, but Clay really didn’t care.

Pooch was carefully talking to Buffy (because she was Buffy, suddenly, not kickass Summers, not Mom), calming her before he tried to touch her. She was drugged and dazed, yes, but somewhere underneath was still a trained killer and it was impossible to say when and how she’d work through the chemicals in her system. Better not end up with a busted nose. Satisfied that his female team member was taken care of, Clay turned back to where Roque was still digging his foot into the coward’s spine. The angry man had grabbed the other’s hair and was pulling his head up and back, knife at his throat.

“Roque,” Clay cautioned, voice low and soothing. He didn’t feel like covering up murder tonight. He would, for Roque, for this shit, he would, but he didn’t want to.

Instead of answering, Roque jerked the guy’s head farther back, bending his back almost to breaking point. He groaned and twisted weakly, trying to escape until the knife pressed into the soft skin of his neck made him still in fear. Suddenly Roque laughed and slammed the guy down with the hand he’d buried in his hair. His face hit the dirty concrete with a wet sound and no-one flinched. Then Roque grabbed at his neck and came up with a chain of small metal beads that they all recognized.

Their would-be rapist was wearing dog-tags. He was a soldier. Clay felt himself smile and he was sure it wasn’t a nice expression. With a flourish, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the base to call the MP. He was going to make the man wish he’d never been born.

Behind him, Buffy seemed to finally start reconnecting with reality because she asked, voice wobbly, “Pooch?”

Pooch laughed and nodded, putting a hand on her shoulder, reeling her in to hug her with one arm while he fixed her dress with his free hand. She leaned into him and sighed. “You’re not a dog.”

“Nope,” he agreed as Clay hung up from a very short, concise call.

He waved at Roque and Pooch. “Take her back. I’ll wait with this little fuck for the MPs to come get him. We can all make our statements tomorrow.”

Roque growled. “Can I have five minutes alone with him first?”

The colonel sighed and looked down at the guy. He considered it. He really did. But then he shook his head. “We’ll hand his ass to him, Roque. But for that, he needs to be alive.”

The SiC opened his mouth, but Clay cut him off before he could start. “And mostly undamaged. Take Mom home.”

To punctuate the order, Summers suddenly whimpered. “I’m not feeling so well,” she informed Pooch and then jerked away from him to barf pitifully, barely managing to keep standing.

“Shit,” Roque muttered and, with a last kick at his prisoner, tucked away his knife before doing something completely out of character. He shouldered past Pooch and grabbed Summers by the waist from behind, steadying her as she puked everything she’d drunk and eaten that day. He held her goddamn hair!.

When she was done, Pooch handed her a tissue he’d found in his pockets and she managed to mostly wipe her mouth clean. She dropped the used tissue and looked around blearily, like the action had taken what little energy she had left. She finally noticed Roque and blinked at him. “Roque,” she greeted, stumbling as she tried to turn in his hold. “You’re very big.”

Then, as if she was telling him a big secret, she stood on tip toe and whispered loudly, “It’s about the blood, you see?”

Roque looked down at her a bit wide-eyed, but not like her words weren’t making sense to him. Those two were strange. Then she mercifully passed out and Clay hoped she wouldn’t remember anything come morning.

“Let’s get the princess home,” Pooch suggested, jiggling his car keys. Roque nodded as he picked her up, bridal style, his grim expression stopping anyone from making a dumb joke.

Clay watched them leave and then turned back to the groaning soldier on the ground. Her cracked his knuckles and smiled. “Just you and me now, pal,” he said.


The next day Summers woke with a headache from hell and didn’t remember anything. They filled her in and, on her insistence, took her to see the man who’d almost raped her.

He had a broken nose, two shiners, a fractured cheekbone, two broken fingers, a broken toe and a few cracked ribs. She looked at him, then at the Losers and back at him.

“You broke his toe,” Pooch informed her with a grin. “Stepped on it with those killer heels before we got there.”

“And the rest?”

Roque shrugged modestly. “He fell.”

She laughed, a bit shaky with almosts and possibles and said, “Thanks guys.”

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