Title: kill zone
Series: The Law of Club and Fang
Word Count: 1280
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.
Note: This turned out much sadder than I’d anticipated, and I know it's a little *cough*a lot*cough* past it's due date, but better late than never... I hope.
Prompt: stellarluna35/BtVS, Supernatural/More of the ‘The Law of Club and Fang
.’ Buffy with her pack.
Cuthbert was awash with blue and red lights casting eerie shadows as night crept in along the edge of her neighbors’ homes and from beneath the police cars parked in her driveway and down the street. The Mylar blanket wrapped around her shoulders reflected those colorful lights while Buffy Summers remained seated on the edge of the ambulance the first responder had called to her home. She’d been placed there minutes—a frown tugged at her brows—or possibly hours before and she’d remained there ever since.
The policemen, she wasn’t sure who called them or why, had arrived at her home while she still cradled Dawn’s unmoving body. An ambulance had then been called, she didn’t understand why since they were already dead, before the policemen extracted her from Dawn and then the house. A house that stank of death and fear and felt nothing like home anymore as Buffy continued to study it from her place in the ambulance. Someone, most likely a police officer, had turned on the living room lights and the lights in her parent’s bedroom and while Buffy had the strangest need to turn them off she found she couldn’t move.
Movement, even speech required entirely too much effort at the moment so she remained staring and while Buffy knew she was unnerving the paramedic checking her vitals from time to time she couldn’t bring herself to care. Instead she continued to stare at those illuminated rooms and thought them a terrible lie since they implied someone was home. That there was someone left to greet her, to tease her, to love her and there was no one and Buffy felt the first crack in the numbness that had settled over her since the police arrived.
Green eyes narrowing as she inhaled the scent of death and the copper tang of dried blood. Her jaw clenched, cheeks paling with the force of the bite and her throat constricted as the wolf, that had remained dormant since she’d first laid hands upon Dawn, snarled to life inside her head. The dry burning behind her eyes, which had been present since her meltdown over Dawn, faded away and the paramedic, currently checking her blood pressure, glanced worriedly at her face as he wrapped the nylon strap around her arm.
He adjust the Velcro and the tearing sound brought the hairs along the back of her neck up and her lips pealed back from her teeth. He straightened, hands dropping away from her and Buffy’s head inclined as he took a hesitant step back and the wolf pacing in her head huffed at the submissive dip of his shoulders. That sound escaped her mouth, tongue flattening to mimic the haughty and throaty noise from her head effortlessly and the paramedic took another step back as her nostrils flared.
A dry, woodsy scent came to her over the stink of the paramedic and Buffy’s spine slumped, shoulders rolling inward as the fight left her suddenly. The wolf continued to pace in her head; agitated and grieving—at least part of her was—as the scent of her pack stopped her
from doing something utterly stupid and useless, but didn’t calm her wolf in the slightest. There had been another scent within her home earlier, one that had nothing to do with the death of her family and everything to do with the dealer of that death.
Her wolf had caught that scent and she wanted nothing more than to hunt. She wanted the chase, the thrill and to bury her teeth in that prey. Tear its flesh. Taste its blood.
The growl that trickled from up her throat and past her bared teeth brought the scent of sweat and the sweet taste of panic on the back of her tongue as the paramedic fled. Green eyes watched him go and for a brief moment Buffy wondered why there wasn’t fur lining her face before she shook her head. Closed those eyes and breathed, attempted to regain control before she lost it and brought a world of hurt on herself and her pack. Pack
The word held little meaning at the moment, but the scent—Buffy’s head lifted and she found Micah Pike standing directly in front of her. He towered over her, weathered face drawn in worried lines and his grey eyes were rimmed with red and just a bit glossy. Buffy felt tears begin to blur her own vision at the sight of him and the comfort he could offer as her lower lip trembled. He didn’t say a word, as if he knew she couldn’t speak yet, and instead settled his wide hands on her shoulders.
The Mylar blanket crinkled with the movement and Buffy looked past Micah to see Oliver, his son, and Oz, her closet friend, standing just three steps behind him. They weren’t his equals, not by half, and until one of them gave the the go ahead they’d hang back and watch her with similar expressions of concern. Black hair hung in Oliver’s face and had blue eyes peering out from beneath a set of bangs that were just begging for a trim and the sight of them, familiarity of their messiness, brought a slight quirk to her mouth.
The levity hurt and her face crumbled as she looked to Oz and a tear escaped her lashes to run down her flushed cheek. The fact that she could feel it blaze a cool path didn’t worry her, as it should, since temperature fluxes meant the wolf was close to the surface and fur could bloom from her pores at any moment. She exhaled a shuddering breath and turned her gaze to Micah with the hope that he could offer some comfort, some explanation.
He pulled her forward, into the relative safe haven of his arms and she sank into the coolness of his embrace as her fever raged hotter and she inhaled the familiar scent of him. Her arms escaped the metallic blanket to slide around his middle and she knew her grip was bruising—but couldn’t bring herself to care—as she returned his embrace. A wounded sound, somewhere between human and wolf, escaped her and suddenly more arms were around as Oliver and Oz finally came forward.
Cinnamon and cloves made up Oz’s scent, marked him as other, and reminded Buffy of the fact that he wasn’t a born wolf, but his hands were cool and steading presence. Helping to bring her back to herself because if she shifted, he would follow her into the change, she’d endanger them both. She wouldn’t endanger them both, not intentionally, but the heat from Oliver’s hands, the trebling rage she felt from him, let her know if the hunt was on, he was most definitely in.
Their conflicting urges, but unwavering loyalty allowed her the strength to open her eyes and Buffy lifted her head to prop her chin against Micah’s wide chest before she promised, “I will kill the one that did this.”
Micah’s voice was a rumbling thing, which told her better than his temperature and scent, that his beast was closer to the surface than she thought as he questioned, “But not this night?”
“No, not this night.”
“Settled,” his voice, the certainty in it gave her something to latch onto as she nodded and allowed her cheek to fall against the steady beat of his heart once more and he held her tighter as he stated simply, “I love you, Buffy.”
A sob escaped her and soon she was lost to her grief, but she was still safe, still protected with in the warmth of her wolves, her pack.