See bottom of page for full disclaimer. I do not own the copyrighted works referenced in this fic. I do not make any money off of this. All characters copyright of their respective owners.
On September 2d, 1979, a vampire grabs a young student named Sunday Harper and make her his minion for all of three weeks before he has a run-in with a Slayer who kills him swiftly. Two weeks later, that Slayer is murdered by Spike, one of the Scourge of Europe. Sunday flees to Sunnydale shortly after.
At roughly about the same time Sunday is being slowly drained, Anthony Harris grabs the wrong condom wrapper, taking the old one he's kept around long after the past due date, not knowing that the aged latex will burst at the wrong moment, a single sperm managing to impregnate Jessica Lavelle. Her father will not take this news lightly.
Nine months later, Alexander Harris is born. What Sunday Harper has to do with this story is unknown, except perhaps that she was a life ended the same moment he was conceived.
It's a warm summer afternoon in Paris, and Montmartre is crowded as usual in tourist season. Garishly clad Americans, loud Germans, naïve Swedes and arrogant Brits all walking around acting as if the reason the locals are being snooty is because of some innate sense of superiority and not merely the usual big city blues that affects anyone in places with too many destinies being intertwined.
Amélie watches the American seated at the table by the far wall and wonders just what would take a man's eye.
It's his left one. The black eyepatch lends him an air of danger, and the way he keeps an eye on everyone at all times while pretending to simply be people-watching is reminding her of the old Legionnaire veterans who sometimes come in here, scarred souls who saw Algiers at its worst, or were the worst there. He's wearing a plain blazer with shiny leather patches on the elbows, at first glance it's for decoration, but a closer look reveals the leather is sturdier than normal, and the jacket has many inner pockets. She catches sight of a wooded stake once when he reaches for his wallet, but she says nothing.
She knows about vampires, of course. Not the fancy movie versions, though she admits to liking the way Antonio Banderas looks in evening wear and make-up, no, she's seen the real deal several times. They like Paris too, but the local hunters tend to keep their numbers down. Even more so lately.
He drinks his coffee black, folding up little packets of powdered sugar after adding just a hint to it, and she recognizes the gesture from many a soldier who's seen North Africa, where you save the sugar for when you need it. That added to the tan and the way he pockets the packets of salt from the condiments tray suggests he's spent time there.
He's not happy, she can tell from the very start. He seems worried, and frowning, and generally unsettled.
That along with the phone call he receives at one time where he speaks quietly with someone named Giles in hushed tones makes her decide that if he stays here long enough she's going to make him her latest project.
She hasn't had a project in years. For the most part, her friends and customers have been happy enough, and as for herself she has been quite busy adjusting to the strange notion of love aimed at her. But the way this man looks and acts tells her he's a good man, he's just alone and unhappy.
The first thing she does is find out his name. She glances at his wallet while he pays for his coffee and pastry, and sees that he is one Alexander L Harris, age twenty-three, born in Sunnydale, California. She recognizes the name, and later finds that it's the town that sank into the ground a few years back. It was on the news.
The next thing she does is listen. She's good at listening. She finds out he has a friend named Willow in Rio de Janeiro, that he often talks in an exasperated tone to someone named Andrew and often fondly to someone named Dawn who lives in Rome, and that there is a single name that always makes him tense up and rub at the skin under the eyepatch.
that name. One of her favorite singers is named Buffy. This
Buffy is probably not a folksinger, though.
It is also the only person he never seems to talk to on the phone, though she is often mentioned. Usually in the way of him telling the person on the other end that he doesn't want to talk about her.
He's angry with this person, that's obvious. Upset. Disappointed, perhaps, it's sometimes hard to tell when you only see emotion in one eye instead of two. She is a violent person judging by the conversations he has that he thinks are too silent to be overheard, but not a bad person. When she finally hears the word Slayer it clicks. You don't survive the big city in the Old World while not knowing that the things that go bump in the night has a nemesis.
Finally she decides that she is going to reunite these two people, no matter the cost.
Monsieur Dejardín is a customer and a friend, and someone she helped once to find his long-lost daughter who as it turned out lived down the street. He is also an old Sûreté agent, and so she gives him the two names she has gleaned along with the former home address of Sunnydale, and asks him to find out what he can.
A day later he returns with an amused and overawed expression on his face. He tells Amélie that Alexander Lavelle Harris is someone every single intelligence agency in the world is aware of, with the note to keep a hands-off approach. He is generally in the company of several individuals, most notable being one Buffy Anne Summers, who has a folder as thick as a grown man's thigh, mostly blacked out and classified.
She is also currently in Rome.
Amélie is given a phone number, and Monsieur Dejardín tells her never to let anyone know he gave it to her. She promises, and pockets the scrap of paper to be used later.
At first, she wonders what to do. The fact that both of them are separated by half a continent is a conundrum and a problem, as is the fact that she doesn't know
them well enough.
But eventually she figures something out. The next morning she spikes his coffee with powerful sleeping pills, strong enough to, within a few hours, send him into a deep sleep for several days. When he starts yawning and nodding his head she offers to help him to his hotel in her broken English – and she berates herself a little for not practicing it more – and when she's put him in his hotel bed she pilfers his phone and disconnects the one belonging to the hotel room, and then tells the receptionist that Mr Harris has been checked into a hospital, and she is not sure which one.
Once that is done she uses the phone to dial the number Monsieur Dejardín gave her before dropping the phone into a nearby sewer and walking away.
The plan is in motion.
It takes a single afternoon before the local radio news mentions odd lights in an alleyway not far from Montmartre. Young women are sweeping the streets, dressed in sensible clothes built for action, and their leader is a short, determined young American woman with blonde hair and green eyes.
It takes another half day before the woman finds the café, and instantly zooms in on Amélie.
It's more of an interrogation than anything else. Buffy seems genuinely upset and worried, and angry. Amélie gives her a few false leads and asks for an address if she finds out anything else, she is given a number and a heartfelt plea that she call if she remembers anything
She waits another half day before going to his hotel room and calling the number.
Buffy arrives not twenty minutes later. Amélie has used his keycard, which she stole along with his phone, to open the door in advance before hiding herself nearby in a custodian's closet, to see if things are going as they should.
She is surprised to find that there is a man already hiding there in the closet. He is pale and Eastern European, and smirking. She asks why he's here, and he tells her he was about to claim the young man for a time, but has decided not to due to the course of events here. He also tells Amélie that she should escape through the nearby vent, because in all likelihood Buffy will not take the meddling well.
She silently agrees, but even so she watches.
It takes a while for Buffy to wake her friend up, and when she finally does she stares at his shocked, sleep-drunk face for several seconds before leaning in and kissing him full on the lips. By the time the door closes on the two, her blouse has already gone flying.
Amélie quietly vacates the premises through the ventilation shaft, ignoring primly the sounds of passion echoing down the narrow passage. Though she does smile at the joy in the noises.
The next day he is there again, looking flushed and dazed as he talks happily with his old-friend-now-lover. Buffy looks content, even smug, and Amélie takes their order pretending not to know anything about the why. But she listens. And she smiles.
It is perhaps to her credit that she never lets either of the two know that roughly about the same time Sunnydale was in the world news, Amélie woke up after a strange dream of girls dying in odd circumstances, and has been able to lift her husband one-handed ever since.
But a girl has to have some
I do not own Amélie of Montmartre or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Author's Note:
This was written as a response to the To Boldly Go challenge, and I hope it hasn't already been done. Being my first time posting here, I hope you'll be gentle...