A/N: I am so sorry for the lack of updates. New, non-crossover fandom ate my brain. Thanks for your reviews and patience.
Warning: There's some pretty sexist sentiments in this chapter. Poor Buffy.
In which there are three missions that call for a disguise and one that doesn’t.
For the record, Buffy didn’t mind having to put on a disguise for a job. She’d been playing the blonde ditz all her life and that was just another way of hiding. Words and actions instead of clothes and wigs, but really, it was the same thing.
Disguises were okay. Sometimes, they were actually cool.This
, however, was not cool. This wasn’t even in the same hemisphere as cool. This was… she looked down at the platinum wig and the white dress in her hands and then back at Clay, who looked very stern, and the rest of the boys, who were stuffing their fists in their mouths to keep from laughing and thus forcing her to kill them.
“That… you…” she took a deep breath. There was really no other way to put it except, “What the actual fuck, Clay? Have you completely lost your mind?”
Pooch made a wheezing noise that might have meant a lot of things. For example, it might have meant that he was choking on his fist. Or that he was having the laugh of his life. It was probably a mixture of both. She bared her teeth at him in a smile.
“You’ve dressed up for infiltration before, Mom,” Clay argued, somehow still straight-faced.
She held up the parts of her disguise. “Marylyn Monroe, Clay? Marylyn Monroe?
“This particular South American drug lord has a weakness for her and ordered a double to come and sing him a Happy Birthday on Friday. That’s the in we’ve been waiting for for weeks.”
Roque waved a hand in front of his face and caught his breath long enough to wheeze, “You’ll be fine,” before dissolving into giggles again.
“I can’t even hold a note unless there’s a spontaneous self-combustion inducing musical spell involved!”
Silence. At last. Pooch tilted his head to one side like his name-sake and asked, “What?”
She waved him off. “Never mind. Can we focus? I am not dressing up as Marylyn Monroe to go and sing a drug lord a birthday song. Not on Friday or on any other day of the damn week. Is that clear?”
She glowered and everyone wisely nodded, hands raised in defense. Good boys. Then Clay sighed gravely and ran a hand over his face. “Okay then, men. We need another way in. Snake, what’s our next best option and how big are the chances that we’re all going to die?”
Snake shrugged. “Frontal assault. Probably get all our asses killed, though.”
Clay nodded again, all resigned expression. “Gather your gear, then. Unless…”
He looked sideways at Buffy, who flung the wig at him. He caught it with an expectant look on his face and she sighed and nodded.
In the background, Pooch started humming Happy Birthday.
“I fucking hate you all.”
“You know,” Roque said chattily, as if they weren’t running full tilt from half a dozen Russian mobsters armed with machine guns, “This is the first time I
have to pace myself so you
can keep up with me
Buffy slapped at his shoulder and almost lost her balance. “You try running with goddamn five inch stripper heels, Roque!”
Over the comms, Snake cackled.
“Pooch,” she barked, still running and trying to tug her micro mini skirt back down over her butt at the same time, “Tell me you are close and coming to rescue us any second?”
“I am close and coming to rescue you any second,” the driver parroted dutifully.
Clay rumbled something in the background that might have been an admonishment to not say shit like that when there were lives at stake. Snake picked that moment to announce, “Guys, I’ve finally got the security cameras and… Mom, are you wearing a G-string under that skirt?”
Buffy tugged on the skirt again and fiercely wished for jeans. Or, failing that, a big knife to kill everyone involved in this mess. “Hooker, you asshole,” she snarled, “I was pretending to be a hooker. Granny panties wouldn’t have worked
“Does the bra match?” Roque asked from beside her, still sounding way too amused. Hail of bullets here! Couldn’t men ever focus on what was important?!
“This is so going into my spank bank,” Snake muttered.
Buffy snarled. Full-out, animal snarl. “Okay, this is it. Big knife or not, I am murdering you all in your sleep.”
Then she stopped just around a corner and ripped one of those goddamn heels off her left foot, followed by the other. She gave her skirt one last tug and when the first pair of mobsters came around the corner, she nailed them both right in the face with her five inch plastic heels.
The next guy around the corner snarled something that her three-day crash course in Russian translated as ‘whore’ and Buffy saw red. She dug her hand sharply into the back of Roque’s belt and pulled his backup knife from a hidden sheath in his waistband.
Seven inches long, serrated edge. It was a beauty. She flipped it to her other hand, twirled it once and glared at the mobsters trough cheap fake lashes.
“I’ll show you ‘whore’, you inbred, stupid, chauvinistic, drug-dealing, woman-disrespecting, slave-trading man
In her ear, a little voice that sounded like Pooch said, “Uh-oh. Now we’ve made her mad.”
“Why do you jerks always make me dress up like a sex toy for missions?” Buffy asked, mostly rhetorically, as she tugged her barely-there baby-tee into place over her chest. She wanted a bra really, really badly, but of course that wasn’t part of the costume.
“Hey, you’re wearing pants this time, so stop complainin’,” Roque growled at her.
One cue, everyone looked down at the painted-on white skinny jeans she was wearing, along with a slutty pair of black heels. Yeah. Not really better than the hooker skirt. She wasn’t pretending that she could be bought this time, but club-floozy was only a very small step up.
She was wearing neon plastic bangles, for Christ’s sake. Plastic bangles! Her fashion sensibilities had atrophied a lot since she’d taken to crawling around jungles, but plastic bangles had died with the techno movement in the nineties! It was moments like these that she considered taking Ri up on his offer and training docile little cherries to kill monsters. A desk job. Nine to five. No secret missions. No dress-up. No mortal danger.
She’d be bored to death within a week and everyone knew it.
“I think the circulation in my feet is cut off,” she snapped right back, looking down the stretch of white, almost see-through fabric.
“Sex sells,” Was Miller’s apathetic comment. She might have actually appreciated it, in a very weird way, if he hadn’t been staring at her rack while he said it. Very deliberately she raised one spike-heeled foot and kicked him in the shin hard enough to make him howl.
“Eyes front and center, jerk,” she barked.
If Clay didn’t find a replacement for the guy soon, there’d be an unfortunate accident involving an anvil. Dropped on Miller’s head.
“Bitch,” he snarled back, earning him a glare from the collective males of the unit.
Right. The mood was definitely getting sour in here. With a sigh, Buffy grabbed the purse that went with her outfit, checked that the stiletto daggers in her hair were well hidden and popped the backdoor of the van they were hiding in. “If I rip those pants kicking someone’s ass, you are treating me to a wellness weekend. All the trimmings. No excuses. Now excuse me, I have a criminal to drug.”
With that she swung out of the bed of the van, landing smoothly despite her hellish heels. The things she did for her team. Seriously.
Buffy couldn’t stand Miller. He was the shittiest, most arrogant, chauvinistic asshole she’d ever met and he’d been born without a funny bone in his body. If she could have, she’d have ‘forgotten’ his ass in a dozen deadly locations around the world by now.
Alas, he was still a member of her team and no-one, absolutely no-one, got to mess with her team except for her. And possibly Roque, because that shit was funny.
So kidnapping Miller and trying to use him for ransom? Threatening to cut off body parts? Torturing him?Did not fly.
The sniper had been missing for eight hours now, six of which they’d spent trying to track down intel on the gang that had him. Half an hour ago, someone had dropped a name and the location of a bar where someone might know more.
They were parked in front of that bar right now, with Clay and Roque fighting over ways to get in, disguises, tricks, full frontal assault. Pros and cons, all of which they barked at each other in the tone of people about to lose their shit.
Buffy was sitting up front next to Pooch, casing the joint. They were both staring out the windshield, not really willing to get caught in the crossfire of the fight going on behind them, when Buffy suddenly noticed a non-descript little sign, black on red, close to the entrance.
It spelled only gibberish for most people, a piece of trash left on the wall of a trashy bar. To her and all other supernaturally inclined it meant that the bar was demon-friendly. Humans beware, except humans couldn’t possibly understand that sign. There was irony in that, somewhere.
Buffy felt a wicked grin split her face as she reached for the weapons bag between her legs and pulled out her favorite sword. Then she opened the door and jumped out of the car, striding toward the entrance of the bar.
Behind her, doors slammed and everyone cursed. Clay yelled for her to stop fucking walking, but she wasn’t listening. This time, they were playing on her turf. This time, there’d be no silly disguises, no games and no human law.
The boys had almost caught up with her by the time she kicked down the door with a single, well placed foot. Inside the bar, movement and noise ceased at her entrance.
She was still smirking darkly as she stepped inside, sword slung casually over her shoulder. “Evening, gentlemen,” she greeted frostily. “I’m the Alpha Slayer and the first of you to tell me everything you know about the Black Brotherhood I’m going to let live.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the ensuing silence. She was pretty sure Pooch was making the sign of the cross behind her.
Her smirk widened, all teeth now. “Maybe.”