Showing Off

[madimpossibledreamer]

Main Points:
Buffy/Devil May Cry
Chapter Summary: Alisha meets a sword.
Word Count: 1833
Rating: Teen

          Buffy and Xander act close, but they don’t have the vibe of a couple, or Alisha would’ve felt the urge to lecture them about safety.  Willow has at the least a crush, but hasn’t acted on it.  As it is, she half expects to come down in the morning and find all three teens squished in together, again, snoring with the TV on—because while neither of the girls voiced it, both were more than a little freaked out by the knowledge that Xander had been stabbed through the heart.  It doesn’t matter that he’s fine right now, that maybe he’s not even in danger from something like that due to his heritage; that’s still traumatic, particularly for those who aren’t yet adults.
          She pauses her musings briefly as she walks up to the rooms above, since she can see what Buffy was talking about with the painting on the stairs.  Once she passes a certain angle, the church depicted bursts into flames.  She doesn’t touch to make sure it’s a painting.  She’s lost in a world whose rules she knows nothing about, though it won’t stay that way for long if she can help it.  She’s seen Ghostbusters, but doesn’t know how realistic that was, whether it’s close to reality or as far away as they come.  Still, better to not get sucked into a painting or anything.
          The first room she tries has a makeshift bookshelf and a haphazard collection of books, and given how Willow had babbled about reading on the way back, she’s going to say that it’s her room.  Given the condition of the kids, it’s likely that at least some of the things are stolen.  Sure, they don’t have to pay for food or housing, and likely don’t get an electricity bill despite the fact that it’s clearly working, but she’s not sure how many “odd job” investigations Xander’s been on, or how well they pay.  It bothers her a little, but there are bigger injustices at work here, like the fact that there’s an entire organization gunning for a teen. 
          It’s possible that Xander doesn’t have to live like this, but she’d hazard there’s a reason he chose the word ‘emancipated’ when describing their situation, and they’re already showing signs of codependency.  The only thing they’d batted an eye at was the actual injury, not the dangerous situation itself, and Xander himself had only protested Willow’s involvement because of her lack of combat magic.  It’s a lot more complicated than that—as Xander himself experienced today, though he’s probably not going to learn the lesson.  If he was a human, he wouldn’t have learned because he would’ve been dead, and as it is while he’d been a little more bothered than he’d let on, the pain isn’t going to have him pull his hand out of the stove because it’s not a lasting consequence so he doesn’t have to care.  It’s a natural response to get them up in the morning through their respective trauma, but still, if there’s nothing else she can do she can give a police officer’s perspective on being careful.  For instance, what if the blood on the scene is found and examined by detectives?  It’s possible that that’s another thing his powers cover, but if it’s not?
          And she’s not sure how resilient a Slayer is, but there were wounds and they were healing slower than the half-demon’s.  While she’s at it, she can lecture Rupert about how stupid he’s being.  In his situation, he needs all the allies he can get.
          The next room she tries has no bed.  Fortunately, the third time’s the charm, because she really needs to sleep.  Her thoughts are just going around in circles.  It’s a little old, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to collapse the second she lies down on it, and it looks like someone (Xander, she’d guess) replaced the mattress and sheets.
          She’s just pulled her denim jacket off and folded it carefully to set on the antique, worn dresser, complete with mirror, when there’s a voice behind her.
          Yer new, then.
          She barely manages not to jump and turns to see what she suspects is one of the not-dangerous ghosts, given that she can see right through that leather coat and pants.  “Officer Alisha Sullivan.  I’d shake your hand, but have a feeling that’s not possible.”
          He smirks.  Got that right.  He prowls over to sit on the chair, which is considerably worse shape and probably wouldn’t hold the weight of a living person.  So what’s a police officer doin’ round these parts, then?  English accent.
          “I don’t know how much you’re aware of, but I got caught up in Xander’s latest case.  If this is your room, I can leave.”  She doesn’t particularly want to.  She’s tired.  But being polite to ghosts seems like a sensible thing to do.
          One eyebrow raises, incredulous.  Well now, yer interestin’.  He gets back up, stalks around her.  Not dangerous, she reminds herself, because every instinct is screaming differently.  Not many a’ the livin’ would respect th’ rights’a the dead.
          “Unless you’re Japanese, a lot of religions, particularly Christianity, firmly separate the areas of the dead from the living.  Is it any wonder that so many humans have trouble conceptualizing the idea of ghosts living among them?” she fires back.
          The spirit grins, slow and predatory.  An’ one who’ll debate philosophy, too.  It gets right in her face.  Y’ain’t gonna hurt th’ Master, are ya?
          It takes her a moment to translate that.  Giles would hardly be the type to earn this kind of fierce loyalty from a non-human, which means…  “I’ll try to protect Xander, and the others, as best I can, but I’m only human.”
          The ghost bares his teeth, and for a moment his face is inhuman, fanged and wrinkled.  Even then, ’s a lot a human can accomplish.  I’m sure you’ll live up t’ yer potential, and yer word, just as I’ll live up t’mine.  And then he moves, faster than a human, and lines himself up with her body.  At first, it’s just very uncomfortable, like being plunged into a frozen lake, but then something changes and she can’t help the burst of panic.
          She’s trapped in a very tight space, while her body moves on its own, hand moving up in front of her face and clenching.  She can feel it, distantly, and can think and hear and see, but even her mouth isn’t her own as the ghost says the next words with her body.  “’m a vampire, cursed t’ live in a sword.  Master’s sword.  If I ever find y’ve hurt him, I’ll do this again, and shoot ya with yer own gun, officer.”  And just like that, she’s free, though still can’t move for a few seconds from the shock.
          “I’m half tempted to ask you to do that again just so I can figure out how to fight it,” she mutters, concentrating on her breathing, and remembering that Buffy had distinctly said none of the remaining ghosts were dangerous.  Somehow, she’s pretty sure this Sting-like character counts in a different category altogether.  And ever since the fight, she’s been feeling these same feelings, just less physical—of being out of control, of the lack of knowledge, of not knowing how to fight.  But even then, she’s learning, just as she’d learned a lot about this vampire spirit just from paying attention.  This is just another case where she needs to learn, and fast.
          His eyes narrow, but he’s evaluating her once again.  Bloody ‘ell, I know why ‘e found ya.  Yer as mad as he is.  It ain’t in m’ best interest t’ do that—if y’can fight it off, m’ threat’s toothless—but I’m tempted all the same.  He settles back down in the chair, more relaxed again—and, well, if demon reactions are a lot of posturing, she can do that too.  Like it or not, there’s an amount of that down at the precinct that she can’t shake, so she’s learned the language.  He’d probably caught from his possession that she wanted to protect the kids—because that’s what they were, kids.
          “What do you know about Fae?” she asks, settling into a lean against the wall across from him.
          Hate dealin’ with 'em. The ghost-vampire lights up a ghost-cigarette and takes a drag.  Oddly, she can’t smell any of it.  Got all kinds’a ridiculous rules y’got to follow.  Give me a demon any day.  ‘Least they’re straightforward.
          “Anything specific?”  She really needs to start building a foundation, figuring out how this all works.  She takes note that demons tend to be direct.
          Be polite, but think twice ‘fore you accept anythin’ from ‘em.  It’s not much, but it’s something.
          “Is there a reason they’d be worried about something?” she continues, and that gets him to sit up from his slouch.
          Ya what?  That’s…  He thinks about it.  …Two ideas.  One, an’ this would be big if it is, somethin’s puttin’ th’ Fae World in danger.  Two, fae sometimes adopt a human.  Maybe they’re tryin’ t’ keep their human ‘pet’— he actually pauses to do the airquotes—…in one piece.
          “And you’d know.”  She might have been scared but she continued to pay attention, and she knows that while there’s a demonic possessiveness and darkness, there’s a genuine love there.  It’s not quite the same as what he described.  Spike—yeah, she’d gotten the name—does revere Xander and listen to him, but is also prone to stupid possessing stunts without his knowledge just to protect him.
          He actually looks briefly sheepish.  Yah, maybe.  Damn, you’re good.
          “You should know—he got stabbed through the heart.  He’s fine now, but I think he’s a little shaken.”  It’s a spur of the moment decision going on her cop instincts—this is one of his loved ones who needs to know he got hurt.
          Instantly, the vampire-ghost is on his feet, snarling with his demon’s face.  Buggerin’ ‘ell, I should’ve been there! he roars, smacking the table.  It rattles a bit.  He breathes heavily, eyes red, and eventually calms down.  Ta, Sullivan.
          “You’re welcome.  Now, from what they were saying, the demons that came after them were called Shade.”  Because again, she needs to understand.
          Spelled with an ae, love.  That’s odd, too.  Bit opportunistic, but usually only attack when someone’s got th’ scent of a curse on ‘em.  Near catnip for ‘em.  He’s frowning again.  …Don’t narrow it down none.  If a curse’s strong enough t’ put th’ fae world in danger, ‘t’s a mighty strong spell, but if not, a curse targetin’ one’a their chosen playthings could get ‘em crawlin’ outta the woodwork, sure.  Not so many, mind, ‘less th’ one callin’ the shots is king ‘a th’ castle.
          “Well, I think there’s someone else you’d rather watch sleep, so get to it.”  She waves him off, and that’s a definite smirk as he phases through the floor.