Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I am not Joss Whedon. *CHECKS* Nope, still not!
Feedback: [email protected]
Improv #13: All fics set in the Wishverse.
Notes: Happy Birthday Puca. Thanks to Kassie for telling me to Shut the hell up, and Sam for bringing the ice cream. Also thanks to Gileswench for the Buffy characterization stamp of approval.
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Black Ink
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Gold pen. Always the gold pen. He feels that familiar thrill when the thin, precise black line pops off the page. Black is classic, professional. Blue is for thirteen year old girls named Tiffany who draw little hearts and never write out the word for, just the number followed by the travesty of 'EVR'. He knows this because he's been there, lived that. So it's always black, because intent and attitude are so closely linked in his mind.
"Mr. McDonald, your 10:30 is here."
Capital M. Brings the peaks of the letter up sharp and jagged because eyes are drawn to forceful lines. He always starts strong, lets people know he's not someone to fuck with. Grip the barrel of the pen firm, but don't push too hard. That just signals desperation.
Left index finger pushes the speaker button. His voice is low, distracted by other thoughts. "Send them in. "
The D stretches not quite as high as the M, rounder. It brings the eye back down and pushes it along to catch the rest of the small, uniform script. He ends the pen's contact with the paper quickly. Don't linger, it looks indecisive and too often leads to bullshit squiggles or doodles. No. Better to keep it exact and to the point. It's always better to be the one who controls when something begins and when it ends.
Lindsey hears the door open, looks up.
"Mr. McDonald?"
Rises from the chair and straightens his tie. He loves this tie, $150 at Bloomies. Dark blue silk with embroidered red crosshatchings. He tries to buy a new one every month, but they all end up as nearly identical versions of this same one. May as well not bother, but he feels better knowing he *can*.
"Ms. Post. "
Quick visual sweep takes in blonde hair, small features, and expensive cream suit. Lindsey makes a small adjustment to the image he's carried since their first phone conversation. Not much revision is needed. The hair- a little lighter than he'd pictured. Maybe she's a little taller?
He doesn't need a prior meeting to know her; he's met her a hundred times before. That classist, uptight bitch that worries you're going to track something unmentionable on their marble life, but when you're sweating to dig another trench for their roses, you feel their tits squash into you from behind as a hand reaches around to grab your…
They shake hands. She has a firm grip-remember that. It always helps him to tie a name with a face and a handshake. Every small piece of another person gathered, hoarded, stuck together in a mental collage that's filed and indexed for future use. He never knows when he'll need to dismantle someone, from the inside out. Always ready to, because he's done it before.
She's brought the girl and Lindsey releases the watcher's hand, takes his first look at the Slayer. Well, the first time seeing her in person. He's got a thick folder full of photos. This wasn't just a spur of the moment decision.
He's planned this for a while…carefully plotting details to arrange this meeting, meticulously drawn a strategy to be the one to bring a Slayer to Wolfram & Hart. As far as he knows, no one's tried that before, he'll be the first. It will be quite a coup, leading to a corner office, maybe another zero on the end of his paycheck. All of that tied into a meeting with this one girl.
He's been told her name is Buffy. He laughed when he'd first tried to associate the name with the haggard, bitter face that stared up at him from a three by five image. Seventeen years old…those eyes look two hundred and seventeen, another weary layer of destiny clouding them for each nasty she's had to dust?
And here she is now, in person. She looks around the office, doesn't bother to keep the boredom from seeping to the surface as she ignores them. Perhaps she's trying a little too hard?
Baggie blacks, a grey tank…and the boots (laced up Doc Martins). She's a million disenchanted suburban teens, but this one's got a secret, a secret that Lindsey McDonald may be able to use to his advantage. So he lets her be and tries not to push, just sizes up his next associate. He likes to think of it already as a past accomplishment, motivation is 50 percent of success.
Not what first comes to mind when he thinks slayer, her body type throws him off and seeds that small shadow of doubt. Buffy has a small frame, the kind that gets your body tossed in a dumpster, or, if your lucky, just pimped out. It's hard to believe that she's the one, but he's come to learn never to take anything for granted.
Lindsey's reminded of that as he studies her closely for about twenty seconds. Even without purpose, she's ready. A hand reaches out, quick to snag some decorative office item chosen by a designer whose name he can't even remember. She lifts the crystal globe and holds it up at eye level, squints as she peers into it, then replaces it with a thud that's just a little *too* loud in the room.
"Lindsey McDonald, this is Buffy…Buffy Summers."
Flashes a smile… not too much, because he doesn't want either of them to know how badly he wants this alliance to come to pass. He tries to keep his voice interested, but casual.
"The Slayer."
No answer, but the stare that should be bottled and sold under the label fuck you. He can't help the smile from growing a little wider as he recognizes his youth. (Note to self: call your mother and apologize for being such an annoying shit).
"Buffy," the watcher says in warning, that small edge of despair and the fatigue of trying to keep control over this one swimming somewhere in those cultured English tones.
It's easy to see who the hard sell of this team is going to be.
He nods to Gwendolyn Post as The Slayer turns her back and wanders over to the picture window behind his desk. He wants to do this on his own terms right now, the watcher blinks and then gives her affirmation. When he comes up behind the slayer, he tries not to move to close, the mental image of his body crashing through the glass and falling to the sidewalk below stops him about a foot from her. Still close enough that he doesn't have to raise his voice.
"You can call me Lindsey." He tries to find that universal connection, the one that speaks to her as someone who knows what it's like to have to bang your head against a committee that has all the credentials needed to observe, but can't find the balls to actually walk their ass into the thick of the battle."
"What kind of bullshit has she signed us up for this time?" Buffy asks, still looking down at the clogged street below. Hand wedged in the corner of the glass, she leans forward a little peers over the corner of the windowsill.
He fights the urge to reach out and grab her, like she's going to fall or jump through an inch of supposedly shatterproof glass.
"She thought you might benefit from a little," searches for the words, "corporate sponsorship." He still tries to resist the impulse to pull her away from the view. Like she needs someone to protect her. He makes mental note to drag himself into the twenty first century.
She steps back into him, one hand still on the metal frame opening the city out before them, with the other she reaches discreetly behind her. A clamp of her fist and a slight twist makes him straighten, say a quick prayer. Fight to keep the panic from lacing his words. "Ah, independent contractor. I can respect that."
Hears the grunt of not again from behind him and raises a hand to stop Gwendolyn and whatever interference she was planning. He's not ready to tag out yet. Tries to keep his attention focused on the one in front of him, the one who's got his whole life in her grip. Suddenly wonders if reconstructive surgery is on the health insurance plan.
"I'm thinking, why do I want a bunch of lawyers crawling up my ass, when it's already occupied by the watcher's council?" One more squeeze and she lets go, already convinced there won't be any follow through. She's used to winning, to getting her way.
Lindsey tries to get the words out, feels that they're an octave higher before even making it past his larynx. Clears throat and blinks slowly, thankful the boys can breathe safely again. Control issues-check.
Tries another tact. Reach down and find that inner suave, where's the guy that talked Andrea Ferguson into pulling a train in her grandmother's basement before she even knew what hit her? She was probably the same age then…
"Well, it's nice to have some funds at your disposal. I'm thinking the merry old council likes to issue the orders, but they're a little tight with the checkbook?" Thinks of that company credit card, and a plane ticket to some small island where swimsuits are gauche, then mentally slaps himself when he remembers she's seventeen and has a penchant for penile torture.
"If you want a hooker, I know a street corner. I can hook you up." She turns around finally and gives a sly little smile, obviously pleased with her own cleverness. "But I'm not open for bidding if it means someone else is going to try and give me orders."
Tries to stop his lip from turning up…not successful. A head shake and he tries to decide if he's ready to embrace this one into the fold. Wonders what Holland Manners would say if he found a junior partner bare ass naked on his desk with an almost underage slayer's legs locked around his waist.
"Strictly case by case," it's a promise followed by a tongue licking dry lips. He blinks at her. Some chick once told him he had the longest eyelashes…just before she rode him hard…for three and a half hours. He was so swollen; he had to keep an ice pack in his shorts for the next three days. Substitutes Buffy's face for hers, and has to clear his throat before he can continue.
"Come out with me tonight, just you and me…to kind of cement this partnership. We'll eat…I'll take you around. You can see how much easier things are when you have a credit card with a high limit and somebody else's name on it."
Sees the arms cross over her chest and the slump of her spine, knows he's almost lost it when the neck tilts to the side and her look of skepticism warns him he's about to be shot down. Goes in for another try.
"How about dancing…you like dancing?" Wonders if she has anything less urban commando, then brightens at the thought that he might have to take her shopping. Can't remember the last time he's ever looked forward to shopping with a woman…girl.
"I'm sure you'd know where to take underage girls dancing."
Lindsey latches onto that promise of acquiescence. "I'll get you a fake ID."
"Isn't that illegal?"
Lindsey holds out his hand for her, half turns to face the door and her watcher, convinced she's already on his side. Leans in and whispers conspiratorially, "Sshh, don't tell. I know a good lawyer."
He pauses a beat as she hesitates, then relaxes as she shrugs. "I could eat."
Lindsey's surprise when she allows him to touch her makes way for just a little satisfaction when he notes Gwendolyn Post's mixture of astonishment and disbelief. He remembers her telling him she's been Buffy's watcher for three years. She never did share how long she was able to hold onto the reigns of authority. He suspects The Slayer's only letting him touch her to prove some obscure lesson to her watcher.
From what he's read in the reports he's gathered, the Slayer does whatever the hell she feels like. Luckily, she's internalized her destiny so much that it's a part of her, hasn't abandoned it yet. She at least follows the theme, if not the letter of the watcher's edicts.
Buffy's resourceful and not afraid to get her hands dirty…and somehow he's starting to like the kid. The only thing that unnerves him, besides the super strength and killer instinct evident in one so young, is her complete and utter business like attitude. She's seventeen for Christ sake, doesn't she ever just let loose and have some fun?
Flashing back to his own life at seventeen reminds him to bite his tongue as Lindsey realizes he's lucky to have survived his own teen phase.
He walks them to the door of his office, releases Buffy's arm a little more quickly than he would like. Makes up for it by skimming a hand up her arm to her shoulder, absently touching a blonde tendril. At her warning glare, he smiles apologetically.
Should he tie his hands together tonight? It might look strange, but he's willing to risk it if that means preserving her agreement.
Mentally calculating, he comes up with eight…eight more hours until he'll see her again. Would a gift be pushing it? Fights the bubble of laughter when envisioning a company fruit basket arriving at her hotel door. Still, he doesn't see her being impressed by flowers or candy. What do you get the slayer who has everything, a new pointy stick, a crossbow…an apartment and a closet full of lingerie? More like the obituary of an insane lawyer. Now that, she might get a kick out of.
Lindsey sees them out into the hallway, ponders how easy it would be to cut the watcher's council out of the equation entirely, when he hears a voice that makes him cringe. Where's that 'appropriate, team player face'? Ah, there it is, time for working Lindsey.
"Lilah."
The simper and smile don't even begin to hide her longing to plunge the old corporate knife into his back. He's thwarted many of her attempts to do just that. Lindsey takes that moment to curse the fact that he hasn't packed her body parts into a crate and dumped it off the pier yet this week.
"Child bride?" She asks with a sarcastically raised eyebrow.
What's the possibility of putting some kind of tripwire in the hallway to alert him when she's coming…something that releases poisonous darts? Probably not practical, but certainly not outside the realms of possibility. He's been in the basement of this building before- frightening, creative, with a dash of the macabre. Push that memory away.
Maybe just a video surveillance camera in his office then. He'll call maintenance before the day is over.
Lilah's laugh is cut off when the slayer's arm juts out, hitting the wall and caging her. No warning, no threats, just that dead stare like she's measuring you for casket size. He loves this girl more every moment.
Slow count to ten, Lindsey's calculating the odds that Buffy would listen to him even if he did try to intervene. Before he finishes, her arm withdraws and she turns around to blow him a kiss.
"See you tonight lover." Gwendolyn Post follows helplessly behind.
Lilah snorts in annoyance and brushes an imaginary piece of lint off the lapel of her jacket. "What work release program did you find that one in?"
No bitch. When he sends one for her, it'll be someone with no prints on file. Completely untraceable. He's already practiced his concerned, yet investigatively cooperative face. (Yes, officers, so tragic. It's hard when someone so young is taken. Does he know anyone who wanted to see her dead? Gentlemen, we're lawyers…in the public eye. Everyone makes a few enemies…disgruntled clients…whatnot.) He mentally shakes himself. Is it obsessive to plot a co-workers death with that much detail?
"Lilah, you've just had the pleasure of meeting Buffy Summers."
Head swivels so hard it nearly spins around completely. Of course, he won't be surprised if she does start speaking some ancient demon tongue and spitting pea soup. He would pity whatever possessing spirit had to be trapped in there with her though.
"The Slayer?" she hisses.
Not sure if he's developed the ability to manifest his thoughts, Lindsey checks to ensure that no one's levitating. Okay, safe. "You're familiar with her work?"
That bitch. Lilah's probably been paying off all his contracts, rifling through his desk after hours. Fuck the end of the day, he'll have maintenance in his office before lunch.
She watches Buffy's retreating form all the way into the elevator before turning back to him. "What are you planning with the slayer?"
He thinks-your gruesome death. Instead says, "Client confidentiality." while miming an elaborate key locking ritual in the vicinity of his mouth.
"Where's she staying?" Lilah's unsuccessful in portraying an indifferent front.
Lindsey names the address of a client he once got off for dealing crack.