Stuck In The Wrong Place

Same Old People, Wrong Destination

Today you get a message from the Malnosso. They’ve found a way to send you home. You’ll remember Luceti, but it’s a one way trip. You’ve said your tearful goodbyes and prepared yourself for the inevitable return home. One moment you’re in Luceti, the next you’re not.

But nobody ever said the Malnosso ever got everything right. Sure, you’re not in Luceti anymore. Yes, you’ve lost your wings and barcode. But this isn’t your world. It’s some other world and now that you’re cut off from the Malnosso, you have no hope of ever getting back home. Which means that wherever you’ve ended up, you’ll be spending the rest of your life there.

On the up-side, you’re not the only one stuck here. Someone else from Luceti, also alien to this world, is stuck with you. With the common bond of being strangers to this brave new world, it’s inevitable you’ll stick together. But for how long?

Considerations

1. You can go to any other world you want! It just can’t be one either of your characters are from. You can make up something like a fantasy world, something from a sci fi, or something just like the modern world. Or you can pick a canon neither of your characters belong to.
2. Ideally they should both be from different canons altogether. But this isn’t required!
3. There’s supposed to be no way back. Even genius characters ought to find it impossible. But does that mean all hope has to be lost? For those who have been gone from Luceti a long time, it might be fun if they were given a chance to go back to Luceti and be trapped again.
4. For an optional extra level of complexity, give consideration to your character’s appearance or to their abilities. Will they stand out in this new world? Will they have to hide what they can do? Or will they even be able to use their powers if the source of their powers is gone?

Prompts

1. Day One - You’ve both just arrived on this world and by chance, you run into each other. Two heads are better than one. Now you just have to figure out what to do next.

2. One Week Later - You’ve been in this world a week. Things are starting to sink in. So is the idea of being stuck here. It’s time to start thinking about the long term.

3. One Month Later - Now that you’ve both been here awhile, you’ve learned the ins and outs of your new home. You’re making a living and getting by, but you still think of home.

4. Six Months Later - It may not be home, but you’ve learned to be comfortable. By now, your relationship with your fellow Lucetian has certainly evolved as well.

5. One Year Later - It’s been long enough that you sometimes wonder if you ever did live in a place like Luceti. So what’s life for you like in this whole new world?

6. Other - Don’t be limited by the above. This could be two weeks later or twenty years later! Of course, you can always time skip once you’ve established what you want to do at one time period.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The place they had met remained vague and nameless to everyone in this world; he still found it surprising how they had managed to be evasive for so long. But a month was still a fairly short period of time, and it could still take awhile yet for them to make headway with breaching the fabric of this reality to allow him passage back into his own.

Albert tucked his book against the crook of his elbow and reached over, tucking a stray lock of Buffy's hair behind her ear with no small amount of fondness.

"But will that sustain you in this world, or leave you yearning for what's not here?"

"I'm hardy. I'm hale. I can survive with or without you, no questions on sustenance needed. But..."

A month was both short and long. Short enough that serious questions hadn't required raising; long enough that thin little trails of dependency had already formed, spider-webbing off the older threads built over years in Luceti. Buffy's chin tilted up as she tried very valiantly not to turn her cheek into his palm.

He'd said it: I would be surprised if you thought anything of this situation is fair.

"Not needing you is not the same as not wanting you." But Buffy was quick to correct herself: "Here. Wanting you here."

Part of him was disappointed by how quickly Buffy corrected herself. But his hand remained where it was for a moment, carefully thumbing her cheekbone before slipping back down to his side.

She was so far and away from him that it was laughable to continue carrying these thoughts, these feelings. Restored to her proper world, she had a responsibility that extended past tending bar and occasionally lending hand to a world war. Twice displaced, he was just one of the many men infatuated by the Slayer, unable to give her more than a fleeting glimpse of an old happiness that she had already lost.

His smile was tight at the corners, not reaching his eyes. "I should let you go." Even if he didn't want to. "You have a long day ahead of you."

Her breath was tight in her throat. Her heart? Jackrabbiting in her chest. It was absurd, how often she's had to bittersweetly return half-hearted smiles from someone she knew she was disappointing. Only she wasn't certain how she was hurting Albert, tonight -- except perhaps by boldly telling him she was selfish enough to want him to stay.

The Slayer made a point of catching his dropped hand between her two small palms. She folded her fingers around his. She had to make it up to him -- caging him up in one safehouse after another, waiting to see if he would fade before her eyes.

"We'll go out, tomorrow. You and me. Give our brains a well-deserved rest, huh? We won't hit the books again until our eyes are fresher and the town's painted red."

She so desperately hated disappointing him.

Albert's smile slipped as his hand was caught, eyes averting downward just in time to watch Buffy's hands enfold his own. He let his fingers curl loosely against her palm, taking some comfort in that physical contact.

These contemplative moments late in the night were not very good for him. What was he doing, getting swept up in those kinds of thoughts? He knew where he stood, and what relationship he had with Buffy would always go hand-in-hand with all of her memories of Luceti -- and those she had loved while there.

The room, void of any other sound with the fire now completely extinguished, could almost swallow his murmured words.

"Let's skip the books for a few days."

"We could hit up one of England's most treasured landmarks: yet another dusty museum. I'm sure it'll be right up your alley."

Her thumb -- shifting nervously -- traced the curve of his palm's heel. Buffy was a fidgeter. She fidgeted.

"Unless you're ready and willing to be a little more adventuresome. Even backwater Britain has got to have a movie theatre. A gelato stand. Maybe an arcade."

"I think it will be an adventure wherever we go." He watched her thumb. Tilted and shifted his palm to face upward. Maneuvered his hand caress her fingers. Slow. Careful. Patient.

"There are still many things to take in in your present day. We can delve into history another time."

His voice was closer now, the space between them having slowly disappeared with their continued conversation.

Once past those initial barriers, Buffy was a very affectionate individual. Even after being separated from her team for the better part of four years, she'd fallen back into all the old habits: fussing over Dawn's hair; tweaking Willow's nose; wrapping her arm securely around Xander's elbow; touching Giles's elbow when they spoke in quiet confidence. Such habits had existed in Luceti, too. They'd transferred to other people or else she sated herself with Jack's consistent attentions.

But now? If there was anything tense or fraught about playing this soft little game of finger-fidgeting, she gave no indication. Buffy lived to make the shoulder-happenings of her weird and weary existence as normal as possible. And -- if she was honest -- keeping Albert close calmed her. It was nice to know you weren't alone.

"Movies, then. We can share a bucket of popcorn and make fun of the actors."

By contrast, there were few that Albert allowed to touch him. The coat, the scarf, the gloves -- they all served to keep others at bay. His lips again lifted at her suggestion, this time tinged with amusement.

"A double feature, perhaps?"

Somewhere else in the house, something creaked, drawing his attention away for a split-second. He sighed, glancing into the darkness.

"And now someone may be up."

And at that same sound, her hands dropped. She stepped back. Perversely, it might be the most encouraging sign yet, as doing so implied some latent or buried guilt over the affectionate display. Some sense that it was not to be shared with others. Her cheeks went so far as to colour; her eyes went so far as to glance demurely away.

Not a month, she reminded herself. Not a month and you're already cracking -- get it together, Summers! Jack's waiting for you...

"We're almost all of us night owls," she explained with a sobering and distant smile. "Side-effect of the trade, I guess. Or it's Dawnie getting a late night snack..."

With a brisk breath, she busied herself untying and retying her ponytail. "Which is my cue to get back to our shared room and catch some Zs while she's too busy stuffing her face to snore."

The smile remained even as he watched her step away; he turned when she averted her gaze just a bit too quickly, somehow satisfied by how that had ended. If these soft moments of intimacy were all that he had to look forward to, he would enjoy them however he could.

"Most things seem to be night owls in your world." He waved dismissively, putting more distance between them. "We can hash out the details in the morning."

There was a moment of considering silence.

"I'm looking forward to any plans you have."

She turned towards the staircase -- the one that led up to the rooms the Scoobies had overrun, leaving the singular downstairs bedroom for Albert -- but spared a smile over her shoulder. Sincere enough, if small. It wouldn't be right to alert him to the fact that he was playing surrogate tourist, standing in the place of another someone with whom she'd often wanted to share the wonders of her world.

"I'll be a great tour guide," she vowed. "The bestest."

One, two, three steps up and -- "Sweet dreams, Albert. You can sleep safe. There's a ward spell on the house. But if you need anything...?" A helpless shrug. "Shouting usually gets someone's attention."

"Just like every other place we have been." Were he the type, he would give something of a salute to acknowledge the information she was giving in comfort. Instead, he followed her as far as the bottom of the staircase, speaking softly after her. "Sleep well, Buffy."

As he turned towards his bedroom (really, a shelled-out study with an overstuffed armchair and a cot), he thought about the world he found himself in. Dangers that were more immediate than in Luceti, more unknown than in his own world. The disadvantage of having to start over with gathering contacts and acquaintances. The many questions and feelings he would undoubtedly face with every additional day he spent there.

He was a walking memory. A war strategist with no war to win, watching the back of a young lady who would always be heading towards her destiny. He had her attention for now, her eyes turned to him and her steps guiding and considerate. But she would soon be marching forward again, and he would have to find ways to keep stride with her.

Or else there would be little point in remaining in her world, regardless of duty or desire.

Sleeping well was often a challenge. The mutter-filled nap on the pile of books had been peaceful in contrast to her usual nights, but on this topic -- unlike nearly every other cause for complaint in her life -- Buffy remained frequently mum. She'd lived with the Slayer dreams and occasionally prophetic visions for a decade, now. In Luceti, they'd been fewer and weaker given the distance from her own lineage and the transdimensional static. However, back home, they were back in force. Reminding and calling and repurposing her from barmaid to battler.

Tonight, it was the righteous Slayer in white. Once again, she dreamed of the young woman being lashed to her stake. She dreamed of the curling smoke and the tonguing flames and the ring of ungrateful villagers. Her predecessors always seemed to die horribly.

At least these dreams were better than the would-be happy ones, where Sparrow turned up seeking a continuation of their semi-domestic mostly-bliss. Those dreams saw her waking with a thudding heart and hot skin and a surfeit of love. On those mornings, she'd learned to cope by telling stories to Dawn as the sun rose. Anonymous stories with herself scrubbed out of them, but the younger sister seemed to know: her sister ached. She hid it well, but she ached.

In the morning, Buffy didn't appear in the main section of the house until she was washed, dressed, and groomed. This was another newly formed habit. Years ago, she would have wandered happily through rooms in various states of pajama'd. But -- as deeply as she trusted him -- there were some casual states she'd yet to cross into with Albert, and so she felt odd if she risked being a little too socially comfortable.

Providing for him, however, was not an issue. Willow was already up, making pancakes. Xander would (perhaps grudgingly) pour a glass for anyone Buffy had welcomed into their little band. And Dawn had been running the toaster like a woman with a vision of a world fed exclusively on toast. By the time Buffy stumbled into the kitchen, there was already a plate piled high with slices.

"I'll make a tray," she half-informed and half-warned her friends and family -- some of which merely clucked their tongues to show mild disappointment. But Buffy was already loading two meals' worth onto a sturdy wooden slab with handles. Juice was added.

And now she had a strategist to find. First, she would check his room. If no luck was found there, she'd look to the farmhouse's passably sturdy back porch.

Being outside, soaking in the sunlight and watching the breeze play along thick patches of grass, brought about a faint sense of nostalgia -- of walks through a quiet (or sometimes not-so-quiet) village, of decidedly-simpler times when he was still in the early stages of masterminding a war.

He had woken to the sound of Willow clattering pots and pans against each other -- one of the disadvantages of being situated closer to the kitchen. After making himself presentable and briefly greeting Willow (dodging a nervously flung spatula along the way), Albert sat on the back porch and enjoyed the silence of the morning.

The door hinges squeaking caught his attention, and he looked over his shoulder to see Buffy maneuvering outside the back door while balancing a tray. He stood up, dusting at his pants out of habit.

"Good morning." Even as he greeted Buffy, he raised a brow at the sheer amount of food she was carrying. "Big breakfast."

She balanced the tray precariously upon one arm, freeing a hand for frantic waving. Sit down, sit down. Buffy smiled a brief smile as she crossed to the heavy-planked picnic table that sat nestled against a deck corner.

"All for me," she teased, "a growing Slayer needs to carboload."

In contrast to her words, she arranged one place setting and then another. Across from each other. An accidental, unplanned pinecone for their centrepiece.

"And here I thought you had finished your growing at your impressive height of five feet." Albert followed her to the picnic table, settling closer to the corner. He turned over a slice of toast in his hands before taking a bite.

"...A girl can dream."

She plucked up a slice of bacon with her fingers. His words conjured up another smirk, for Buffy found that she rather liked Albert's way of winding her up. It wasn't so stark nor as obvious as -- well -- Jack's. It was nevertheless rather charming.

"Have hopes. Aspirations. Goals of gaining a few inches in all the right places."

"Gaining a few inches anywhere else may prove disadvantageous in your line of work." He reached over for one of the glasses of juice, taking a sip to hide a slight smile that was forming. "But I should probably stop before I'm forced to wear my breakfast."

The banter was simpler in the light of day, when there were no shadows or excuses of late hours around to hide intimacy.

"I've yet to see you with egg on your face," she deftly countered his light-hearted bantering. "I'd hate to start now."

Buffy slowly grew more adventurous in her mouthfuls. First, bacon mushed with eggs. Second? A bit of jam spread on hashbrowns. Soon every fork's worth held a little bit of everything.

"I don't know if it's even possible to imagine you so undignified." She teased. Of course she teased. But there was the smallest kernel of truth in the joke; Albert was one of the few individuals she didn't simply stand equal with, but was someone she genuinely looked up to.

"I suppose it's to my benefit that you did not see my less-than-dignified entrance into your world, then. The mental image may just undo you a little."

Quips about his humanity, his flaws and his bad moments, were among his rarer additions to their conversations. But he wanted to lightly remind her of what could happen -- as well as remind himself, with the unknowns of her world.

He neatly dispatched half of the pancake in front of him, his eyes focused on his knife. "Are you sure you have nothing to attend to today?" Even with the way they had spoken last night, he felt the need to check if he was interfering with her duties.

Things to attend to? Oh, she had them. But she was putting the worst of them off: explaining to Giles the nature of her last few years and why she found herself welcoming a cool-headed stranger so tenderly into her dysfunctional family. But there were so many issues knit into that confession. After all, Giles had himself been in Luceti for a spell or two. After all, he'd told her that he'd died. Would die. Will die. And she wouldn't be able to stop it.

Buffy speared another hashbrown on the end of her fork. "Nothing but the part where I'm pretty sure you as good as promised to split a soda with me." All else could wait a little longer. "Or! I'll let you get my own if you finally spill those deets. The how and the why of your arrival. I didn't ask at first, 'cause--"

She switched gears. "But now you've made me curious."

He snorted at the way those options were presented, deliberately taking his time with a piece of bacon as he pretended to mull over what kind of choice he would make. "The how, I could provide. The why? A completely different matter."

How he would love to be able to explain the why. With the way back to Luceti or to his world blocked, he could only speculate and halfheartedly blame the Organization for his current predicament.

"But I cannot promise it's anything exciting. It mostly involves a short roof, a thirteen-foot fall, and an upset--" what was it called again? "--Scottish terrier."

Edited 2013-01-03 02:00 (UTC)

"...A Scottish terrier."

Her mirth was genuine and her eyes crinkled shut as she chuckled. Oh, the poor man. Oh! The poor terrier. The only character she didn't feel sorry for was the roof, really. Buffy dropped her fork and leaned back at such a dramatic angle that it seemed impossible she should still be balanced. But balanced she was, and she hugged her gut as she laughed more and...

"The gnats of the dog world, really. Please tell me you didn't get bitten. Or -- if you did -- I think it's safe to say you're rabies-free, given how long you've been here. Fingers crossed."

And she lifted a pair of so-crossed fingers, still shaking with laughter.

Same Old People, Wrong Destination

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