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.

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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.

Albert tilted his head and watched Buffy laugh with a growing smile on his face, watching her through his long bangs as he sipped at his juice again. There was something enchanting and beautiful about her laughter, and he would never get tired of the sound.

"Nothing so dramatic. I think I landed on its doghouse and it took offense." He waved dismissively, as if it was not a big deal. "But it was quite ... refreshing not to understand the dog in the middle of all that."

"Ugh, tell me about it. My first night out? Patrolling? Not only did I actually run into vamps for realsies which -- wow, hello rusty slaying skills -- but none of the raccoons made fun of me. Or, well, they probably could make fun of me. I just can't speak raccoon."

Buffy downed her juice in one great gulp. Breakfast was an odd meal. An intimate meal. Usually eaten alone or in the company of friends, family, or lovers. It occurs to her now that she'd gone years without sharing this meal with Albert, only to share it almost daily with him since he'd been dumped on Earth.

"You did well to find me and mine, y'know."

"It's a very large place, your world. It's somewhat amazing I found you at all." He set down his utensils as he finished with his meal, looking out across the yard and beyond. It had been overwhelming at first, adjusting to the sheer amount of world there was to explore. "But your name certainly seems to reach a number of places, if you ask in the right company."

It was not as if he had arrived in her world completely helpless. Just ... lost, confused, and penniless. And with only a slight hope that someone would remember him if he found a familiar face.

"...I'm not quite sure whether that should have me feeling proud or worried.

I thought I was dreaming, y'know. When I saw you."

"Famous? Notorious? They seem to be two sides of the same coin when it comes to you." A verbal shrug. While it may have worried Buffy at some level, he had been quite relieved to have some idea of where he was based on Buffy's name being recognized.

He quietly took in Buffy's admission, comparing it to his own experience. By the time he found himself face to face with Buffy, he was quite aware that he was not dreaming... But he had been worried. What if she did not remember? What if he had to truly navigate this world without anything to ground him?

"I was not sure what to think, when I finally found you. ...Besides the fact that we always seemed to meet at night."

She pushed her place aside with an unceremonious nudge, allowing her elbows to take up the space from which it had just been evicted. In an odd little self-hug, she gripped each shoulder with its opposite hand -- arms crossed over her chest. This left her wrists elegantly bent at just the right angle to be a chin rest.

"At least I got to you before that vamp-tramp did," she spoke idly but was carefully constructing a plan behind her eyes. A whole day in the sun: perhaps the movie theatres wasn't the right fit. Too dark; too gloomy. Albert's comment strikes down to her bones. They ought to be well-lit, for once.

Her head tilts. "Funny how I almost didn't recognize you without your wings. How sad is that?" Although the wings weren't the only absence that had thrown her off. "Can I tell you a secret? I was this-close to spinning 'round and staking you, too. That would've been a tragedy. And a sure sign of my rustiness."

"Well, if you had managed to kill me quickly enough, I would have died before the sense of disappointment hit with full force." He followed Buffy's example and set his plates aside. "Tragedy averted."

Being saved by Buffy in such a way had brought about a certain degree of awkwardness in their reunion. Crossing that distance in the dark, staring at each other in disbelief. And that was even before the inevitable question of what he was doing in her world.

"You seemed in perfect form that night, though. For all your talk of 'rusty skills.'"

Her smile didn't slip; however, the laughter in her eyes died. Buffy had once watched a man die from a stake-wound. Blood on Faith's hands and blood on hers. The Deputy Mayor had died so fast. All there had been left to do was run. Run and let the horror creep in.

In the breathless moments after she'd recognized Albert for who he was, that horror had lingered. Artificial and imagined, fuelled by her pessimistic imagination and the twitch in her arm muscles. It had been a twitch that had almost led to her finishing the killing lunge. But then she'd looked into his eyes and her heart had leapt in knee-jerk joy. Not just to see him but because if he was here...

Don't be so ungrateful, Summers. One familiar face is more than you could have ever hoped for.

"I suppose it's a lot like riding a bicycle." Ah! Now -- there was a thought. A nice alternative to a dim theatre. "Have you ever? Ridden one? A bicycle? Back in..."

She trailed off, unwilling to say the name. Luceti.

Even armed to the teeth, holding a stake aloft as she turned from a fresh kill, Albert had not been afraid of Buffy. There was that thrill, that fascination, that kept him from looking away -- and he had stared at her the entire while, wordless as they both processed the situation.

But on the matter of processing situations... He blinked at her question, raising a brow. "No. Never." With his juice finally finished, he set the glass aside as well. "But it can't be anymore difficult than riding a horse or driving a car, can it?"

Despite the faint close-lipped smile he gave her, he took notice of how she once again avoided mentioning the enclosure by name.

Stuck In The Wrong Place

Same Old People, Wrong Destination

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