moragmacpherson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
moragmacpherson) wrote2009-01-25 09:20 am
moragmacpherson) wrote2009-01-25 09:20 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Impossible Things (Chapters 1 - 6/??)
Ha! This is how I will thwart my tendency of late to make each individual scene a chapter.
Title: Impossible Things (Chapters 1 - 6/??)
Author: MoragMacPherson
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Set during Human Nature/Family of Blood for DW, sometime in the Season Eight comics for BtVS
Disclaimer: Oddly enough, characters = not mine. Note for attorneys: if I file for bankruptcy, the only creditor who will still be able to get me is the student loan guys.
Archive: Here, TtH, & Teaspoon. If you'd like it, let me know.
Beta: The incomparable![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
booster17 . Shezzi also lent a hand on Chapter 9.
Author's Note: So I saw a piece of fanart by BuffyCharmed over at TtH and got all inspired here. Then she saw the story I wrote and made me some genuinely terrific fanart here and there (my favorite is there).
Summary: John Smith and Martha hide from the Family of Blood at the Farringham School, where Martha meets a new friend from the 21st century.
Buffy remembered the fear in Willow’s eyes when her friend gave the briefing.
“That’s the form that they take, yeah. There’s at least three of them, maybe four, and they’re in this house. You’re going to want back up. Lots of it.”
Buffy hadn’t wanted to endanger that many girls. She set out with Satsu and five others. “Fourteen really speedy Slayer eyes, and we’ve all got nice shiny weapons. Still works if we see ‘em in mirrors, right?” Willow had nodded. “Right. We’ll bust them up, and if that doesn’t work, have Xander order up a bunch of mirrors. Put enough of them around the house, eventually these creepy statue demons won’t be able to look anywhere without seeing each other, and we’ll be all be set. In stone even.”
Buffy really hoped that Plan B worked better than Plan A had. Plan A resulted in Buffy stuck in 1913. Buffy was not a fan of 1913. She'd never been a class warrior, but after three months, had decided she particularly hated England in 1913.
Buffy had expected a Willow rescue attempt by now.
Buffy was not even entirely sure that this was her 1913, given that this 1913 did not include a Watchers’ Council. She really wished that she’d paid just a weensy-bit more attention to Willow’s research into the Weeping Angels and whether or not the portals they opened were just temporal, or dimensional as well. Buffy was tossed out of the Drones’ Club, the group which occupied the space which should by all rights have been the Watchers’ Headquarters.
Buffy examined her pockets. She had only just figured out the decimalized version of British currency. She did not cry. She gritted her teeth.
Buffy, who had no references, no family connections, and an American accent, got a job.
Even when she was in high school, Buffy was never a huge fan of teenage boys, with the possible exception of Xander. None of the boys at Farringham School were even remotely Xander-shaped. And they had really, really, dirty boots that they tromped across floors she’d just cleaned, and Mr. Clean hadn’t even been born yet. Wanting to keep her job, Buffy did not break their miserable skulls. Instead, she scrubbed, saved, fended off the advances of Mr. Palmer, the creepy groundskeeper, and patrolled nightly against supernatural forces that never bothered to appear.
Mostly, Buffy waited for some sign that she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life getting back to her own birth. At least once Martha joined the staff, Buffy had someone to talk to.
Finally while they were crouched over, waxing the banisters in relative privacy, Martha asked Buffy, “You know what I’d like right now?”
“To use this stuff on the Headmaster’s bald spot?” Buffy rubbed harder.
Martha smirked. “No. I want to get a couple of curries, sit down in front of the telly, and maybe watch a couple of Colin Firth movies.”
“Make it Orlando Bloom and we’re on.” Buffy winked, but her heart dropped a bit when Martha made a face.
“He’s way too pretty boy.”
The reply filled Buffy with overwhelming joy and she grinned at Martha. “So is that fluffy stick of nothing that you showed up with. Professor Smith. He from our time too?”
Martha’s smile stiffened. “No, he’s not. Don’t even really know what time he’s from.”
“Huh.” Buffy moved down to the next step. “So what’s your story? Stepped into the wrong sculpture garden? Or is this like Casablanca, except we’re all refugees from other times and dimensions?”
“Other dimensions?” Martha shook her head. “I’m pretty sure the TARDIS can’t move between dimensions. I mean, it is a ‘relative dimension,’ but we’ve never gone to a different dimension before.”
Buffy finished buffing her half, and set her hands on her hips, facing Martha. “Well, I guess that just makes me special. Lucky me. If you’re looking for a way back, though, I haven’t found one, and I’ve been here three months already.”
Martha looked around. “I’ve got a way home. We can give you a lift. Just sit tight.” Martha went back to work. Buffy picked her up by the waist and set her against the wall.
“How tight? How long?”
Martha’s eyes widened. “You’re awful strong.”
“Gotta love those pilates classes. When do we break out?”
Martha looked into the smaller girl’s green eyes. “Three more months. Not even. Eleven more weeks. Then we can go home. Or at least, we can get you back to the right time. We’ll have to ask the Doctor about getting you to the right dimension.” She and Buffy rushed to pick up their rags and get back to polishing as a troop of boys headed back to the dorms, muddy boots ruining the afternoon’s work.
After they’d passed and Buffy glared sufficient daggers in their general direction, she turned her attention back to Martha. “Who’s this doctor that’s going to figure this all out? That Smith guy again?”
Martha sighed. “Sort of.” She looked around one last time. “Listen, I know a place with central heat and indoor plumbing. Let’s finish this up, take a walk, and we can talk.”
“Deal.” Buffy went to grab the scrubbing bucket with a new lightness in her step.
Martha wondered aloud, “Maybe the TARDIS even has a copy of ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ lying around.”
John Smith was certain that the entire convoluted dream, with all of its explosions and mysterious devices, would make absolute sense if he only had five more minutes in it. Instead, Buffy walked in his room with the tea tray. “Your class starts in twenty minutes, Professor Smith, if you want breakfast, better be quick about it.”
He shielded his eyes as Miss Summers pulled aside the curtains, and sat up. She was an impertinent one, which most of the other teachers found irritating, and having been ripped from his dreams, so did he. “Well then, put it down so that I can eat it.” With a sideways smile, she set the tray on his lap. Recalling her appearance in his dream, he asked, “Where’s Martha?”
“Your security blanket? Some boys snuck back in through the chicken coops last night and forgot to fix the fence. Headmaster sent Martha and Jenny out to search and retrieve as many as they could.” John laughed at the thought before he could stop himself. Buffy smiled, and he thought the room brightened a touch more. “Eat up. I’ll see if there’s a bastinada somewhere around here you can use to whack the feathers off Hutchinson’s shoes.”
“Bastinada requires bare feet, doesn’t it?” The words were out of John’s mouth before he knew what he was saying.
“Look who knows his Turkish torture implements? Your history class must be very interesting.” Buffy finished tidying the previous night’s tea tray and made to leave.
“And how does a poor, young American girl come by that sort of knowledge? You weren’t always a maid, were you?”
Buffy stopped short and turned to face him. “I travel.”
John stood, leaving the tray untouched save for a triangle of toast, and regarded the girl. “I’ve often dreamed of travel myself. Adventure, really.”
Buffy looked up at him as he drew closer. “You dream?”
“I dream I’m this...daredevil, a madman. 'The Doctor', I'm called. All in the future.” He caught a spark of something other than amused tolerance in her eyes, and halted.
“With little green men from Mars, right?” Buffy held still.
“No, no. But I’m a man from another world, not Mars, but some planet even further away.”
Buffy chuckled softly. “I’ve seen some strange things in my travels, but I’ve never met a man from another world.”
His attention drifted to the mantel. “That watch.” He picked it up. “It’s funny how dreams slip away, isn’t it.” He replaced it, unopened, drawn back to Buffy’s slim form.
Buffy took the opportunity to turn back to the door. “Well, if you’d bothered to open it, you’d see that you’re actually a human who’s about to be late for class. I’ll let you get dressed, Professor.”
When Martha and Jenny returned to the kitchens, they were covered in feathers and mud. “Hutchinson’s going to pay,” gritted Martha as she pulled more down out of her hair.
“Shhh,” said Jenny. “The little bastards will take revenge, they hear talk like that, and you know whose side the Headmaster will take.” Her voice lowered further. “Better just to dose their stew with castor oil tonight. Should keep them close to home.”
Martha laughed hard enough that Buffy figured castor oil would be suitable revenge. “Jenny, can you hold the fort for a few minutes? I’m gonna take Martha to the washroom and get the rest of these feathers out.”
“Ye are, are ye?” Jenny winked at them. Martha stopped laughing and Buffy blushed. “Go on ahead, she got the worst of it.”
Buffy dragged a still sputtering Martha to the washroom. “Does she think- I mean, this is Edwardian England – I didn’t think people thought this way back then?”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “And you call yourself the time traveler. There’s nothing new under the sun, Martha. No recalling former things either, except, of course, for John Smith, who’s dreaming about being a time-traveling alien called the Doctor. Did you know about that?” She set about pulling feathers out of Martha’s thick hair.
“No. We’ve got a solid month left before I’m due to open the watch. It’s not safe yet.” She set some water to warm in the kettle, washing just her hands in the icy water from the basin.
“Another month,” muttered Buffy. “Y’know, I’ve never met this guy, and I’m half convinced he’s set this whole thing up to make me suffer.”
“You’ve never met the Family of Blood either, and trust me, even scary slayer girls would be afraid of them.”
“John Smith seems more interested in looking down my shirt than saving the world, that’s all I’m saying.”
Martha turned her head sharply. “He what?”
“Peeks down my uniform every time he thinks I’m not looking. Stupid stuffy old men here, they’re worse than the guys at my high school.”
Martha looked down. “I’m sorry. The Doctor isn’t like that.” She pour some of the heated water into the basin and splashed her face with it. “Hand me the borax, would you?”
Buffy pulled a scoop out of the canister. “Sorry. I know that you care about him.” Martha took some of the powder and scrubbed her face with it while Buffy used it on her hair.
“Not your fault,” said Martha as she rinsed her face and hair.
“It’ll be nice to have cream rinse again,” offered Buffy.
Martha nodded. “I’m going to go get changed up, okay? You get back to Jenny, we don’t need to give her any more ideas.” Buffy watched her friend leave, then headed back to the kitchens, where Jenny was busy peeling carrots.
Jenny saw Buffy’s concerned frown and clucked her tongue. “Those sorts of things never last. Best to enjoy it and then move on, and don’t let it affect the work.”
Buffy watched the surface of the stew burble. “Yeah. Right.”
Jenny handed her a knife. “Unless of course, she’s just got that impossible dream of Professor Smith in her head. Don’t know why she’s so sweet on him. Head in the clouds half the time...”
Buffy shook her head. “And the other half staring at me.”
Jenny blanched. “Ah. I see.”
Now that was a disturbing thought. Buffy giggled.
“What is out that window that could be so amusing, Miss Summers?”
Buffy bit her lips together. “Nothing, Professor Smith. Just thinking of some friends from home.” She turned to him, and saw him juggling a pile of books. One fell from his hands and she snatched it out of the air. John goggled at her reflexes, and Buffy took advantage. “Here, let me.” She took the bulk of the pile, leaving him with just one in each hand.
“You’re quite strong, Miss Summers. And quite agile.”
“Used to hang out in a library,” Buffy deflected. “Where are these going?”
John turned about, then decided on a corridor that was completely out of his way. “Ah, yes, this way, my office. So, I was right then. You’re educated, not a maid at all.”
Buffy kept her eyes down. “I made it through school just fine. After my mother died, I decided I needed a change. Just ran out of money, that’s all. Once I’ve got enough saved up, I’ll find my way back home.”
“So why didn’t you find some more genteel work? As a governess, perhaps.”
Buffy smiled. “I don’t think I had the right education for that. Anyway, you English, you hear an American accent, and you automatically assume I’m Cletus the slack-jawed yokel.”
John laughed. “That’s quite the expression. We’re not all that bad, are we?” Buffy just gave him a pointed look. “I suppose we are. Well, I shan’t again make the mistake of underestimating you simply because you wear a maid’s outfit and speak in a colonial patois.”
“Gee, thanks Professor.” They arrived at his office, and she set the books on his desk. He stood in the doorway, blocking her exit.
“You don’t always have to call me Professor.”
Buffy put a hand on her hip. “What exactly should I call you?”
He faltered. “Well, Mister Smith is slightly less – although, I guess, not more, I mean, as a maid, I could talk to the Headmaster about your situation.”
“What situation is that?”
John took a step back. “I mean, you’re working below your station.”
“I have a station?” Buffy took two steps towards him. “Let me get this straight. You think that I’m too good to scrub floors?”
John swallowed roughly, and replied in a slight squeak, “Well, yes.”
“Okay, but most of the time Martha’s your maid.”
“Uh, yes.”
Her eyes narrowed, and John suddenly felt like a hunted animal. “And of the two of us, you think that I’m the one who’s too smart to be scrubbing floors?”
“Well, Martha’s obviously a bright girl, but-“
“But what,” barked Buffy.
“What exactly did I say to offend you? I apologize, honestly and sincerely,” he tried, feeling pinned against the wall by her stare. After what seemed like an eternity, she looked back towards the window.
“You’re just very... English. Product of your circumstances. I shouldn’t blame you either.”
John caught his breath. “I suppose I’m simply trying to understand you, Miss Summers.”
She looked very tired all of a sudden. “Just call me Buffy. And I’ll call you John when the boys can’t hear, if that’s what you want.”
“I’d like that very much.” He dared to walk around her to his desk. “If it’s not too familiar.”
“No, it’s not,” murmured Buffy, leaning heavily on the back of a chair.
“Would you like to sit a moment? I won’t tell the Headmaster, but you look unwell. Should I call the Matron?”
Buffy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “No, I should get back to work.”
John shut the door, then took Buffy’s hand and pulled the seat out for her. “It will mean no trouble for you, I promise.”
“Why do I not trust promises of ‘no trouble’ from you?”
“I’ve no idea,” replied John with a smile. An item on the desk triggered his memory. “You were the one I spoke to about my dreams.”
Easing into the chair, Buffy sighed. “Yes, I was.”
He picked up a slim journal from the desk. “I have written down some of these dreams in the form of fiction... um... not that it would be of any interest.”
Buffy exhaled the breath of someone about to jump off a cliff. “I’d love to read them.” She took the book and leafed through it. “It looks very exciting.” He spent a few minutes explaining a number of the illustrations, and Buffy seemed very understanding of the strange terminology he used. She was just so comfortable to talk to, even if she was a maid.
Afterwards, Buffy slipped out of the office, the journal in her hand. Martha lurked in the shadows, but Buffy knew she was there. “He wrote it all down, here. All the things you told me about, he dreams them.” She offered the book to Martha. “Would you like to read it?”
“Not really. I’ve lived it.” Buffy flinched at the harshness in Martha’s voice. “Anything else interesting happen?”
“No. Not really.”
Martha turned away. “Fine. We’re late for supper service.” Buffy’s heart broke a little bit, but she straightened her shoulders and followed the best friend she had.
That night, Buffy pulled on her boots. “Where are you going,” asked Martha from beneath the sheets.
“Patrol.”
“There’s never anything out there.”
Buffy finished with her laces. “Keeps me in practice. Maybe the Family of Blood’s lurking out there tonight.”
Martha rolled over. “Buffy, I’m sorry about this afternoon. It’s just – I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he stares after you.”
“He’s got lousy taste,” offered Buffy.
Martha laughed, then sobered. “No he doesn’t.”
Buffy laid a hand over Martha’s. “He’s not even him right now. And I’m not going to encourage him. It’s just he turns on those damn puppy-dog eyes-”
“I know exactly what you- what was that?” A flash of green swooped across the sky. Martha grabbed Buffy’s arm as she moved towards the window. “Don’t go on patrol. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
Buffy pulled Martha’s hand off gently and swung one leg over the sill. “Well, neither will they. Don’t wait up.” With a wink, she dropped out of sight.
She kept an eye on his departure, and moved towards the blank space he’d emerged from. As she grew closer, though, she was hit by an intense case of vertigo. She dropped to her knees, and was sick in the grass. “That’s new.” She crawled back to the woods, feeling slightly better every inch she moved away from the clearing. Keeping her ears open, she followed Baines back to the school. He didn’t do anything more suspicious than usual, so, making sure she wasn’t being watched, Buffy scaled the wall, climbing back into the window.
Martha stood up. “What was it?”
“Couldn’t figure it out. Once I got close enough, I got sick. The space was all wrong. But Baines came out of it.” The vertigo returned with a vengeance, and Buffy doubled over. Martha straightened her out and sat her down on the bed.
“Hold on, you’re worse than the Doctor when he gets going properly.” Martha handed Buffy a glass of water from the basin, then lit the lamp. “Now, what’s this about Baines?”
“Don’t think he’s Baines any more. Probably an improvement, the racist shit head. But he was giving off weird alien-vibes.” Buffy took a long swallow of water. “At least I think they might have been alien-vibes, I don’t have that much experience with them.”
Martha sat down on the bed next to Buffy, feeling her forehead. “You’re all sweaty.”
Buffy smiled bitterly. “Not used to being sick. It was – strange. There’s this clearing, and there’s nothing in it, except for the invisible thing Baines came out of, and when I tried to get near it, I popped.” She finished the water. “I can’t remember the last time I was sick like that. The whole space, it was – wrong. There’s no other word for it.” She shuddered, and Martha gave her a tight hug.
“I don’t like the sounds of this. And you claim that you never get sick.”
“I don’t,” replied Buffy. "Except for right now."
Martha stood, crossing her arms. “Are you good for a quick hike to the barn? I’d rather have you inexplicably ill there than here. And maybe there’s something in the Doctor’s instructions-“
“There isn’t.”
Martha bit her lip. “It’s no warmer in here than it is out there, and you’ve got to be a couple of degrees warmer than normal. You’ll feel better in the TARDIS, and I’ll feel better about everything in there.”
Buffy looked up at her. “Well, I’m the one dressed for going out, not you. Grab your coat.” While Martha got dressed, Buffy got to her feet, still shifting her weight from side to side. She was glad when Martha came over and she could use her friend as a crutch. Together, they tiptoed downstairs, out the courtyard, and down the road to the barn where the TARDIS lay concealed.
As they passed through town, a familiar voice called to them from the shadows. “Anything wrong ladies? It’s far too cold to be wandering about in the dark.” The light fell on their faces. “Ah, Buf- I mean, Miss Summers, and Miss Jones, lovely night, isn’t it?”
“It is, Professor Smith,” responded Martha. “Did you see the meteorite earlier?”
John tilted his head. “I must have missed it.”
“It looked like it fell close by, sir. Buffy and I were just going to see if we could find where it landed.”
“They always look close, but they’re usually miles away, and even then, there’s nothing left but a cinder.” He peered closer at Buffy. “I do say, Miss Summers, are you feeling quite all right?”
“Right as rain, Professor.”
Martha discretely propped Buffy up higher. “She’s the one who had this foolish idea for an adventure.”
“Can’t ignore rocks falling from overhead, all your crazy-folk will start dropping dead,” muttered Buffy.
Martha pasted on a taut grin. “Buffy, I love your American folk verses, but I doubt the Professor here has time for them.”
John cast them a skeptical look. “Are you certain that I cannot escort you ladies home?”
“No, we’re fine,” replied Martha. Buffy nodded vigorously for good measure.
“Then I shall bid you goodnight.”
Martha curtsied both of them. “Good night, sir.”
Buffy felt a pinch. “Good night, Professor.”
As soon as John was out of earshot, they continued down the road. “Just a few short blocks to the barn. Could you have played the damsel in distress card a little harder,” teased Martha.
“Sorry. Not feeling so hot here.” Martha looked down and saw the sweat pouring down Buffy’s brow.
“Right then.” Martha basically carried Buffy the last fifty meters to the TARDIS. “C’mon, stay with me.” She got the door unlocked and pulled Buffy in. Heaving breaths, she whispered, “Hello, TARDIS.”
The warmth was a delightful change. Buffy rested her head against the railing, thawing out. “I think I can get to the captain’s chair.”
“Good, because at least one of us in here doesn’t have super-strength.” Martha headed to the console while Buffy hobbled to the bench and laid down. “Here.” Martha pulled the Doctor’s coat over Buffy’s shivering body.
“Thanks. Smells good.” She curled up and dozed off.
Martha checked her temperature, which was 39. Not a good sign. She pricked Buffy’s finger and put a slide into the mostly-dormant TARDIS. The TARDIS sleepily diagnosed aubertide allergy, a reaction to one of the chemicals in the exhaust from a certain class of cloaking devices, and prescribed a sort of anti-histamine. Martha found the spray in the first-aid kit, and convinced Buffy to wake up long enough to inhale it. She returned to her reading, and found that humanoids were not, typically, allergic to aubertide; in fact, the only life forms the TARDIS knew of that experienced aubertide allergies were energy-based.
Martha looked back at the smaller girl. She hadn’t been crazy when she went on about Baines appearing out of nowhere. Now it looked like she wasn’t crazy when she talked about being a Slayer. Martha wished, not for the first time, that the Doctor was here to explain what all of this meant. She listened to his message again. “Not a word about slayers, or aubertide allergies. Lucky for me I watched you work this machine a time or two. Lucky for Buffy I’m a quick study.” She played the last bit again.
“It’s all down to you, Martha. It’s your choice. Oh – and thank you.”
Martha stepped back and slumped onto the free bit of the bench, and patted her friend’s head. “He looks down your shirt again and I’m feeding him pears.” She sighed, leaning her head back. “I just wish that he’d come back.”
“Yes I do. The ship is obviously the Family, they’ve found us, time to bring the Doctor back and have him bring the hammer down.” The sight of Martha munching on sugary cereal while talking about aliens was a little surreal to Buffy, but then again, how many times had she discussed the apocalypse over doughnuts?
On the other hand, Buffy could only have been ten the last time she ate choco puffs. She pondered Martha’s statement for a minute while pouring her third bowl. “What happened to ‘we have to wait until it’s safe’?”
“Well, it’s obviously not safe anymore. And you can’t get within twenty meters of their ship without tossing your lunch across the meadow.”
Buffy gave Martha a cross stare. “Eating right now.”
“Sorry. Anyway, you’re out of commission, and I’m lacking in the super powers department. Sounds like time to bring back the Doctor to me.” Martha let the spoon slip out of her fingers.
Buffy looked down at her bowl. “You’re not wrong.” She breathed out. “So, what’s the deal then? We sneak into his room and I hold him down while you open the watch in his face?”
“I doubt it will be that dramatic,” Martha made a face. “We’ll grab the watch while he’s off at class, then we can show it to him when he returns for lunch.”
“Then what?”
“Then he can come up with a better plan. And we won’t have to spend any extra energy trying to save him from himself.” Martha set her bowl in the sink, turned and watched Buffy, who seemed to want to say something, but simply nodded. “You sure you’re fully recovered?”
Buffy held up her spoon, grasped it by the handle, and drove the bowl of it through the table. Martha flinched. The table was two inches of solid hardwood thick. The spoon’s handle quivered for a few seconds. “Looks like my strength’s back.”
“I guess.”
“I just feel a little groggy, that’s all.”
Martha tipped her head. “Impressively built spoon.”
Buffy looked at it. “Nice craftsmanship,” she agreed.
Together they walked back to the school, arriving just a few minutes after sunrise. Buffy apologized to Jenny for being so late for breakfast service.
Jenny snorted. “Barely takes one person to put the student slop together, don’t mind you. You two have another one of your special ladies’ late nights?” she asked with a waggle of her eyebrows.
Martha clucked her tongue, tying on her apron. “Jenny, I told you to stop that. Buffy was simply sick last night. That slimy git Baines coughed on her deliberately. Try to steer clear of him today. If he gets sick like Buffy was, he’ll be an even more miserable prat than usual.”
“As if that were possible,” chuckled Jenny. “Now, Buffy, if you’re feeling under the weather, there’s warm porridge and hot tea already made up for the Headmaster. I can put another tray together in a flash if’n you’d be served better by it.”
Buffy collected the tray in question, along with two others. “Thanks, Jenny, but we already ate. I’ll be fine, just need to get back to work. I’ll take faculty service today, though, if that’s okay. I don’t think I can face Baines this morning.” She gave Martha a pointed look, then headed off. Martha busied herself with the student service, chatting merrily with Jenny for what she was afraid might be the last time. The saucy maid was one of the few things she’d miss about this stopover.
Martha was just putting the last of the dishes into the wash basin when Buffy found her. “You’re still looking pale, Buffy. Maybe I should get you another dose-“ Buffy cut her off by holding up her hand. “What?”
“John Smith had already gone to class by the time I showed up with his tray.”
Martha frowned. “So?”
Buffy grabbed Martha’s hands, squeezing them painfully. “The watch wasn’t there,” she hissed. Martha felt the blood draining out of her face. “It’s gone.”
Title: Impossible Things (Chapters 1 - 6/??)
Author: MoragMacPherson
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Set during Human Nature/Family of Blood for DW, sometime in the Season Eight comics for BtVS
Disclaimer: Oddly enough, characters = not mine. Note for attorneys: if I file for bankruptcy, the only creditor who will still be able to get me is the student loan guys.
Archive: Here, TtH, & Teaspoon. If you'd like it, let me know.
Beta: The incomparable
booster17 . Shezzi also lent a hand on Chapter 9. Author's Note: So I saw a piece of fanart by BuffyCharmed over at TtH and got all inspired here. Then she saw the story I wrote and made me some genuinely terrific fanart here and there (my favorite is there).
Summary: John Smith and Martha hide from the Family of Blood at the Farringham School, where Martha meets a new friend from the 21st century.
1. Go Straight Long Enough
“Weeping angels?”Buffy remembered the fear in Willow’s eyes when her friend gave the briefing.
“That’s the form that they take, yeah. There’s at least three of them, maybe four, and they’re in this house. You’re going to want back up. Lots of it.”
Buffy hadn’t wanted to endanger that many girls. She set out with Satsu and five others. “Fourteen really speedy Slayer eyes, and we’ve all got nice shiny weapons. Still works if we see ‘em in mirrors, right?” Willow had nodded. “Right. We’ll bust them up, and if that doesn’t work, have Xander order up a bunch of mirrors. Put enough of them around the house, eventually these creepy statue demons won’t be able to look anywhere without seeing each other, and we’ll be all be set. In stone even.”
Buffy really hoped that Plan B worked better than Plan A had. Plan A resulted in Buffy stuck in 1913. Buffy was not a fan of 1913. She'd never been a class warrior, but after three months, had decided she particularly hated England in 1913.
Buffy had expected a Willow rescue attempt by now.
Buffy was not even entirely sure that this was her 1913, given that this 1913 did not include a Watchers’ Council. She really wished that she’d paid just a weensy-bit more attention to Willow’s research into the Weeping Angels and whether or not the portals they opened were just temporal, or dimensional as well. Buffy was tossed out of the Drones’ Club, the group which occupied the space which should by all rights have been the Watchers’ Headquarters.
Buffy examined her pockets. She had only just figured out the decimalized version of British currency. She did not cry. She gritted her teeth.
Buffy, who had no references, no family connections, and an American accent, got a job.
Even when she was in high school, Buffy was never a huge fan of teenage boys, with the possible exception of Xander. None of the boys at Farringham School were even remotely Xander-shaped. And they had really, really, dirty boots that they tromped across floors she’d just cleaned, and Mr. Clean hadn’t even been born yet. Wanting to keep her job, Buffy did not break their miserable skulls. Instead, she scrubbed, saved, fended off the advances of Mr. Palmer, the creepy groundskeeper, and patrolled nightly against supernatural forces that never bothered to appear.
Mostly, Buffy waited for some sign that she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life getting back to her own birth. At least once Martha joined the staff, Buffy had someone to talk to.
2. Gotta Know Right Now
It only took Buffy and Martha a week to figure out that they were both from the twenty first century. They caught subtle clues. Buffy smelled modern shampoo in Martha’s hair. Martha heard Buffy call Baines a ‘little Nazi thug’ under her breath.Finally while they were crouched over, waxing the banisters in relative privacy, Martha asked Buffy, “You know what I’d like right now?”
“To use this stuff on the Headmaster’s bald spot?” Buffy rubbed harder.
Martha smirked. “No. I want to get a couple of curries, sit down in front of the telly, and maybe watch a couple of Colin Firth movies.”
“Make it Orlando Bloom and we’re on.” Buffy winked, but her heart dropped a bit when Martha made a face.
“He’s way too pretty boy.”
The reply filled Buffy with overwhelming joy and she grinned at Martha. “So is that fluffy stick of nothing that you showed up with. Professor Smith. He from our time too?”
Martha’s smile stiffened. “No, he’s not. Don’t even really know what time he’s from.”
“Huh.” Buffy moved down to the next step. “So what’s your story? Stepped into the wrong sculpture garden? Or is this like Casablanca, except we’re all refugees from other times and dimensions?”
“Other dimensions?” Martha shook her head. “I’m pretty sure the TARDIS can’t move between dimensions. I mean, it is a ‘relative dimension,’ but we’ve never gone to a different dimension before.”
Buffy finished buffing her half, and set her hands on her hips, facing Martha. “Well, I guess that just makes me special. Lucky me. If you’re looking for a way back, though, I haven’t found one, and I’ve been here three months already.”
Martha looked around. “I’ve got a way home. We can give you a lift. Just sit tight.” Martha went back to work. Buffy picked her up by the waist and set her against the wall.
“How tight? How long?”
Martha’s eyes widened. “You’re awful strong.”
“Gotta love those pilates classes. When do we break out?”
Martha looked into the smaller girl’s green eyes. “Three more months. Not even. Eleven more weeks. Then we can go home. Or at least, we can get you back to the right time. We’ll have to ask the Doctor about getting you to the right dimension.” She and Buffy rushed to pick up their rags and get back to polishing as a troop of boys headed back to the dorms, muddy boots ruining the afternoon’s work.
After they’d passed and Buffy glared sufficient daggers in their general direction, she turned her attention back to Martha. “Who’s this doctor that’s going to figure this all out? That Smith guy again?”
Martha sighed. “Sort of.” She looked around one last time. “Listen, I know a place with central heat and indoor plumbing. Let’s finish this up, take a walk, and we can talk.”
“Deal.” Buffy went to grab the scrubbing bucket with a new lightness in her step.
Martha wondered aloud, “Maybe the TARDIS even has a copy of ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ lying around.”
3. I Don't Want You to be Alone Down There
John Smith was certain that the entire convoluted dream, with all of its explosions and mysterious devices, would make absolute sense if he only had five more minutes in it. Instead, Buffy walked in his room with the tea tray. “Your class starts in twenty minutes, Professor Smith, if you want breakfast, better be quick about it.”
He shielded his eyes as Miss Summers pulled aside the curtains, and sat up. She was an impertinent one, which most of the other teachers found irritating, and having been ripped from his dreams, so did he. “Well then, put it down so that I can eat it.” With a sideways smile, she set the tray on his lap. Recalling her appearance in his dream, he asked, “Where’s Martha?”
“Your security blanket? Some boys snuck back in through the chicken coops last night and forgot to fix the fence. Headmaster sent Martha and Jenny out to search and retrieve as many as they could.” John laughed at the thought before he could stop himself. Buffy smiled, and he thought the room brightened a touch more. “Eat up. I’ll see if there’s a bastinada somewhere around here you can use to whack the feathers off Hutchinson’s shoes.”
“Bastinada requires bare feet, doesn’t it?” The words were out of John’s mouth before he knew what he was saying.
“Look who knows his Turkish torture implements? Your history class must be very interesting.” Buffy finished tidying the previous night’s tea tray and made to leave.
“And how does a poor, young American girl come by that sort of knowledge? You weren’t always a maid, were you?”
Buffy stopped short and turned to face him. “I travel.”
John stood, leaving the tray untouched save for a triangle of toast, and regarded the girl. “I’ve often dreamed of travel myself. Adventure, really.”
Buffy looked up at him as he drew closer. “You dream?”
“I dream I’m this...daredevil, a madman. 'The Doctor', I'm called. All in the future.” He caught a spark of something other than amused tolerance in her eyes, and halted.
“With little green men from Mars, right?” Buffy held still.
“No, no. But I’m a man from another world, not Mars, but some planet even further away.”
Buffy chuckled softly. “I’ve seen some strange things in my travels, but I’ve never met a man from another world.”
His attention drifted to the mantel. “That watch.” He picked it up. “It’s funny how dreams slip away, isn’t it.” He replaced it, unopened, drawn back to Buffy’s slim form.
Buffy took the opportunity to turn back to the door. “Well, if you’d bothered to open it, you’d see that you’re actually a human who’s about to be late for class. I’ll let you get dressed, Professor.”
When Martha and Jenny returned to the kitchens, they were covered in feathers and mud. “Hutchinson’s going to pay,” gritted Martha as she pulled more down out of her hair.
“Shhh,” said Jenny. “The little bastards will take revenge, they hear talk like that, and you know whose side the Headmaster will take.” Her voice lowered further. “Better just to dose their stew with castor oil tonight. Should keep them close to home.”
Martha laughed hard enough that Buffy figured castor oil would be suitable revenge. “Jenny, can you hold the fort for a few minutes? I’m gonna take Martha to the washroom and get the rest of these feathers out.”
“Ye are, are ye?” Jenny winked at them. Martha stopped laughing and Buffy blushed. “Go on ahead, she got the worst of it.”
Buffy dragged a still sputtering Martha to the washroom. “Does she think- I mean, this is Edwardian England – I didn’t think people thought this way back then?”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “And you call yourself the time traveler. There’s nothing new under the sun, Martha. No recalling former things either, except, of course, for John Smith, who’s dreaming about being a time-traveling alien called the Doctor. Did you know about that?” She set about pulling feathers out of Martha’s thick hair.
“No. We’ve got a solid month left before I’m due to open the watch. It’s not safe yet.” She set some water to warm in the kettle, washing just her hands in the icy water from the basin.
“Another month,” muttered Buffy. “Y’know, I’ve never met this guy, and I’m half convinced he’s set this whole thing up to make me suffer.”
“You’ve never met the Family of Blood either, and trust me, even scary slayer girls would be afraid of them.”
“John Smith seems more interested in looking down my shirt than saving the world, that’s all I’m saying.”
Martha turned her head sharply. “He what?”
“Peeks down my uniform every time he thinks I’m not looking. Stupid stuffy old men here, they’re worse than the guys at my high school.”
Martha looked down. “I’m sorry. The Doctor isn’t like that.” She pour some of the heated water into the basin and splashed her face with it. “Hand me the borax, would you?”
Buffy pulled a scoop out of the canister. “Sorry. I know that you care about him.” Martha took some of the powder and scrubbed her face with it while Buffy used it on her hair.
“Not your fault,” said Martha as she rinsed her face and hair.
“It’ll be nice to have cream rinse again,” offered Buffy.
Martha nodded. “I’m going to go get changed up, okay? You get back to Jenny, we don’t need to give her any more ideas.” Buffy watched her friend leave, then headed back to the kitchens, where Jenny was busy peeling carrots.
Jenny saw Buffy’s concerned frown and clucked her tongue. “Those sorts of things never last. Best to enjoy it and then move on, and don’t let it affect the work.”
Buffy watched the surface of the stew burble. “Yeah. Right.”
Jenny handed her a knife. “Unless of course, she’s just got that impossible dream of Professor Smith in her head. Don’t know why she’s so sweet on him. Head in the clouds half the time...”
Buffy shook her head. “And the other half staring at me.”
Jenny blanched. “Ah. I see.”
4. You've Got the Perfect Disguise
Buffy could have kicked herself. She’d heard Martha talking about the Doctor. For the last two months, it was her favorite topic of conversation. But it was so hard to associate the heroic Doctor who Martha sang praises of with John Smith, who put her in mind of Xander and Giles’ love-child.Now that was a disturbing thought. Buffy giggled.
“What is out that window that could be so amusing, Miss Summers?”
Buffy bit her lips together. “Nothing, Professor Smith. Just thinking of some friends from home.” She turned to him, and saw him juggling a pile of books. One fell from his hands and she snatched it out of the air. John goggled at her reflexes, and Buffy took advantage. “Here, let me.” She took the bulk of the pile, leaving him with just one in each hand.
“You’re quite strong, Miss Summers. And quite agile.”
“Used to hang out in a library,” Buffy deflected. “Where are these going?”
John turned about, then decided on a corridor that was completely out of his way. “Ah, yes, this way, my office. So, I was right then. You’re educated, not a maid at all.”
Buffy kept her eyes down. “I made it through school just fine. After my mother died, I decided I needed a change. Just ran out of money, that’s all. Once I’ve got enough saved up, I’ll find my way back home.”
“So why didn’t you find some more genteel work? As a governess, perhaps.”
Buffy smiled. “I don’t think I had the right education for that. Anyway, you English, you hear an American accent, and you automatically assume I’m Cletus the slack-jawed yokel.”
John laughed. “That’s quite the expression. We’re not all that bad, are we?” Buffy just gave him a pointed look. “I suppose we are. Well, I shan’t again make the mistake of underestimating you simply because you wear a maid’s outfit and speak in a colonial patois.”
“Gee, thanks Professor.” They arrived at his office, and she set the books on his desk. He stood in the doorway, blocking her exit.
“You don’t always have to call me Professor.”
Buffy put a hand on her hip. “What exactly should I call you?”
He faltered. “Well, Mister Smith is slightly less – although, I guess, not more, I mean, as a maid, I could talk to the Headmaster about your situation.”
“What situation is that?”
John took a step back. “I mean, you’re working below your station.”
“I have a station?” Buffy took two steps towards him. “Let me get this straight. You think that I’m too good to scrub floors?”
John swallowed roughly, and replied in a slight squeak, “Well, yes.”
“Okay, but most of the time Martha’s your maid.”
“Uh, yes.”
Her eyes narrowed, and John suddenly felt like a hunted animal. “And of the two of us, you think that I’m the one who’s too smart to be scrubbing floors?”
“Well, Martha’s obviously a bright girl, but-“
“But what,” barked Buffy.
“What exactly did I say to offend you? I apologize, honestly and sincerely,” he tried, feeling pinned against the wall by her stare. After what seemed like an eternity, she looked back towards the window.
“You’re just very... English. Product of your circumstances. I shouldn’t blame you either.”
John caught his breath. “I suppose I’m simply trying to understand you, Miss Summers.”
She looked very tired all of a sudden. “Just call me Buffy. And I’ll call you John when the boys can’t hear, if that’s what you want.”
“I’d like that very much.” He dared to walk around her to his desk. “If it’s not too familiar.”
“No, it’s not,” murmured Buffy, leaning heavily on the back of a chair.
“Would you like to sit a moment? I won’t tell the Headmaster, but you look unwell. Should I call the Matron?”
Buffy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “No, I should get back to work.”
John shut the door, then took Buffy’s hand and pulled the seat out for her. “It will mean no trouble for you, I promise.”
“Why do I not trust promises of ‘no trouble’ from you?”
“I’ve no idea,” replied John with a smile. An item on the desk triggered his memory. “You were the one I spoke to about my dreams.”
Easing into the chair, Buffy sighed. “Yes, I was.”
He picked up a slim journal from the desk. “I have written down some of these dreams in the form of fiction... um... not that it would be of any interest.”
Buffy exhaled the breath of someone about to jump off a cliff. “I’d love to read them.” She took the book and leafed through it. “It looks very exciting.” He spent a few minutes explaining a number of the illustrations, and Buffy seemed very understanding of the strange terminology he used. She was just so comfortable to talk to, even if she was a maid.
Afterwards, Buffy slipped out of the office, the journal in her hand. Martha lurked in the shadows, but Buffy knew she was there. “He wrote it all down, here. All the things you told me about, he dreams them.” She offered the book to Martha. “Would you like to read it?”
“Not really. I’ve lived it.” Buffy flinched at the harshness in Martha’s voice. “Anything else interesting happen?”
“No. Not really.”
Martha turned away. “Fine. We’re late for supper service.” Buffy’s heart broke a little bit, but she straightened her shoulders and followed the best friend she had.
That night, Buffy pulled on her boots. “Where are you going,” asked Martha from beneath the sheets.
“Patrol.”
“There’s never anything out there.”
Buffy finished with her laces. “Keeps me in practice. Maybe the Family of Blood’s lurking out there tonight.”
Martha rolled over. “Buffy, I’m sorry about this afternoon. It’s just – I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he stares after you.”
“He’s got lousy taste,” offered Buffy.
Martha laughed, then sobered. “No he doesn’t.”
Buffy laid a hand over Martha’s. “He’s not even him right now. And I’m not going to encourage him. It’s just he turns on those damn puppy-dog eyes-”
“I know exactly what you- what was that?” A flash of green swooped across the sky. Martha grabbed Buffy’s arm as she moved towards the window. “Don’t go on patrol. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
Buffy pulled Martha’s hand off gently and swung one leg over the sill. “Well, neither will they. Don’t wait up.” With a wink, she dropped out of sight.
5. Hands and Knees Felt Cold and Wet on the Grass
The clearing near Cooper’s Field was disappointing, until Buffy spied Baines emerging out of nowhere, in a very literal sense. He sniffed the air a couple times, and Buffy checked to make sure that she was downwind. Yep. She sniffed a few times herself. Baines no longer smelled of turn-of-the-century acne cream and smug superiority. Now it was smug superiority and something else, something alien and other that made her feel slimy inside.She kept an eye on his departure, and moved towards the blank space he’d emerged from. As she grew closer, though, she was hit by an intense case of vertigo. She dropped to her knees, and was sick in the grass. “That’s new.” She crawled back to the woods, feeling slightly better every inch she moved away from the clearing. Keeping her ears open, she followed Baines back to the school. He didn’t do anything more suspicious than usual, so, making sure she wasn’t being watched, Buffy scaled the wall, climbing back into the window.
Martha stood up. “What was it?”
“Couldn’t figure it out. Once I got close enough, I got sick. The space was all wrong. But Baines came out of it.” The vertigo returned with a vengeance, and Buffy doubled over. Martha straightened her out and sat her down on the bed.
“Hold on, you’re worse than the Doctor when he gets going properly.” Martha handed Buffy a glass of water from the basin, then lit the lamp. “Now, what’s this about Baines?”
“Don’t think he’s Baines any more. Probably an improvement, the racist shit head. But he was giving off weird alien-vibes.” Buffy took a long swallow of water. “At least I think they might have been alien-vibes, I don’t have that much experience with them.”
Martha sat down on the bed next to Buffy, feeling her forehead. “You’re all sweaty.”
Buffy smiled bitterly. “Not used to being sick. It was – strange. There’s this clearing, and there’s nothing in it, except for the invisible thing Baines came out of, and when I tried to get near it, I popped.” She finished the water. “I can’t remember the last time I was sick like that. The whole space, it was – wrong. There’s no other word for it.” She shuddered, and Martha gave her a tight hug.
“I don’t like the sounds of this. And you claim that you never get sick.”
“I don’t,” replied Buffy. "Except for right now."
Martha stood, crossing her arms. “Are you good for a quick hike to the barn? I’d rather have you inexplicably ill there than here. And maybe there’s something in the Doctor’s instructions-“
“There isn’t.”
Martha bit her lip. “It’s no warmer in here than it is out there, and you’ve got to be a couple of degrees warmer than normal. You’ll feel better in the TARDIS, and I’ll feel better about everything in there.”
Buffy looked up at her. “Well, I’m the one dressed for going out, not you. Grab your coat.” While Martha got dressed, Buffy got to her feet, still shifting her weight from side to side. She was glad when Martha came over and she could use her friend as a crutch. Together, they tiptoed downstairs, out the courtyard, and down the road to the barn where the TARDIS lay concealed.
As they passed through town, a familiar voice called to them from the shadows. “Anything wrong ladies? It’s far too cold to be wandering about in the dark.” The light fell on their faces. “Ah, Buf- I mean, Miss Summers, and Miss Jones, lovely night, isn’t it?”
“It is, Professor Smith,” responded Martha. “Did you see the meteorite earlier?”
John tilted his head. “I must have missed it.”
“It looked like it fell close by, sir. Buffy and I were just going to see if we could find where it landed.”
“They always look close, but they’re usually miles away, and even then, there’s nothing left but a cinder.” He peered closer at Buffy. “I do say, Miss Summers, are you feeling quite all right?”
“Right as rain, Professor.”
Martha discretely propped Buffy up higher. “She’s the one who had this foolish idea for an adventure.”
“Can’t ignore rocks falling from overhead, all your crazy-folk will start dropping dead,” muttered Buffy.
Martha pasted on a taut grin. “Buffy, I love your American folk verses, but I doubt the Professor here has time for them.”
John cast them a skeptical look. “Are you certain that I cannot escort you ladies home?”
“No, we’re fine,” replied Martha. Buffy nodded vigorously for good measure.
“Then I shall bid you goodnight.”
Martha curtsied both of them. “Good night, sir.”
Buffy felt a pinch. “Good night, Professor.”
As soon as John was out of earshot, they continued down the road. “Just a few short blocks to the barn. Could you have played the damsel in distress card a little harder,” teased Martha.
“Sorry. Not feeling so hot here.” Martha looked down and saw the sweat pouring down Buffy’s brow.
“Right then.” Martha basically carried Buffy the last fifty meters to the TARDIS. “C’mon, stay with me.” She got the door unlocked and pulled Buffy in. Heaving breaths, she whispered, “Hello, TARDIS.”
The warmth was a delightful change. Buffy rested her head against the railing, thawing out. “I think I can get to the captain’s chair.”
“Good, because at least one of us in here doesn’t have super-strength.” Martha headed to the console while Buffy hobbled to the bench and laid down. “Here.” Martha pulled the Doctor’s coat over Buffy’s shivering body.
“Thanks. Smells good.” She curled up and dozed off.
Martha checked her temperature, which was 39. Not a good sign. She pricked Buffy’s finger and put a slide into the mostly-dormant TARDIS. The TARDIS sleepily diagnosed aubertide allergy, a reaction to one of the chemicals in the exhaust from a certain class of cloaking devices, and prescribed a sort of anti-histamine. Martha found the spray in the first-aid kit, and convinced Buffy to wake up long enough to inhale it. She returned to her reading, and found that humanoids were not, typically, allergic to aubertide; in fact, the only life forms the TARDIS knew of that experienced aubertide allergies were energy-based.
Martha looked back at the smaller girl. She hadn’t been crazy when she went on about Baines appearing out of nowhere. Now it looked like she wasn’t crazy when she talked about being a Slayer. Martha wished, not for the first time, that the Doctor was here to explain what all of this meant. She listened to his message again. “Not a word about slayers, or aubertide allergies. Lucky for me I watched you work this machine a time or two. Lucky for Buffy I’m a quick study.” She played the last bit again.
“It’s all down to you, Martha. It’s your choice. Oh – and thank you.”
Martha stepped back and slumped onto the free bit of the bench, and patted her friend’s head. “He looks down your shirt again and I’m feeding him pears.” She sighed, leaning her head back. “I just wish that he’d come back.”
6. Laugh Hard, It's a Long Way to the Bank
Martha consulted with Buffy in the pre-dawn hours over a breakfast of frosted chocolate sugar puffs from the TARDIS kitchen. “You think we should open the watch now,” repeated Buffy in between slurps of sludgy, chocolate sweetened milk.“Yes I do. The ship is obviously the Family, they’ve found us, time to bring the Doctor back and have him bring the hammer down.” The sight of Martha munching on sugary cereal while talking about aliens was a little surreal to Buffy, but then again, how many times had she discussed the apocalypse over doughnuts?
On the other hand, Buffy could only have been ten the last time she ate choco puffs. She pondered Martha’s statement for a minute while pouring her third bowl. “What happened to ‘we have to wait until it’s safe’?”
“Well, it’s obviously not safe anymore. And you can’t get within twenty meters of their ship without tossing your lunch across the meadow.”
Buffy gave Martha a cross stare. “Eating right now.”
“Sorry. Anyway, you’re out of commission, and I’m lacking in the super powers department. Sounds like time to bring back the Doctor to me.” Martha let the spoon slip out of her fingers.
Buffy looked down at her bowl. “You’re not wrong.” She breathed out. “So, what’s the deal then? We sneak into his room and I hold him down while you open the watch in his face?”
“I doubt it will be that dramatic,” Martha made a face. “We’ll grab the watch while he’s off at class, then we can show it to him when he returns for lunch.”
“Then what?”
“Then he can come up with a better plan. And we won’t have to spend any extra energy trying to save him from himself.” Martha set her bowl in the sink, turned and watched Buffy, who seemed to want to say something, but simply nodded. “You sure you’re fully recovered?”
Buffy held up her spoon, grasped it by the handle, and drove the bowl of it through the table. Martha flinched. The table was two inches of solid hardwood thick. The spoon’s handle quivered for a few seconds. “Looks like my strength’s back.”
“I guess.”
“I just feel a little groggy, that’s all.”
Martha tipped her head. “Impressively built spoon.”
Buffy looked at it. “Nice craftsmanship,” she agreed.
Together they walked back to the school, arriving just a few minutes after sunrise. Buffy apologized to Jenny for being so late for breakfast service.
Jenny snorted. “Barely takes one person to put the student slop together, don’t mind you. You two have another one of your special ladies’ late nights?” she asked with a waggle of her eyebrows.
Martha clucked her tongue, tying on her apron. “Jenny, I told you to stop that. Buffy was simply sick last night. That slimy git Baines coughed on her deliberately. Try to steer clear of him today. If he gets sick like Buffy was, he’ll be an even more miserable prat than usual.”
“As if that were possible,” chuckled Jenny. “Now, Buffy, if you’re feeling under the weather, there’s warm porridge and hot tea already made up for the Headmaster. I can put another tray together in a flash if’n you’d be served better by it.”
Buffy collected the tray in question, along with two others. “Thanks, Jenny, but we already ate. I’ll be fine, just need to get back to work. I’ll take faculty service today, though, if that’s okay. I don’t think I can face Baines this morning.” She gave Martha a pointed look, then headed off. Martha busied herself with the student service, chatting merrily with Jenny for what she was afraid might be the last time. The saucy maid was one of the few things she’d miss about this stopover.
Martha was just putting the last of the dishes into the wash basin when Buffy found her. “You’re still looking pale, Buffy. Maybe I should get you another dose-“ Buffy cut her off by holding up her hand. “What?”
“John Smith had already gone to class by the time I showed up with his tray.”
Martha frowned. “So?”
Buffy grabbed Martha’s hands, squeezing them painfully. “The watch wasn’t there,” she hissed. Martha felt the blood draining out of her face. “It’s gone.”