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Citizen O'Donnell
Author: Shona
Rating: PG
A/N: response to Margot’s dream sequence challenge.
This is a rip-off of one of the most over-rated films ever made (which was
also my dad’s favourite…) And hey, who knew I could write Bangel fic?
*g*
Disclaimer: Don't own them, never will, Joss and ME still have that honour. I'm just playing in a pretty big sand box.
May 31st 2058
Mark listened at the door for a second, hearing nothing from within, he hesitantly knocked. The old man had left instructions to be woken exactly ten minutes before sunrise. None of the staff understood it but they all knew better than to question his eccentricities. There was no answer to the knock so Mark pushed open the heavy oak door into a musty and dark room. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he made out the shape of the old man in his bed. He was asleep so Mark coughed lightly to announce his presence. Something dropped gently from the old man’s hand and rolled across the floor to rest at his feet. He discretely bent to retrieve it, wondering why Mr O’Donnell would have been clutching a snow-globe, and as he stood again he heard the old man whisper,
“Buffy…”
With the ornament in his hand he strode towards to the windows and pulled open the heavy velvet curtains. Pasting a bright and ultimately false smile on his face, he turned towards the bed now bathed in pre-dawn light. “Rise and shine Mr O’Donnell, it’s almost dawn.” No reaction from the old man so he gingerly stepped towards the bed. There was an unhealthy pallor to the man’s skin and his breathing was laboured. Mark coughed politely again, and busied himself setting out the man’s robe and slippers.
Liam O’Donnell was one strange man, his mansion was filled to the brim with vast collections of ancient weaponry – some of them had been in his possession for over fifty years. Those ones tended to have unusual stains and marks on them that the staff had found it best not to question. No one knew where the man had made his money, there were no records relating to him before 2005. He was the original riddle wrapped in an enigma.
“Mr O’Donnell? Sir?”
He blinks a little, he’s in a mansion but it’s not the same. It’s strangely empty, unlived in. There’s a voice behind him, achingly familiar “You have to do it, what else are you good for?” He faces her. The face that’s haunted his nightmares for over fifty years now: Jenny.
He pushes away calling out, “Get away from me!”
She doesn’t though, she never does. She continues to taunt him, “Couldn’t you just feel her? Couldn’t you almost smell her skin? You never were a fighter, don’t start trying now. Sooner or later you will drink her.”
He knows this scene, he’s played it out countless times, and he believes what he has to say next. Just as he knows it isn’t the truth.
“I’ll never hurt her.” He speaks quietly, knowing she’ll hear him no matter what. She’s part of him, has been since he killed her.
“You were born to hurt her.” She laughs. “Have you learned nothing? It’s who you are.” He looks at her, her eyes don’t taunt now, they plead.
He looks around confused; he’s at the top of a stairwell and Jenny’s in his arms, her head bent at an unnatural angle. Horrified he lets her drop and hears himself say, “I never get tired of doing that…”
There’s a thud as the body hits the floor and he sees her spread out on the floor before him. He feels himself grin and tries to stop himself as he reaches down to pick up Jenny’s body.
He’s in another room now, there’s a thick scent of sandalwood in the air and oak panelling lines the walls. He’s spent time setting the scene, the glasses, the ice bucket, the roses, and now the finishing touch. His heart breaking inside he can’t stop himself as he reaches to unbutton the dress Jenny is wearing. The silky material slides over her now cold skin, revealing the black lace lingerie that he’s not surprised to see – he’s seen it countless times before in these dreams.
That’s when he knows, it is a dream, he can change it if he tries.
He sees a strand of hair covering Jenny’s face. He reaches down to gently move it and as he does so it’s suddenly no longer brunette, his heart leaps into his throat as he lets the now-blonde wisp of hair fall away from the eyes he knows so well. Buffy.
“You were born to hurt her. Have you learned nothing? As long as you’re alive…”
He spends a few moments just looking at the perfect form in front of him, the face of his beloved. He remembers the smile, the twinkle in her eyes, the non-sequiters and the love in her eyes when she looked at him. A tear forms as he realises he’ll never see that look again.
“Then I’ll die.”
“You don’t have the strength to kill yourself.”
“I don’t need strength.” He forces himself to stand and face his taunter. Jenny smiles at him. Another smile he has taken from the world. “I just need the sun to rise.”
He stands looking out at the town below him, Buffy’s with him, talking to him. He turns to her, pleads with his eyes. “I’m weak. I’ve never been anything else.” He knows this to be true but he sees her try to deny it. “It’s not the demon in me that needs killing Buffy. It’s the man.”
She talks, he tries to listen but all he hears is “If you die now, then all you ever were was a monster.”
He shakes his head; he can’t meet her eyes now. She keeps talking. “Do *not* expect me to watch and don’t expect me to mourn for you.” She turns away, the sun is rising now, he feels the glow behind him and he reaches for her.
He feels the warmth of the rising sun turn to heat turn to burn turn to pain. Still he reaches for her. The pain grows and he knows he should wake now, but he has to see her face one last time. She has her back to him, the pain is intense now, he can barely stand it. He burns from inside and still she won’t face him. He reaches out with both hands as she walks away, he wills her to turn to him, so he cansee her face one last time.
She’s too far away now, he barely sees her but still he reaches for her. The pain drives him to his knees but he won’t scream, he deserves this. His vision blurs for a moment as he sees countless faces flicker past, the faces of his victims. His past is catching up with him now and still she won’t face him.
He watches as his hands turn grey and begin to crumble before his eyes. Still she walks away. As the pain finally fades, he sees the sunrise.
“Buffy…”
The ragged breathing falters and Mark looks up from preparing the breakfast tray. He counts off the seconds waiting for the gasp as Liam took his next breath. As his count reached sixty seconds, Mark stepped towards the bed, inadvertently knocking over the snow-globe he’d put on the edge of the nightstand. The globe crashed to the hardwood floor, smashing on impact.
Liam didn’t take the next breath and as Mark checked for a pulse he realised the old man’s skin was cold to the touch. There was no pulse and Mark sighed. He’d worked for the old coot for five years now and the man had no known relatives. It looked as though Mark was out of a job.
He stepped away, intending to head downstairs to call the coroner, when he felt something crunch under his shoe. He looked down and saw the remains of the snow-globe littering the floor. His innate sense of neatness taking over, Mark bent down and began picking up the broken glass. He used the napkin from the tray to mop up the water and dumped the whole lot in the trash. Picking up the base he held it up to the light. It was a strange scene, a town with a flat-topped hill behind it, remarkable only by it’s ordinariness. Mark shrugged, with all the weird crap filling the mansion it was probably no surprise the old man had started picking up cheap tourist junk. He tossed it in the trash as well and headed out to make the calls.
On his way out of the room, he kicked a small piece of metal under the bed. It was a personalised plate that had previously been fixed to the front of the snow globe. The words were faded by years of handling, almost as though someone had run their fingers across them from time to time.
Strong is fighting, it’s hard and it’s painful and it’s every day
It’s what we have to do
And we can do it together
Buffy
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