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jedibuttercupT; B:tVS/Leverage; Buffy/Eliot; 1600 words. 3rd of Non-Traditional Traditions. For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
twistedshorts.
Buffy had already been primed to like Eliot's crew, but they'd folded her right in like she wasn't a virtual stranger.
Title: Part-Time Unretirement
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: Post-series for B:tVS; Episode 1.7 of Leverage: Redemption.
Notes: Follow-up to Going for a Slay Ride and Dating by Die Hard Rules. Because I had to take their story forward a little more. :)
Buffy had already been primed to like Eliot's crew, but they'd folded her right in like she wasn't a virtual stranger.
Most of the jobs Buffy had gone on with Eliot over the years had been small-scale affairs. Cozy little retrieval jobs for two, mostly technically with the Watcher's Council as a client. Perils of having been a creaky old organization mostly staffed by the progress-phobic: most of their assets had been kept in the London HQ before its fall... and very few of their old books had been digitized before the place went boom. And for bonus points, most of the people holding copies of those lost treasures were the kind of guys-- or demons-- that really didn't need books of prophecies or Ye Olde Dark Rituales to give them more opportunities for evil.
They were the kind of jobs best suited for the two-hitter model, though; no need for more hacking, grifting, or straight-up thieving than their own secondary skills could handle. So she'd never really seen an operation like the Leverage crew typically ran in motion from start to finish.
She'd only flown down for Thanksgiving, plus a few more days for hanging around and taking in the New Orleans vibe to relieve her boredom. (It turned out that a little over a decade and a half post Sunnydale, the rebuilt Council and their literal army of women with a cause and the strength to back it up had organized the actual Hell out of most Hellmouths. There was still a thriving supernatural underworld, of course; most of the people in it were as native to Earth as the Slayers themselves, after all. It was just a lot less overtly lawless now. Correspondingly, the type that still broke the rules tended to be a lot more dangerous-- and she wouldn't be too surprised if Wolfram and Hart was doing a thriving side business in concealment spells-- but the general frequency of people dying from barbeque-fork accidents was at an all-time low.) Dawn had taken one look at her expression after she'd picked her up at the airport afterward, though, and immediately started texting Willow.
By the time they'd reached her apartment, her messages were blowing up about the dire need for an experienced mentor at the Crescent City Council House and how she'd be setting a great example for the younger Slayers by going into semi-retirement and showing them it was actually possible. Someone, probably Xander, left a mock trophy in the training room for surviving-- loosely speaking-- twenty-five years on the job, and Faith shot down her half-hearted objections with an "It's about time. Don't worry, we got this."
Very presumptive of them. But Thanksgiving really had gone well. She'd already been primed to like Eliot's crew, but they'd folded her right in like she wasn't a virtual stranger. Eliot's affectionately exasperated stories about Parker over the years hadn't really prepared Buffy for how much she would remind her of Anya, and where she'd expected to find Sophie more mom-like, she'd instead found herself starkly missing Cordelia, wishing her old cheerleading rival had had the chance to grow into that kind of formidable maturity. Breanna was sharp as a tack, funny, and made Buffy feel as old as some of the thriving younger Slayers did, and Harry had a classic Watcher-y vibe about him, down to the ambiguously skewed moral compass and occasional culture shock-y confusion with the rest of the team's antics.
Her return to New Orleans only a couple of weeks after she'd left had gone down just about as easily. Theoretically she was now a resident of the local Council building, and all her official mail was still redirected there, but the stuff she'd had shipped had mysteriously had its address labels changed in transit. Probably Hardison meddling long-distance to put his own two cents in; she doubted Breanna would be that presumptive on Eliot's behalf. Well, and then there was the snip of phone conversation she'd overheard later, Eliot growling at someone unnamed that this ain't exactly easing her into it, man!
So. Probably not just her feeling alternately excited and a little dizzy about the zero-to-sixty-ness of it all. Exhibit B: there was a room previously used for storage on the living floor of the team's house in the French Quarter that'd been preemptively redecorated as an extra bedroom by the time she arrived. She had mixed feelings about that; the normal-girl impulses of her youth that Buffy had never quite managed to squash had felt stung that her stuff hadn't been put in Eliot's room, but the rest of her that had been quite independent and happy about it, thank you, for all the years of their intermittent sort-of relationship was very grateful for the space and the choice it represented. Not to mention the fact that exclusivity hadn't even come up yet.
All that aside, though... halfway between Thanksgiving and Christmas, she started a day with beignets in bed, followed by a few solid hours of training with the girls at the Council House, and found Sophie and Breanna at the bar with an earbud waiting for her when she wandered back to the team's hideout. It felt like a re-beginning. It felt like a cross between the early Scooby days her dramatic inner highschooler still felt nostalgic about and the best parts of her adult life, multiplying joy rather than subtracting anything from anyone.
Maybe she'd never been cookies; maybe she'd been beignets all along, and it had just taken a couple of decades for the right combination of cook, kitchen, and culinary experience to intersect.
She exchanged greetings with the girls, poured herself a tall glass of iced sweet tea, and tucked the earbud into her ear. It activated with a muted beep and a nod from Breanna, and then the team's voices started pouring directly into her ear.
The part of the conversation she'd already been privy to had included something about a tech boom and small-town police being guinea pigs; shades of the Initiative. Then Breanna said, "Parker, you have your button cam on so we can watch what happens to Eliot? We including Buffy now, just so you know."
"Wait, what-- oh, hey Buffy-- what happens to Eliot?" the gruffly familiar voice of her guy replied, his entire face and pointing finger abruptly filling the big screen on the wall.
The camera view turned away, advancing down a sidewalk, as Parker's amused voice evaded the question. "Just don't make anything happen until I get some popcorn. You ever use him as bait before, Buffy?"
The incongruity of that question being addressed to the slight blonde in the pairing rather than the compactly muscular guy apparently didn't register to Parker; Buffy grinned appreciatively. "More than you'd expect. People from my world tend to dismiss anyone with me that they don't recognize as background noise."
"Much to their regret. Though some of 'em are finally starting to catch on," Eliot agreed.
"Oooh. Notorious in multiple underworlds," Breanna cooed. "All right, Mr. Legend In His Time, since Hardison's algorithm scrubbed you off the web a long time ago, meet Mr. Emmett Milbarge." Then she pulled up an official-looking document on the screen. "There is now a fake federal bench warrant saying he committed.... Hm. What do you think, Buffy?" She cast a teasing glance over her shoulder.
Buffy made a thoughtful noise. "How about arson? Then we'd match."
"Ooh, this is a story I haven't heard," Parker chimed in, interestedly. "See? I'm not the only one who knows fire solves all problems."
"Parker, I don't think that's... wait, is this the mice with the cigarettes story?" Eliot snorted.
"Wow. That is the single lamest... I mean, that is a cover story, right?" Breanna chuckled.
"In my defense, I was sixteen! I got much better at cover stories later," Buffy defended herself.
"Not that much better. What did you say your excuse was for blowing up your high school, again?" Eliot chuckled.
"Wow," Harry put his two cents in from wherever he was. "Do any of you have friends, family, or significant others without extremely lengthy and fascinating criminally-inclined backstories? Because now I'm starting to wonder what secrets my contacts are keeping."
"You probably don't want to know," Sophie said, warmly amused. Then she nudged Breanna and pointed at the screen, and Breanna perked up, directing Eliot toward the next stage for the scene they were setting.
Buffy sipped her tea and spectated through the chaos that followed: the swift arrival of the cops, the takedown by a US Marshal who sounded a little too appreciative of Eliot's skill, and the swift digital cleanup to set the groundwork for him to be freed again.
She waited to feel anxious, or jealous, or frustrated; and when none of that happened, thought again about how bored she'd been and how much she still didn't want to be the stay-at-home girlfriend.
"So, is there a part for me in this con?" she spoke up, as the action prepared to move to the Arlo Police Department.
Sophie turned toward her, gaze shrewd and evaluative; then she smiled. "How's your Internet presence? If we have to call Parker home, Breanna could use the backup."
"Willow set up a program a long time ago that redirects every mention of us her own code doesn't erase to some fake urban fantasy TV show," Buffy shrugged. "I might get asked for autographs, but I'll trade that for getting arrested for graverobbing any day."
"Well, that's creative. And disturbing," Breanna said. "You'll have to put me in touch with her about her techniques later. You coming, then?"
Buffy set her glass down on the bartop, smiling, and went.
(x-posted on twistedshorts and on AO3)
twistedshorts.Buffy had already been primed to like Eliot's crew, but they'd folded her right in like she wasn't a virtual stranger.
Title: Part-Time Unretirement
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: Post-series for B:tVS; Episode 1.7 of Leverage: Redemption.
Notes: Follow-up to Going for a Slay Ride and Dating by Die Hard Rules. Because I had to take their story forward a little more. :)
Buffy had already been primed to like Eliot's crew, but they'd folded her right in like she wasn't a virtual stranger.
Most of the jobs Buffy had gone on with Eliot over the years had been small-scale affairs. Cozy little retrieval jobs for two, mostly technically with the Watcher's Council as a client. Perils of having been a creaky old organization mostly staffed by the progress-phobic: most of their assets had been kept in the London HQ before its fall... and very few of their old books had been digitized before the place went boom. And for bonus points, most of the people holding copies of those lost treasures were the kind of guys-- or demons-- that really didn't need books of prophecies or Ye Olde Dark Rituales to give them more opportunities for evil.
They were the kind of jobs best suited for the two-hitter model, though; no need for more hacking, grifting, or straight-up thieving than their own secondary skills could handle. So she'd never really seen an operation like the Leverage crew typically ran in motion from start to finish.
She'd only flown down for Thanksgiving, plus a few more days for hanging around and taking in the New Orleans vibe to relieve her boredom. (It turned out that a little over a decade and a half post Sunnydale, the rebuilt Council and their literal army of women with a cause and the strength to back it up had organized the actual Hell out of most Hellmouths. There was still a thriving supernatural underworld, of course; most of the people in it were as native to Earth as the Slayers themselves, after all. It was just a lot less overtly lawless now. Correspondingly, the type that still broke the rules tended to be a lot more dangerous-- and she wouldn't be too surprised if Wolfram and Hart was doing a thriving side business in concealment spells-- but the general frequency of people dying from barbeque-fork accidents was at an all-time low.) Dawn had taken one look at her expression after she'd picked her up at the airport afterward, though, and immediately started texting Willow.
By the time they'd reached her apartment, her messages were blowing up about the dire need for an experienced mentor at the Crescent City Council House and how she'd be setting a great example for the younger Slayers by going into semi-retirement and showing them it was actually possible. Someone, probably Xander, left a mock trophy in the training room for surviving-- loosely speaking-- twenty-five years on the job, and Faith shot down her half-hearted objections with an "It's about time. Don't worry, we got this."
Very presumptive of them. But Thanksgiving really had gone well. She'd already been primed to like Eliot's crew, but they'd folded her right in like she wasn't a virtual stranger. Eliot's affectionately exasperated stories about Parker over the years hadn't really prepared Buffy for how much she would remind her of Anya, and where she'd expected to find Sophie more mom-like, she'd instead found herself starkly missing Cordelia, wishing her old cheerleading rival had had the chance to grow into that kind of formidable maturity. Breanna was sharp as a tack, funny, and made Buffy feel as old as some of the thriving younger Slayers did, and Harry had a classic Watcher-y vibe about him, down to the ambiguously skewed moral compass and occasional culture shock-y confusion with the rest of the team's antics.
Her return to New Orleans only a couple of weeks after she'd left had gone down just about as easily. Theoretically she was now a resident of the local Council building, and all her official mail was still redirected there, but the stuff she'd had shipped had mysteriously had its address labels changed in transit. Probably Hardison meddling long-distance to put his own two cents in; she doubted Breanna would be that presumptive on Eliot's behalf. Well, and then there was the snip of phone conversation she'd overheard later, Eliot growling at someone unnamed that this ain't exactly easing her into it, man!
So. Probably not just her feeling alternately excited and a little dizzy about the zero-to-sixty-ness of it all. Exhibit B: there was a room previously used for storage on the living floor of the team's house in the French Quarter that'd been preemptively redecorated as an extra bedroom by the time she arrived. She had mixed feelings about that; the normal-girl impulses of her youth that Buffy had never quite managed to squash had felt stung that her stuff hadn't been put in Eliot's room, but the rest of her that had been quite independent and happy about it, thank you, for all the years of their intermittent sort-of relationship was very grateful for the space and the choice it represented. Not to mention the fact that exclusivity hadn't even come up yet.
All that aside, though... halfway between Thanksgiving and Christmas, she started a day with beignets in bed, followed by a few solid hours of training with the girls at the Council House, and found Sophie and Breanna at the bar with an earbud waiting for her when she wandered back to the team's hideout. It felt like a re-beginning. It felt like a cross between the early Scooby days her dramatic inner highschooler still felt nostalgic about and the best parts of her adult life, multiplying joy rather than subtracting anything from anyone.
Maybe she'd never been cookies; maybe she'd been beignets all along, and it had just taken a couple of decades for the right combination of cook, kitchen, and culinary experience to intersect.
She exchanged greetings with the girls, poured herself a tall glass of iced sweet tea, and tucked the earbud into her ear. It activated with a muted beep and a nod from Breanna, and then the team's voices started pouring directly into her ear.
The part of the conversation she'd already been privy to had included something about a tech boom and small-town police being guinea pigs; shades of the Initiative. Then Breanna said, "Parker, you have your button cam on so we can watch what happens to Eliot? We including Buffy now, just so you know."
"Wait, what-- oh, hey Buffy-- what happens to Eliot?" the gruffly familiar voice of her guy replied, his entire face and pointing finger abruptly filling the big screen on the wall.
The camera view turned away, advancing down a sidewalk, as Parker's amused voice evaded the question. "Just don't make anything happen until I get some popcorn. You ever use him as bait before, Buffy?"
The incongruity of that question being addressed to the slight blonde in the pairing rather than the compactly muscular guy apparently didn't register to Parker; Buffy grinned appreciatively. "More than you'd expect. People from my world tend to dismiss anyone with me that they don't recognize as background noise."
"Much to their regret. Though some of 'em are finally starting to catch on," Eliot agreed.
"Oooh. Notorious in multiple underworlds," Breanna cooed. "All right, Mr. Legend In His Time, since Hardison's algorithm scrubbed you off the web a long time ago, meet Mr. Emmett Milbarge." Then she pulled up an official-looking document on the screen. "There is now a fake federal bench warrant saying he committed.... Hm. What do you think, Buffy?" She cast a teasing glance over her shoulder.
Buffy made a thoughtful noise. "How about arson? Then we'd match."
"Ooh, this is a story I haven't heard," Parker chimed in, interestedly. "See? I'm not the only one who knows fire solves all problems."
"Parker, I don't think that's... wait, is this the mice with the cigarettes story?" Eliot snorted.
"Wow. That is the single lamest... I mean, that is a cover story, right?" Breanna chuckled.
"In my defense, I was sixteen! I got much better at cover stories later," Buffy defended herself.
"Not that much better. What did you say your excuse was for blowing up your high school, again?" Eliot chuckled.
"Wow," Harry put his two cents in from wherever he was. "Do any of you have friends, family, or significant others without extremely lengthy and fascinating criminally-inclined backstories? Because now I'm starting to wonder what secrets my contacts are keeping."
"You probably don't want to know," Sophie said, warmly amused. Then she nudged Breanna and pointed at the screen, and Breanna perked up, directing Eliot toward the next stage for the scene they were setting.
Buffy sipped her tea and spectated through the chaos that followed: the swift arrival of the cops, the takedown by a US Marshal who sounded a little too appreciative of Eliot's skill, and the swift digital cleanup to set the groundwork for him to be freed again.
She waited to feel anxious, or jealous, or frustrated; and when none of that happened, thought again about how bored she'd been and how much she still didn't want to be the stay-at-home girlfriend.
"So, is there a part for me in this con?" she spoke up, as the action prepared to move to the Arlo Police Department.
Sophie turned toward her, gaze shrewd and evaluative; then she smiled. "How's your Internet presence? If we have to call Parker home, Breanna could use the backup."
"Willow set up a program a long time ago that redirects every mention of us her own code doesn't erase to some fake urban fantasy TV show," Buffy shrugged. "I might get asked for autographs, but I'll trade that for getting arrested for graverobbing any day."
"Well, that's creative. And disturbing," Breanna said. "You'll have to put me in touch with her about her techniques later. You coming, then?"
Buffy set her glass down on the bartop, smiling, and went.
(x-posted on twistedshorts and on AO3)
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