buffy tee

Fic: Too Close To Hide

Art by foxfire141

Title: Too Close To Hide

Disclaimer: Neither worlds (that of Warehouse 13 and Buffy the Vampire Slayer) belong to me. But oh boy if they did… Title is a line taken from Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like The Wolf”.

A/N: In which Redlance finally decides to delve into that Buffy AU she’s been thinking about for a million years now. Because of course that’s something that needs to happen. Accompanying art by m’lady, who is nice enough to humour me. ;)

~*~

She’s being followed. Stalked. She can feel it, taste it in the air. She doesn’t need to see them to know that they’re there, not that she could right now anyway. This corner of the north west cemetery has no lighting and blackness blankets everything for the next few yards in all directions. But the dark hasn’t frightened her since she was five and she has all the security she needs in the inside pocket of her jacket. So, she takes her time. Strolling by crypts and in between headstones, in no rush to be anywhere else.

She knows that she should be a LITTLE afraid, disturbed at the very least by the eyes she can feel burning into the back of her neck, but she isn’t. Annoyed maybe, perhaps secretly smug over the idea that she knew they were there and yet they did not know that she knew, but she was none of the things she thought she should be. That Artie would expect her to be and Pete wished she would. It isn’t as if she doesn’t know what she’s doing though. She CAN take care of herself, handle herself, against the various ‘creatures of the night’.


A familiar sound derails her train of thought; that of turf being torn apart. A thick, dull ripping sound that had her stepping out from the shadows and moving in the direction of it, a slight spring to her step that she would never admit to being there. Other noises rise to meet her as she grows closer, all recognised, all anticipated. The grunting, the growls, the rough scrape of fingers clawing at earth. 

And then she sees him. 

At least, she thinks it’s a him. He pulls himself free from the soil using thickly muscled arms and shoulders so wide she didn’t think there was a doorway in all of Sunnydale that he’d be able to fit through. Then he’s standing and the real question mark pops into view. 

“Really?” She asks, tilting her head to one side and wrinkling her nose in distaste. “A dress?” Fire engine red and so tight on him he was almost bursting through the seams at his thighs, it looked like something Kelly Hernandez might wear to catch her latest victim at The Bronze on a Saturday night. It’s beyond comical, Pete would die laughing, but at least his boobs look good in it. She drops her voice to a stage whisper. “Was this what you requested? Because I mean, with your complexion now I’d have gone with a pale blue.” She waves a hand at him and then folds her arms over her chest with a shrug. “It’s totally your prerogative of course, that’s just my two cents.” He doesn’t give her any direct indication that he’s heard her, only growls low in his throat as he shifts his shoulders. Arms hanging, ready to pounce. 

“Slayer.” They always sound so disgusted, their voice a gravelly hiss, and she has no idea why. She doesn’t think she’s that bad a sight to wake up to. 

“You know,” she says with a sigh as she reaches into her jacket, righteous indignation lifting her eyebrows towards her hairline, “I DO have a name.” He lunges with a snarl and then he’s running. She snaps into a fighting stance, her ‘security’ wrapped in her right hand and waiting ready at her hip. The moonlight catches his fangs and sinks into the creases above his eyes.

Those ‘creatures of the night’? Not a metaphor.

She ducks around him easily, spinning into a kick at the last moment that sends him sprawling over a headstone. 

“It’s not like I’m asking people to remember all the prime numbers or something.” She watches him get back to his feet, twirling the wooden stake between her fingers. “Just because I can doesn’t mean everyone else can. But it’s just a name. Not even my full name! And you already come up knowing who I am and with this innate sense of loathing, is it that hard to throw my name in there somewhere?” He’s up and turning back to her now and it’s usually around this point that she finds herself contemplating the fact that vampires no loner have the ability to blush and honestly? She laments the loss. She’d love to see them well and truly embarrassed by a teenager with a pointy stick. 

“Shut up!” He grunts in his harsh, gravelly voice and she jerks back, offended, as he runs at her again.

“Rude.” He clears the headstone in one smooth leap and manages to get to her without tripping over his newly de-souled feet. She brings her left forearm up to block his punch and uses her right to wind up and throw one of her own against the side of his face. She feels the bone beneath her fist give and split under the force, can feel the stake still held in that hand vibrate and he stumbles back, looking surprised. “What? You think I can’t throw a punch because I’m a girl? Sexist, much. You said it yourself. Slayer,” she points to herself with her weapon and then slowly, points it at him, “slayee.” He doesn’t like that and the snarl that twists his face just makes her smile. He lashes out again but she blocks everything he throws at her, even the surprisingly well executed kick to her head. Newborns aren’t usually all that well coordinated while they’re still fresh. And in that dress to boot. She does manage to catch his foot though, pushing back and up and sending him down. He’s on his back for maybe two seconds before she’s on him, straddling his hips, the tip of her stake snagging the material of the dress. Then she pulls her arm back and strikes.

She feels it, the way the stake pierces dead flesh like a fork into raw meat and sink in perfectly between his ribs. Touches his heart. There’s a moment where he stares up at her, mouth parted and turned down in surprised disappointment. 

“Aww fu-” And then he’s gone, erupting into a ploom of dust or ash or whatever it is that she still can’t get out of some of her clothes. Her body sags a little once the shape of him is gone from beneath her and she blows an errant curl out of her eyes. 

“FYI, it’s Myka." 

After a few seconds she stands and brushes her pants off with a frown and a grown of derision. Muttering to herself, she turns back to where the vampire had crawled from his grave and starts off in that direction. 

She hasn’t gone far when she feels it again. A heavy gaze, watching, stalking. Waiting. Closer now, having grown bold in the interim, and Myka feels the presence like an arcing electric current. It runs along her spine and lifts the hair on the back of her neck. Her pulse pounds harder, suddenly rocketing past the once matched pace of her footsteps and her fingers won’t stop flexing. 

It almost catches her off guard. A little thing, a glimmer of movement at the side of another crypt. Then she’s the one lunging, reaching into the shadows and wrapping her free hand around cool flesh. She pulls her stalker towards her and forcibly swings them around until she can shove them against the cold stone front of the crypt. There comes a groan that sounds too pleased to be pained and it’s in a higher octave than the ones she had just silence. Dark eyes that glitter eerily under the light of the moon lock with her own and yank something from the pit of her stomach to the middle of her throat. She pushes herself to swallow past it and tightens the hand that’s squeezing the life out of the vampire before her. 

Well. Figuratively speaking, of course.

Her stake is up again, the tip parting the sides of a shirt the top buttons of which have been left undone, and is a hair away from pressing against skin. Slender fingers are wrapped around Myka’s wrist and the coldness of the touch seems to sink into her veins. Makes her shiver. Pale pink lips part and curve into a sly smile and Myka grits her teeth against what’s coming.

"Myka,” the vampire purrs and it’s the accent that gets her. The way the woman says her name it’s something to be worshipped. Or moaned. She isn’t sure which is worse. “Seems we’re forever destined to meet at stakepoint.”