The Centre Cannot Hold
by Kirayoshi
Turning and Turning
[reviews]
Disclaimers; Joss and Mutant Enemy created the Buffy stuff for 20th Century Fox. The Pretender is owned by NBC and TNT right now, to the best of my knowledge.
Rating; PG-13 to R
Spoilers; This is an Alternate Universe, set just after "Goodbye Iowa".
Author's note; Rather than bog down the plotline with a generic subplot about Buffy and Willow finding themselves and each other, I'm writing them as already together as the story starts. And Tara's not in this story. In this universe, she's already got a girl, she's happy, she and Willow are friends, let's just leave her alone. 'Kay?
Distribution; Ask first. I've got a big enough ego, I'm likely to say yes.
Feedback; It's the cherry on the cake of my writing. JDMeans@aol.com
Summary; He's not a Watcher, but he knows more about what's going on in Sunnydale than even the Council. His name is Jarod.
The Centre Cannot Hold
by Kirayoshi
Chapter One
Turning and Turning
Oh-oh, yes I'm the great pretender
Pretending that I'm doing well
My need is such I pretend too much
I'm lonely but no one can tell
Oh-oh, yes I'm the great pretender
Adrift in a world of my own
I've played the game but to my real shame
You've left me to grieve all alone
Too real is this feeling of make-believe
Too real when I feel what my heart can't conceal
Yes I'm the great pretender
Just laughin' and gay like a clown
I seem to be what I'm not, you see
I'm wearing my heart like a crown
Pretending that you're still around
--The Platters
"The Great Pretender"
Sacremento, California
Why do I even bother?
The thought ran unbidden in her head for the thousandth time as she, Sydney, Broots and a pair of sweepers burst into the hotel room. Before even entering the room, her ever-present Smith and Wesson .44 cocked and ready, Miss Parker knew what she would find; a red notebook, some sort of esoteric clue, an immaculately cleaned hotel room and no sign of the quarry.
Sure enough, set upon a twin bed whose sheets were tucked in so smartly she could have bounced a quarter off of the bed was a handsome wooden chest, the familiar red notebook leaning against it. "Miss Parker," the sweeper on her left said sternly, "I'd advise caution. Maybe we should get a hazmat team to look at that chest."
"Please," Miss Parker rolled her eyes as she approached the box. "He is many things, most of them annoying, but he's no killer." She grabbed the notebook, and glanced at the newspaper clipping sandwiched inside the pages; "SLUMLORD CHARGED WITH RUNNING SLAVE LABOR RING". She skimmed down the story, reading how a tenement manager had forced the immigrants who had lived in his run-down building to work at slave wages in conditions that could charitably be described as appalling, until the police found him in his own sweatshop, chained to a sewing machine table. Typical, she thought. As always, he was fighting for the innocents, against those in power. She then reached for the box and felt the warm smoothly polished maple as she lifted the lid. She scowled as she saw the chest's contents; a crude wooden stake and a cellular phone.
Two seconds after she caught sight of the phone it started to ring. "His sense of the theatrical is as strong as ever," Sydney observed, his voice carrying a faint edge of paternal pride. Miss Parker shot him a glower that would curdle milk at ten paces and grabbed the cellular from the chest.
"Broots," she barked at the balding computer expert, "front and center."
"I'm all over it," Broots answered, anticipating Miss Parker's orders before she could give them. Broots pulled his laptop computer out of his backpack, and connected an audio jack from the laptop to the cellular.
Miss Parker opened the phone and held it up to her porcelain face. "What now, Jarod?" she barked into the phone.
"Welcome to the Hotel California!" the familiar voice of her prey announced from his end of the connection. "Such a lovely place, such a lovely face."
Miss Parker scowled into the phone. "I'm surprised, Jarod. After six years away from the Centre, I figure you would have discovered the Eagles long before now."
"Actually," Jarod replied in cheerful tones, "I discovered them my first year outside. I just never had the opportunity to spring that song on you until today."
Miss Parker shook her head in dismay. "Just cut to the chase, Jarod," she growled. "What's the game this time?"
"The game?" Jarod quizzed knowingly. "It's the same ol' game we've played since day one; I run, you chase. And I for one am getting tired of it. Aren't you?"
"We play the roles we're given, Jarod."
"No, Miss Parker," Jarod answered, his tone less playful and more serious. "You follow the orders you were given. I play the roles I see fit. I'll only return to the Centre on my terms. I just wanted to warn you."
"Warn me?" Miss Parker's eyebrow raised.
"There's a storm coming, Miss Parker. One hell of a storm. And there's going to be fallout. If I were you, I'd seek cover."
Miss Parker pondered his words for a second before she continued the line of argument. "Are you saying I'm in danger?"
"I'm saying that you're as much a prisoner of the Centre as I was," Jarod answered. "You, Sydney, Broots, you're all prisoners. But you have always held the keys to your cages in your hands. You can escape the lies, the deceits, the labyrinth of ploys and counter-ploys, any time you want. All you have to do is show some initiative."
"You realize," Miss Parker intoned, "that even a cellular call can be traced."
"I do realize that," Miss Parker could envision Jarod's smile as he spoke. "And you'll probably find my phone. But, as the Eagles put it, I'm already gone." The phone crackled for a second as the line went dead.
Jarod tossed the cellular he was using into a nearby trashcan and strolled away, toward a waiting motorcycle. He smiled inwardly, imagining Miss Parker chewing bricks at having lost him again. He was always of two minds regarding the constant game he played with Miss Parker. On the one hand, he had no intention of letting Miss Parker or anyone else drag him back to the Centre as a prisoner. On the other hand, he knew Miss Parker. She was one of his few friends growing up under the Centre's care. He knew that her iron bitch act was just that, an act. For a brief moment last month when they were trapped in an Irish convent during that terrible storm, she let her guard down and let herself be herself in front of Jarod.
But he couldn't let whatever affection he felt for Miss Parker deter him from his mission. The Centre was on the move, he knew that much. He knew from the last time he hacked the Centre's mainframe that large amounts of Centre funds and manpower were recently diverted to a small town in California, specifically to a quasi-military organization currently located there. The more he read about this so-called Initiative, the more he disbelieved. He had to see this Initiative in action for himself.
So he secretly visited the small California town of Sunnydale.
He assumed the identity of Jarod Oswald, a security officer on the campus of U. C. Sunnydale, and patrolled the campus at night. He maintained his anonymity and observed the nocturnal activity on campus. What he saw chilled his blood more thoroughly as anything he had ever witnessed. He saw men and women with yellow eyes, ridged bony faces and fangs, people who attacked and murdered the unsuspecting for their blood. The only word that could apply was 'vampire'.
He saw members of this Initiative, camouflage-clad soldiers who fought these monsters, collaring them and carting them off into trucks, presumably for interment or efficient destruction. As much as he loathed the idea of needless killing, Jarod was forced to accept that these monsters were not anything that could be called human.
He saw more than just these vampires. He saw monsters, demons with ram's horns curling from their foreheads and murder in their coal-black hearts. He felt the panic shared by the rest of the town when, a few weeks ago, he had inexplicably lost his voice for one terrifying day.
All these things he witnessed firsthand.
And he witnessed one more thing.
One night, shortly before he left to deal with the slave-ring in Sacramento, he strolled toward a campus espresso stand for a cup of coffee. As he walked, he found his attention drawn to the scenery around him; the turning colors of the leaves, the deep purples and reds of the dusk sky. In one split-second, he neglected to pay attention to his immediate surroundings. One second was all it took for a vampire to attack him. He held his own defensively, remembering the fighting skills he taught himself during a past Pretend as a martial arts instructor. But his opponent's attacks were relentless. His arms scraped harshly as they raked his flesh. And he was tiring, while his opponent wasn't. Jarod knew it was only a matter of time before either a miracle occurred or the vampire butchered him.
Fortunately for Jarod, the former happened. A miracle, in the form of a small blond young woman flew over his head, colliding with his attacker and sending the beast sprawling gracelessly on the sidewalk. "Get away!" the blond shouted, and Jarod complied, quickly ducking behind a park bench. From the vantage point behind the bench, Jarod witnessed as his rescuer faced off against the monster. Before the battle began, the vampire spat out one word; "Slayer!"
The battle was incredibly lop-sided. The young woman knew exactly where to hit, where to kick, and when to close in for the kill. Within seconds, she flipped the vampire onto his back, ground her knee into his gut to pin him down, and drove a wooden stake into his heart. The vampire exploded in a shower of ash and dust, which the young woman dusted off of her cargo pants as she stood up again. Jarod was able to disappear from behind the bench before the woman could see him. But the memory of the strange battle lingered with him.
During some off-moments as he was compiling the case against the slumlord, Jarod attempted to learn more about this 'slayer'. His web-searches tended to be fruitless; he uncovered hundreds of fan sites for a heavy-metal hair band, several survivalist organizations and a few fetishist sites that caused him to blush crimson.
It was only when he hacked into the Centre computers again (utilizing a 'backdoor' he had secretly installed into Sydney's office computer years ago that the fatherly psychiatrist had neglected to uninstall) that his searches bore fruit. The Centre evidently had certain connections to an organization in England called The Council of Watchers. Once he knew where to look, the information he required practically fell into his lap.
He downloaded file after file, pages of ancient tomes scanned into computer data or entered as text. He discovered the strange, sad destiny of the Slayer. The one girl in the entire world who was destined to fight against the dark forces in the world unto the moment of her death.
Jarod gasped in horror as he read how one Slayer in every hundred ever lived to see her twenty-fifth birthday. He shook with rage as he learned the details of the Cruciamentum. And he cheered quietly when he read about the woman who saved his life, the current Slayer, Buffy Anne Summers. He read the journals of Senior Watcher Quentin Travers, and his impressions of her attitude, his detailing of her numerous offenses against the Council. "You go girl," he whispered.
The more he read about Travers' distaste for Buffy Summers, the more Jarod liked her. Here was a girl who didn't suffer fools gladly, who refused to say "Yessir, how high?" when men in power said "Jump." She defended the weak against those who prey on the weak every night of her life. In Jarod's eyes, she was a kindred spirit.
Once his business in Sacramento was concluded, he began the process of assimilating this information. In a non-descript hotel somewhere off of Interstate 5, he finished his exhaustive research on the Slayer and the Watchers. He absorbed every word, reading and re-reading every file until he could recite chapter and verse of the Watcher's Handbook. Within a week, he was ready. He knew all he needed to know to create a new persona, a new Pretend.
He pulled a Pez dispenser out of his pocket and pulled back the plastic snowman head, popping a small orange-flavored candy into his mouth as he regarded his slightly altered appearance in the mirror; the navy blue cable-knit sweater, a faint dusting of gray in his hair and a pair of what the optometrist had called 'John Lennon' glasses. "Showtime," he said to his reflection.
Willow opened her eyes lazily, stretching like a languid cat on her side of the bed (technically her dorm bed, before she and Buffy pushed the beds together last week) to greet the morning. Her right arm strayed toward the other side of the bed, only to feel a still-warm indentation where her lover should have been. "Buffy?" she called out as she sat up, her heartbeat increasing its tempo as a thousand possibilities flashed before her mind's eye.
Before Willow could spring out of her bed to begin searching for Buffy, the door to their dorm opened, and the errant Slayer entered, precariously balancing a box of donuts and two grande mochas. Placing her parcels on the desk, she turned her head toward the bed, only to be greeted by Willow's most impenetrable scowl. "Oh, hi Willow," Buffy smiled, walking toward the bed and leaning forward to kiss Willow's lips. Before the desired contact, Willow growled slightly, causing Buffy to back away.
"Sorry, babe," Buffy spoke, slightly mollified. "I should have left a post-it or something, I know, my bad. I thought I could sneak out, grab some donuts and mochas and get back before you wake."
"Buffy," Willow shook her head in dismay, "you know very well that I rarely sleep in past eight."
"That's why I set my alarm for seven," Buffy explained. "I just wanted to surprise you. Y'know, do something nice, breakfast in bed. I mean, that's what couples do, isn't it?"
Willow's scowl slowly softened into a lover's smile, and she patted the side of the bed, motioning for Buffy to sit next to her. "Yeah, it is actually. Book of Love, chapter 3, paragraph 12. 'Breakfast in bed is always a good idea'."
"Is there an actual book?" Buffy quizzed as she sat next to Willow and handed her a mocha, kissing the tip of her nose. "I'd hate to think I've been winging it all this time."
"Don't worry, honey," Willow cuddled up to Buffy. Her free hand slowly traced lazy designs on Buffy's neck, causing the blond to lean into her hand, relishing the electric touch of her fingers. "You're doing fine so far. I'm happier now than I've been in a very long time."
"Me too," Buffy smiled joyously, taking a sip of her mocha, and reaching for the donut box. She took a chocolate cream-filled donut and held it in front of Willow's face. Willow opened her mouth eagerly, and Buffy fed the donut to Willow. "I'm just afraid of screwing things up. I mean, this is definitely a first for me."
Willow arched an eyebrow teasingly, "You mean the part about us being a gay couple? That's a first for me too, y'know."
"No, not that," Buffy answered quickly, only to see Willow glower teasingly at her. "Is there something you'd like to share with the class, Miss Summers?" she purred.
"No, no, that's not what I meant," Buffy backpedaled furiously, cringing slightly as Willow chuckled throatily. "I mean, yeah the having-sex-with-a-girl thing is new. And, may I add before I get kicked off the bed, better than I've ever had with a guy. But what's really new for me is, well, after sex. The cuddling, the pillow talk, the whole thing about still being together after the deed is first done. I never had that before. I mean, first Angel, then Parker. Both over as soon as they started really."
Willow sensed Buffy's gradual mood-shift, and cupped Buffy's chin with the knuckle of her forefinger, lifting Buffy's head so it was level with her own. It pained her to see Buffy grappling with her insecurities, and she instinctively felt the need to assuage her lover. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere, Buffy," Willow vowed gently. "I'm here with you now. And it's not because Oz bailed, and it's not because Tara was already spoken for, and it's not because we were lonely and on the rebound. It's because you hold the key to my heart. You're my everything, Buffy. I love you." Willow leaned in slowly, claiming Buffy's lips with her own in a gentle kiss, sweet and loving in and of itself, but with a promise of passion. "And I plan on reminding you of that fact every day."
"I love you too, Willow," Buffy breathed, amazed as always at the truth of her statement. "You're the world to me. Just promise me that you'll let me get used to this whole relationship idea. It's uncharted waters for me, but I'm liking it so far."
"Me too, Buffy," Willow smiled. She glanced into Buffy's eyes, still sensing the sadness within. "Is there something else, Buffy?"
Buffy nodded solemnly. "I just got word from Graham," she answered. "The good news is that Riley's expected to make a full recovery from ADAM's attack. The bad news is that, once he recovers, he'll be asking for me."
"And you want to let him down easy," Willow sighed knowingly.
"I don't want to hurt him," Buffy admitted. "But you're the one I love, not him. I can't lie to him anymore. I have to tell him about us."
"I understand," Willow answered warmly. "Don't worry 'bout it, babe. He'll recover from it."
"I hope," Buffy agreed. She was still apprehensive about telling Riley about her new relationship with Willow, but she had no regrets about how things turned out. When she learned that Riley, under the influence of the drugs that the Initiative had been force-feeding him, had attacked Willow, whatever affection she felt for him had disappeared. Once she realized how much her relationship with Riley, and her involvement with the Initiative, had hurt her best friend, she vowed to make it up to Willow. The night after her first confrontation with ADAM, she and Willow went to the Bronze together, and for the first time in months opened their hearts to each other.
Buffy wasn't certain when and how it happened, but when Willow asked her to dance she couldn't refuse. Their closeness on the dance-floor felt natural, and she heard her heartbeat against Willow's, amplified by the music from the stage. Willow's eyes stared intently into Buffy's, hooded with desire, radiating fire. Buffy found herself falling into those emerald irises, feeling Willow's heat and sharing it. "I want to kiss you so bad," she whispered hotly into Willow's ear.
"Good," Willow purred, leaning closer against Buffy, feeling every inch of the Slayer's muscular body. "I thought I was the only one. The question is, what are you gonna do about it?"
Buffy was amazed that Willow would dare her so openly. Amazement gave way to desire as she saw the expression of pure adoration on Willow's face. "Dorm," she stated. "Now." Willow nodded rapidly, a canary-swallowing grin plastered on her face.
The fifteen minutes it took Buffy and Willow to run to their dorm were the longest fifteen minutes in Buffy's life. It took all of her willpower to keep herself from ravishing Willow in the Bronze parking lot, in the campus plaza and in front of their dorm room. The second the two girls entered the dorm, Buffy intended to attack Willow, claming the redhead's lips with her own. But before she could even flick on the light switch, Willow threw her body on top of Buffy's, knocking her to the floor as she rained kisses on her cheeks, nose and lips. Buffy didn't remember exactly how and when her clothing was divested, but she was more interested in the warm, clinging, naked body that caressed every square inch of her skin, bringing her to ever higher plateaus of ecstasy.
The next morning, Buffy and Willow moved their two beds together and spent most of the day in their shared bed, exploring their newly defined relationship. For the following week, they had lived alone in their own private world, what Willow called 'their honeymoon period'. But now, the honeymoon was coming to an end.
"I have to tell him," Buffy told Willow. "I can't keep this from Riley. He deserves to know the truth."
Willow placed her mocha on her nightstand, and held Buffy gently in her arms. "You're right. We shouldn't keep this from the others. Tomorrow, when we visit Giles and figure out what's going on with Adam, we should tell them."
Buffy nodded ruefully. "You're right, Will. Given my track record with keeping secrets, I should know better than to keep this, keep us, a secret."
"Yeah," Willow smiled warmly. "But it was nice while it lasted, y'know? It was like I had something that was truly unique. Something that was, well, mine."
"I am, you know," Buffy assured Willow, placing a lingering kiss on the wiccan's lips. "Yours." She kissed her again, then again, each grin more urgent and passionate than the last. Willow gave in to her lovers kisses, and molded her body to Buffy, her arms wrapped around the Slayer's shoulders, her lips fused to Buffy's in a searing kiss. Buffy responded to Willow's mounting passion with her own and the two young lovers fell back onto the bed, their hands fumbling to remove pajamas and caress flesh.
Their mochas grew cold, but they didn't mind.
Rupert Giles had just returned from his morning constitutional and was preparing for breakfast. As he turned on the burner under his tea kettle and cracked some eggs in a bowl, he took a moment to revel in the fact that his unwanted houseguest had finally departed. Spike, still helpless from that chip the Initiative had installed in his brain ("I'm amazed they could find it," Giles could almost hear Xander quip), had finally worn out his welcome with his constant complaining; either the stereo was too loud, or the guest room was too drafty or his microwaved blood packets weren't warm enough. Giles finally grew fed up with Spike's constant bellyaching and booted him out of his house two nights ago, and Willow was more than happy to perform an 'uninvite' ritual to keep Spike away for good.
Giles reveled in the silence as he prepared a hot cup of Earl Grey to go with his Spanish omelet. He needed the quiet to concentrate. ADAM, the nightmarish offspring of demon and technology summoned into being by the late, unlamented Maggie Walsh, was biding his time, learning, growing, evolving. But he and Buffy both knew that ADAM would make his move, and soon. And no doubt Sunnydale, if not the world, would suffer if he succeeded. They needed strategies against this new threat, and quickly.
Giles decided that perhaps some music would aid in his cognitive processes. He pulled an old guitar out of the hallway closet and located some sheet music he had recently purchased of Eric Clapton's "Let it Rain". As he began to tune his guitar strings, he heard a knock at the door. Placing the guitar on the sofa for the time being, Giles answered the door.
A tall young man with wavy brown hair and deeply chiseled features stood on his porch, a knowing smile on his face. "Pardon me, sir," the young man said. "I'm looking for a Rupert Giles."
"You found him," Giles answered levelly.
The young man's smile grew wider. "Wow," he breathed, "this is an honor, sir. I've read so much about your history with the Council—"
"Please come in," Giles said hurriedly, grabbing the young man's arm and dragging him quickly into his house. As he shut the door, he said, "Be careful, man! The general populous does not know about the Council, or the Hellmouth or vampires, and I'd prefer to keep it that way!"
"I apologize," the young man answered. "I was just excited at meeting you for the first time. Especially after reading Mr. Travers' journal entries."
Giles harrumphed sardonically. "Somehow I doubt that. I didn't think Quentin though so highly of me."
"Actually he doesn't," the younger man answered. "But I don't think that highly of him. And any man he regards that poorly is a man I want on my side."
"Ah," Giles answered, slightly flummoxed. "I'm sure there's a compliment in there somewhere. Uh, I assume that you are a Watcher, Mr..."
"Oh, sorry," the young man smiled, extending his hand. "I forgot to introduce myself. Jarod Witherspoon, formerly of the Watchers' Council, at your service."