deep_red_bells: ([Slayer] Weapon)

"The last act is bloody, however fine the rest of the play. They throw earth over your head and it is finished forever." - Blaise Pascal

Even though Hank was home and well on the mend and Claire had gone back to the Hamptons, Baileigh lingered for a bit longer in Nevada; the crisis wasn’t over, her extended family needed her, and there was an incubus that needed his ass beat. She knew, despite her protests to the contrary, that she wasn’t going to be able to directly deliver the beating, but it was shockingly easy to slip back into the roll of the captain, to sit in the library with the witches, the Watchers and Spike and formulate a game plan.

“I still don’t see why we can’t head up a direct assault,” she was arguing with Terry when the front doorbell rang. “Yes, I know there are human beings involved, and they’re under Nahuel’s thrall, but my God, they’re still human, we can find some non-lethal ways of getting them out of the way.”

It’s not that simple, Baileigh,,” Terry sighed. “Kill him and you break the thrall. Break the thrall, and there is no telling how it’ll affect whoever he has under his control. Including Amelia. We can’t risk it.

Baileigh winced and shot a quick glance at Spike before tightening her jaw. “He needs to die.”

Ain’t nobody fucking arguing with that, Bee,” Cain grumbled, somewhat calmer now that he knew his daughter wasn‘t fighting for her life, but still plenty murderous. “I also ain’t saying I disagree. For fuck’s sake, Tati--”

“I’m working on it.” The little blonde witch was too tired to inject anymore venom in her tone, but she did manage to glare at Cain from over the top of her book.

“Back off, big bro,” Juliana drawled in warning, a little fed up with the constant snarls tossed in their direction as well. “Magic ain’t easy or simple. You rush a complex spell, you get disaster--will somebody answer the goddamned door?!”

“I’ll get it. God knows we’re not getting anywhere in here.” Petty of her, probably, but they were all on edge, and she was cranky.

She was retired, for Christ’s sake. The Powers needed to give her a break.

The kitchen smelled of some sort of potion and chocolate chip cookies; separately, pleasant scents, but in combination, fairly revolting, and the assault on her hypersensitive nose did nothing to improve her mood as she passed through to answer the door. The person waiting on the other side was a boy, dark haired and young and thoroughly unfamiliar. “Can I help you?” she asked, unable to muster up much of a smile but refraining from open hostility, at least.

“Hi.” He smiled, boyish and charming. “I’m a friend of Hank’s--we went to school together, before she moved--I heard she was home from the hospital, can I come in?”

“No.” She raised an eyebrow as he blinked at her tactlessness--invitations weren’t something they were free with in this house, and she didn’t feel like dancing around it. “Hank was tight with all of three people at that crappy high school, and you are so not one of them, so who the hell are you and what do you--”

“Who is it?”

It was a stupid mistake. She turned her head a fraction of an inch to answer Madison. She never should’ve taken her eyes off of him. If she’d looked away completely, if she’d been even a little less cautious, she never would’ve seen the knife.

Deeply ingrained instinct took over completely, compensating for the extra weight she carried around her middle and her lack of balance--someone was attacking her, and she had to stop them. She moved out of the way of the switchblade’s thrust, and her fingers closed tightly around the wrist of the arm holding the weapon. Her palm smashed against his elbow, and she felt the bone snap. She didn’t hear the knife drop, or the boy cry out, or Madison scream, over the roar in her ears. She jerked his arm and brought her elbow up, smashing his nose. She didn’t hear the crunch or realize that something wasn’t right when he dropped to the floor. She kicked the switchblade away and backed up out of the reach of his arms in case he tried to trip her and stared at Madison as if she’d grown a second head when she rushed forward and dropped to the boy’s side.

“Oh God,” she was shrieking. “Oh God oh God--TERRY? Oh God oh God oh God--”

“Christ, Madison, back up--”

“Baileigh what did you do?”

She blinked without comprehending why Madison was looking at her like that, wide-eyed, panicked and accusing, terrified. It wasn’t until she looked down at the body that it sunk in.

It--he--was human. Very human. Vampires didn’t break like that, and what was sprawled across the linoleum was so very broken. It was very real blood seeping onto the floor, and there was no life in the ruined mess that, until a few seconds before, had been a youthful, handsome face.

The roar went away. Everything went away. Like watching a muted television program, she saw the scene and the color and the faces and the blur of the furniture and walls as Spike pulled her into the living room. I didn’t meant to, she kept thinking, and she couldn’t tell if she was actually speaking. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.

The volume came back up, too loud. Too many people yelling. She sat on the couch and stared down at the blood spots on her arm and wished she could find the mute button again. Wished she could cover her ears, but her hands were bloody and she didn’t know how to hold them. It was like they weren’t hers anymore.

She jumped when Cain sat down on the couch next to her. “Did I--” Kill him. She couldn’t make herself say it. “I did, didn’t I?”

It’s fine. I called Claire. She…fixed it. He was Nahuel‘s. The trauma broke the thrall, he don‘t remember shit.

“Oh--good.” She swallowed and nodded at the blood stains as though they were the one addressing her. It was fixed. It was all fixed. All neat and tidy and no one would ever know. They’d mop the kitchen floor, wash their hands, wash their clothes. No one would ever know.

You’re going home right fucking now, with Hiro an‘ Claire. Don‘t argue with me.

He said it like he was expecting one, but she didn‘t have a fight left in her. And she realized he was touching her, just a hand on her back that moved up to her shoulder and squeezed. She squirmed away from it and struggled to get to her feet. She didn’t want to be touched. “Okay.”


“Oh God, please don’t,” she protested in a whisper, shaking her head desperately. “Please don’t pull that ‘It’s not your fault’ routine, please. I don’t want to hear it. I just want to go home.” She shook her head, almost comically, trying to shake away the thoughts and the words and the noise and kept talking as he tried to speak over her. “I’m gonna go clean up. I’m gonna go get my things. I just want to go home. Tell everyone I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I‘m so sorry.”

Bee?” Claire.

“Hey, hi.” She clasped her hands behind her back, hiding the bright red stains. “I’ll just be a minute.” A breath. “Thank you. For coming. I’ll just be a minute.”

Claire bit her lip, and Baileigh used the moment of hesitation to flee.

[ooc: in relation to this and this. Terry ([profile] if_she_could ), Cain ([personal profile] fear_noevil ), Spike ([profile] follow_my_blood ), Juliana ([profile] love_inchains ), & Claire ([profile] girl_ofsecrets ) are all used with love and permission. Hiro referenced is [profile] powered_otaku , who I hope doesn't mind being referenced. Tatiana and Madison are mine to use and abuse.]
deep_red_bells: ([Slayer] Be a good soldier)
"There are many things worth living for, there are a few things worth dying for, but there is nothing worth killing for.” - Thomas Eugene (Tom) Robbins

I don't agree. At all. There are plenty of things worth killing for. The people you love, the causes you believe in--yes, they're worth killing for.

Look, I'm not saying it's something one should take lightly. But if you're willing to die for something, or someone, for a cause, for anything, you should also be willing to take up arms--literally or proverbially--and fight for it. Sometimes that means dying. Sometimes that means taking a life, or lives.

I used to kill to keep the world safe. To save lives. It took it's toll, you'll never hear me deny that, but don't you stand there and try to tell me that it wasn't worth it.

I'll agree with one thing, though: saying you'll kill or die for something? In the end, that's much easier than laying down arms and saying "I'll live for this. I'll wake up in the morning and I'll live. I'll go to sleep at night and I'll keep breathing, for this."

In the end, I think that's what bravery really is. It's not fighting, or killing, or dying.

It's living.

deep_red_bells: ([Future] And we all got hurt)
(ooc: part of this fic series)

All around me are familiar faces
worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for the daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I wanna drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow

and I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad )

Muse: Baileigh Solis
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (OC)
word count: 654 (including lyrics)

[WM] 74.1.G

Feb. 4th, 2009 12:09 pm
deep_red_bells: ([Slayer] Be a good soldier)

"I don't want to live my life as others have done, where it just becomes an endless fear of dying."

She’d taken pretty good care of her weapons, all things considered. They’d served her well, and they deserve to be put away with some measure of respect, she supposed.

She took the day off to take care of it, not that there was much that demanded her attention. A guest list to finalize that could wait until tomorrow. Invitations to be sent out after that. They could wait one more day. She meandered around the house, opened drawers and cabinets, picking up every dagger and stake she had, for whatever reason at the time, stashed there. She cleaned and sharpened and oiled the blades, reminded herself that it would need to be done on occasion to keep them from falling into disrepair. Sanded away any splintered places on the stakes, carved the end a little sharper if it was necessary, tested the weight on each one before she put it away. She picked up the swords and axes she kept in the coat closet by the front door, took her time caring for the blades, just as she had done with the knives. She found her crossbow and repaired the spring, tinkered with it until the glitch in the firing mechanism was smoothed out. She was going to miss that stupid thing. Crossbows weren’t the most practical of weapons, but she'd always had fun with them.

She arranged them just so in the cabinet that she’d insisted on purchasing for just this purpose, but scarcely used, partly because she was and always had been on the scatterbrained side, and partly because it had honestly been easier to keep them like that, scattered around the house. Something had always been within easy reach, when she needed it.

She wasn’t going to need them anymore. She told herself, repeatedly, that she was not putting them away like this as a ‘just in case.’ If she left the door open even a crack, she feared it would blow open again and pull her back out into the dark. She wasn’t doing that. She was putting the metaphorical chairs up on the tables, mopping the floors, flipping off the lights and locking the door to the life of a Slayer behind her.

She didn’t want to be like the others. She didn’t want to fight and fight and fight until she died, or become so exhausted that she was all but begging the next monster to kill her. She was putting an end to that cycle, right now.

But it was always going to be a part of her. A part of her life that had been important, and special, and big. It shouldn’t be forgotten. It should be respected, remembered. That once upon a time, she'd been a hero.

She shut the cabinet, and went to the bathroom, and washed the oil and the last traces of that life off of her hands, and prayed that when the night came and rattled at that door, she would be strong enough to resist the call.

deep_red_bells: ([Expressive] Not like other girls)
If your friend was not forthcoming on something you asked them about, would you resort to spying? No, probably not. If I did I would have to have a very, very, VERY good reason for it.
Would you go through their things? PC? Personal Diary? If so, why and if not why not? Again, not without an incredibly good reason. Some lines should just not be crossed and that's one of them.
Is there something you have been very angry with a friend about but never could discuss? Not really? I'm kind of--I can keep things bottled for so long, but eventually they're going to bubble out. Even if it's something I want to keep to myself, I kind of can't.
What thing can you and your best friend not discuss without having a major disagreement? Slaying, maybe? It's the only thing I can think of that we've ever fought about.
What if anything that they do puts you on edge? Sometimes she doesn't know when to shut up and stop.
If they were driving you insane would you tell them? Why or why not? Oh yes, she'll hear about it. And probably keep doing it. Bitch. :P
What sort of taste do you have in clothing? Subject change, much? I dunno. I like to be comfortable but still look good? I try to keep the clothes I buy in a practical price range because they get ruined so easily. 
Do you prefer form fitting or that which allows complete freedom of movement or something in between? To me, form fitting is freedom of movement. I mean, I'm not talking a corset, obviously, but I can't function in baggy clothing. I'm particular about my jeans. They have to fit just right or it drives me insane.
Are you confident about your personal taste or style? Sure.
How long do you spend getting ready to go to work or to go out? Not terribly long unless I have to fuss with my hair.
High maintenance or low maintenance? High only if I have to fuss with my hair. My hair requires a lot of babying. Pretty average otherwise.
Wash and wear or dry clean only? I have a bit of both, but really, dry clean only clothing? So so so impractical for me.
Designer or Practical? I love designer clothing. I do. But I don't let myself buy much. I just can't justify it.
Are you financially comfortable? Apparently so.
Are you generous with money and possessions? Sure, unless we're talking my shoes. No one borrows my shoes anymore. They never give them back.
deep_red_bells: ([Text] Little girl lost)
Her fingertips trace over the logo printed on the outside of the flimsy flap of the matchbook, supposedly safely concealing the matches underneath. Her nail catches the flap, opens the cardboard folder with a twist and a flick of finger and thumb. Why, she wonders, in a society that has become so adamantly opposed to tobacco, in hotels that do not even allow smoking in most if any at all of their rooms, do they insist on placing these in the bedside table, all but begging to be struck, to be used to catch something ablaze. A cigarette. A candle wick. Scraps of paper gathered in a bowl, secrets or love letters that need to be burned away to ashes.

She tears a match from the book. Turns the folder in her fingers. Drags the tip across the coarse striking surface. Watches the flame burn rapidly down the length of the matchstick. Drops the burning cardboard into a glass of water when it threatens to singe her fingertips.

The flame dies with a hateful hiss.

She repeats the unhurried, almost mechanical motions.

Pull. Strike. Burn. Hiss.

She’s aware that she’s settling in for something like a sulk…or maybe just a zone out, as she’s trying hard not to think too much. Thinking leads to brooding. Brooding leads to sulking. Sulking leads to her saying things she shouldn’t and she doesn’t want to be a wet blanket on everyone else’s happy times. It’s bad enough that she can’t keep the occasional thing from slipping out, that there are and will always be cracks in her that let emotions leak when she’d much rather suppress them. Let’s not make it worse. It's easier that way.

Just smile. Force it if you have to. Don’t be unhappy. Don’t act like a brat, because that‘s what you‘ll be considered. A whiny brat. Take it out on the vampires, beat them until they no longer resemble anything human or undead before you finish them off, which is the very thing you used to tell the girls not to do, but it’s better to be a hypocrite than a brat. Right?

Pull. Strike. Burn. Hiss.

Until the matches are gone.
deep_red_bells: ([Text] Little girl lost)
Autumn leaves

[email sent to everyone on Baileigh's mailing list.]

When I was little, my grandmother would help me make paper marigolds for the ofrenda she'd put up in our home for the Day of the Dead. She had allergies, you see. The pollen from the real flowers would make her sneeze.

So every year we'd get tissue paper and craft scissors and little green pipe cleaners, and we'd sit in the living room floor and make as many cempasúchitl as we could before our fingers started to ache. We'd buy sugar skulls and take the catrinas down from the attic. We'd go to my grandfather's grave and clean up the leaves and the gravestone and build an alter. We'd sit in the grass and she'd tell me stories about the man who died before I was born. My grandmother would make pan de muerto and between all of this and the haul of Halloween candy I'd obtained the night before I'd usually get sick from the sugar. Which was okay, because I didn't have to go to school.

It was fun when I was little. Just like Christmas and birthdays and Easter are all so fun when you're little and hunting for eggs and blowing out candles and straining your ears on Christmas Eve trying so hard to hear the clip-clop of reindeer hooves.

Then we grow up. I stopped helping so much with the alter and the marigolds because all I really wanted to do was sleep in and go to the boardwalk to rollerblade with my friends and watch the cute boys skateboard.

It used to upset her and I'd guilt myself into participating. But you just don't enjoy the repetitive stories as a teenager like you did as a kid, and all the traditions just seemed...stupid, to me. Morbid and pointless. The dead don't come back. Dead is dead.

That was before I knew better. Which isn't really the point, I guess. I'm not sure what the point is. Even after she died and I had two graves to care for, it didn't make me feel closer to her spirit or any of that nonsense. I stopped making the marigolds out of paper and bought real ones. I took the easier way out. Maybe that was the difference. She took so much care and put so much time into it, where I went through the motions.

Coming back here is kind of like finding an old baby blanket stuck back in a closet. There's this sense of familiarity and comfort, but you know you've outgrown it, and it's not enough to keep you warm anymore.

I miss her so much.

deep_red_bells: ([Slayer] Sword)
She fell. Tripped over a spec of dust, as her grandmother would say. Chin met concrete, and chin did not come away from the encounter at all happy. It bled, so much, as head injuries do. The blood scared her more than the pain. The doctor sewed the two inch laceration with dark black thread and stuck a bandage over it, but the bandage wouldn't stay on--she hated it, it looked ugly and the kids at school stared. The scar was a livid pink for a while, but with time it faded, and by the time she was grown it was little more than a pale indention. She runs her thumb over it when she's thinking.


She took a spill on a bicycle. Slicked her knee clean open. More stitches but no stares, just a week or two hobbling around and sitting out of P.E. She didn't mind that, though. She really didn't like dodgeball and the other kids thought her crutches were kind of cool. You can barely see it anymore, though it stands out when she bends her knee.


She can barely see through the tears that well up persistently. Her fingers are shaking and clumsy as she digs the razorblade in, cuts away the scar tissue, pulls the black thread out with a tweezers. She has to be careful. There's a lot of blood. She doesn't understand how such a deep laceration could heal overnight. She has to get the stitches out.

It's healed the next day--jagged white scar tissue, the result of her messy, desperate handiwork. When she looks at it, she remembers the confusion, the panic and the fear more than the pain.


They're only obvious if she wears her hair up. Two raised parallel marks just below her hair line, on the back of her neck. Just a graze, not really a bite. She'd been lucky, it had been her first time out and the vampire had been grave fresh and missed the artery completely.

It's a good reminder. Whenever she starts to feel like the job is too easy, too monotonous, the scar is there to remind her how fragile she really is, that all it takes is one slip, and it could be over.

Baileigh Solis
word count: 375
deep_red_bells: ([Emote] Pain)

(ooc: companion piece to this)

"There's something wrong with you, and I think it's catching."

Annie merely grinned at her and rose smoothly from the admittedly impressive but patrol-time-wasting backbend. “Oh, come on…just because someone died doesn’t mean we have to act like someone died.”

She knew better than to give Annie the glare, but the glare what was she got anyway. She hadn't been there. She couldn't begin to understand...

“I know the attack last night wigged you out," Annie continued, her tone softening just a little as the fell into step beside each other. "But it’s all gonna wig you out. This gig is life and death, babycakes with the pretty belly chains--"

"Mock me now," Baileigh interrupted, holding out one hand while the other strayed to the dangling charm at her navel, that she still wasn't quite used to having there. "But you'll have one soon enough."

“Nah, I’m getting tattoos, not piercings. My man likes me all natural. Besides, if I get a piercing, it’s gonna be something dirty. Anyway, I was waxing philosophic, shaddup.”

She almost asked how the hell tattoos were more 'natural' than piercings, briefly entertained mentioning that she'd spied some really kick ass nipple rings while on her body jewelry shopping spree and had actually been kicking around the idea of getting one done, decided it was best just to shut the hell up and let her get her philosophical waxing over and done with. "Sorry. Continue."

“Thank you, Grasshopper. Life and death…we can’t save them all and we know it. So you have to see meaning in the horror. If no one dies, we don’t know there’s a problem. Lives are lost to save others, and one day? Maybe if we did our job good enough there won’t be anything left to kill people. Cues won’t be there because the baddies won’t be there.”

Right. And on that bright, shining happy day, the Keebler elves will come out of their hollow trees and bake everyone some of their delicious and addictive cookies, angels will fly down from heaven and serenade everyone with blessed Hallelujahs, and pigs will not only fly but start break dancing in the street. It'll be one big party. She got what Annie meant. She did. She was just more than a little doubtful that they, any of them, would ever be...finished.

Not until they died. Which was not a comforting thought.

Annie tipped her head on Baileigh's shoulder, linked her arm through hers and leaned heavily on her, forcing her to walk supporting both of their weights. She was just about to playfully shove her off when something very big, very furry and very fast leapt over their heads and took off running in a streak of grey.

There you are, you son of a bitch. )

word count: 829

note: tú me estás jodiendo = you gotta be fucking kidding me, in Spanish.

deep_red_bells: ([Expressive] Sick)

(ooc: [profile] hank_callahan used without permission so any screw ups are mine but the mun loves me lots so I bet she'll forgive me)


deep_red_bells: (Default)
Baileigh Solis

December 2010



RSS Atom

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 19th, 2017 03:05 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios