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Crossover Ficlet, "Special Features"

Crossover Ficlet, "Special Features"

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damsel in distress
I wanted to write you a fic for your big day, but I could only manage something short. Hope you like it, and that you have a fantastic day and an even better year. MWAH.

Title: Special Features
Fandoms: BtVS/HP
Characters: Faith, mostly
Genre: Gen
Length: 632 Words


The guy was definitely shady. He was wearing some kind of ratty blanket wrapped around him, and he smelled like old tobacco. But shady could be useful, and the guy obviously had some interesting stuff to sell. Faith put one hand in her pocket and felt the wad of pound notes there.

“You sellin’ a motorcycle?” she asked.

The man peered up at her through bushy eyebrows, then seemed to make up his mind. “’t’s a unique item,” he said. “Lotsa special features.” His voice was low and mumbly, slurred as though he didn’t want to open his lips very far.

“Don’t worry, I can pay.” She was a teacher now, Professor of Slayage 101, and that meant a paycheck.

The guy shuffled over to a corner of the dark room, and grabbed onto an old, grimy army tarp with both hands. When he pulled it off, Faith had trouble breathing. It was all black and chrome, leather and metal and rubber, and even in the low light of the dirty room, it shone.

She tried to play it cool. “What do you want for it?”

He looked her over. Finally, he asked, “Pounds?”

“Yeah, pounds,” she said. “How many?” What the hell kind of weird question was that? Besides, she’d run out of American dollars months ago.

“Lotta special features on this one,” he said, patting the bike with one hand. His fingernails were nearly black around the edges, and Faith winced, already feeling a kinship with this hunk of metal.

“How much?” she repeated again.

He leaned over, counting under his breath, and finally said, “Four hundred.”

She was sure he was trying to drive a hard bargain, and so just because she didn’t want to get ripped off, she replied, “Three-fifty.” Truth was, she would’ve paid five with a smile.

“Deal.”

She counted out the bills carefully, pretending she didn’t see his eyes widen at the amount of money she carried all the time.

“Got some nice cursed jewelry,” he said.

Faith snorted. “Just the bike, thanks.” She handed over the bills and grabbed the handlebars. With one booted foot, she kicked up the stand. Parts of the bike creaked and whined as she wheeled it out of the warehouse, but she felt a tingle of power through her hands and something else that she couldn’t explain but that just felt right.

Slayers kept weird hours, and a bike wasn’t always the best thing for hunting vamps, so it was a few weeks before she figured out what the shady guy had meant by “special features.”

It was late -- so late that the sky was already getting light again. Faith had spent all night feeling restless and useless, sharpening her throwing knives while everyone else did things she was no good at: reading dusty old books, casting spells, picking up doughnuts. She was tired and cranky and she didn’t have the satisfaction of even one good kill to balance it out.

The freeways were deserted at this hour, and she revved the bike up, pushing it faster than she ever had before. She was passing through a square, plain suburb like every other suburb she’d ever seen when it happened. Smoothly, easily, as if it had been built for this, the bike lifted up off the road.

Faith gripped the handlebars until her fingers ached, but she didn’t back off the accelerator. Whatever what happening, she knew she didn’t want it to stop. Ever. It felt like she’d left all her stupid issues down there on the highway, and the longer she flew, the farther away they got. The bike floated higher and higher into the air, until she was soaring over the outskirts of London with the first rays of the morning sun shining on her face.
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