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Who: Geordie Riddell, Buffy Summers, Jilly Coppercorn, and anyone else in House 7 who might want to jump in!
What: New feather arrival.
When: Saturday, Sept 1. Night.
Where: House 7
Summary: Geordie wakes up in not quite the same place he fell asleep.
Rating: PG/PG-13 at most, for mild swearing.

As gigs went, tonight's had seemed especially good. He hadn't planned on playing at the Harp and Roses that night, only to watch Amy play alongside a traveling band. But the music had been too good to resist. And of course, he had his fiddle with him.

Hours and mugs of ale later, it had seemed a good idea to follow Jilly home. The hour was late, he still revved up from the music and she from that crazy dancing she and her friends were so found of. It'd be easy to get lost in the streets of Newford, streets that weren't nearly as safe as Jilly liked to think them to be. It wouldn't be the first time he crashed at her place or her at his. Better to keep an eye on her, however inebriated that eye was, than let her wander the streets late at night alone.

Barely a word is said as they clamber up the stairs to her loft. The hour is late and the tiredness is starting to seep into his bones. Her old, beat couch sounds more and more appealing by the second. Once inside, he drops his fiddle case to the floor and kicks off his boots.

He's out the second his face hits the cushion...

...and still fast asleep when he appears on the couch in House 7 sometime later. He yawns and turns off his back to his side but doesn't open his eyes. Whatever it was poking into his back doesn't seem to be such a bother anymore.

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Geordie never had reason to doubt his sanity before today. But now, he really was wondering whether that last beer had been spiked. Jilly knew some pretty odd, even cantankerous people, but he never recalled meeting someone as disagreeable as Jack. Except maybe Aaran, but he wasn't friends with Jilly - or anyone Geordie was close to. He almost felt a little guilty thinking this. This dream was growing uncomfortable fast. Thankfully, though, the pretty blonde had the sense of mind to step in front of the pirate while he put on the jeans.

...a pirate wearing jeans. That was almost as preposterous as the Crow Girls being, well, real crows. He sighed, leaning back on the couch and doing his best not to roll his eyes.

"He's a fortuneteller down from the rez." For a moment, a brief smile flickered across his face. "Ask Jilly though, and she'll tell you that Bones is some Kikaha animal man mix. What was it? Dog and raven? ...come to think of it, ask Christy, and he'll tell you the same. But he's just a harmless busker, same as me."

Albeit one who would be a lot more comfortable in this situation than Geordie felt right now.

That pirate looked damned GOOD in jeans, really. He pulled them on with no ceremony at all and a disregard for the meager modesty Buffy tried to provide.

He was disappointed, slightly, that there was no news of the REAL Bones -- or so he conceived him in his mind.

"Harmless busker, are you?" he asked through narrowed eyes, peering over Buffy's shoulder. "You sure that's all you are, lad? Not interested in selling women of the night, are we?"

Because if you are, he'll gut you.

She'd meant to offer a distraction. Or maybe an invite to her room, away from this chaos, where she could start in on all the questions that had been whirling in her head about home and him for the past year.

That, though...that stops her.

Caught off guard, her eyes went wide as she stared at Jack. This...wasn't going well. This was the opposite of well. This had the potential for turning ugly.

Her hand tightened on Geordie's arm, already anticipating the kind of reaction that question might get, and her eyes sought Buffy's in a silent plea. But there were no words. Everyone in the room knew her story, but hearing it tossed out like that, even with the best of intentions, she suddenly couldn't find her voice.

Buffy knew. And Buffy knew that Jack knew. But Buffy also knew that Jack didn't know that she knew. And God knows what Geordie knew, but the Slayer was now keenly aware of how all the little strands of tension in the room had suddenly snapped to straining. She breathed deep -- one of those shaking, shuddering breaths that (in women like her) were often precursors to some great and terrible lecture. Most likely directed at Jack Sparrow.

But a second inclination stopped her. However well-intentioned (and she understood that he was that), Jack had put his foot so far into his own mouth that Buffy wasn't certain he could make it through the conversation unscathed. In that case, she needed very dearly to not be against the man she often wanted to protect.

No. Better to just be on Jilly's side entirely. Unquestioningly.

And so, in her best Slayer voice -- one frost-fringed and ultimately laden with command: "How about this? The next person to speak who isn't Jilly? Gets tossed outside faster than you can say gross personal misconduct.

And Jilly? Please set them straight." Her eyes remained wide -- fixed on her housemate. Pleading, almost. Buffy very much did not want Jack's presumption to somehow be right, because then Jilly's joy at seeing the young man would have broken her heart. "Please."

The only thing keeping Geordie rooted to the chair was Jilly's hand on his arm. It kept him sitting even as his temper flared and urged him to stand and punch Jack hard enough to knock him to the floor. Whatever Jilly might have thought of the man, he had no right to accuse him of being a pimp. No right. Especially not in front of Jilly.

But it didn't keep him from glaring at Jack. His eyes narrowed and any previously jovial (if not still a little confused) look vanished. Whether or not this was a dream no longer mattered. What mattered was Jilly's dignity. Her emotional well-being.

Gently, he removed Jilly's hand from his arm and placed it on his lap, clasping it tightly in left hand. He wrapped his right arm around her shoulder to pull her into a half-hug against him. It was, maybe, a lame attempt to protect her from words already said, but he tried.

He stayed quiet at Buffy's request, only looking at her briefly when she spoke. Otherwise, his attention remained entirely on Jack.

Edited 2012-09-07 00:25 (UTC)

Buffy's warning? Taken. So when Jack spoke, his lips moved but no sound came out. Maybe that was obeying the letter of the law if not the spirit.

If you harm her I will KILL. YOU. DEAD. WITH MY DAGGER. SLOWLY.

There were accompanying hand motions.

For sanity's sake, Jilly had taken Angel's guidance to heart. It had been a long time since she had blamed herself for what had been done to her. She'd claimed her past, even if she couldn't completely escape from it, and used it to--hopefully--do good. And part of her knew that Jack would never in a million years use her past to hurt her.

But right now, she just wanted to scream at him.

The breath she took was shaky, and when she squeezed Geordie's hand in return, she wasn't sure whether it was more for his sake or hers. But, either way, it helped ground her and kept her voice calm--if a little sharp--as she interrupted Jack's pantomiming.

"Jack...do you honestly think I make a habit of calling pimps my best friends? Or that it makes me happy when they're threatened?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She was pretty sure she didn't want to hear what he'd come up with. She let out a breath with a huff and stood, still holding Geordie's hand.

"It's late and I would like to actually be happy to spend time with someone from home. Without accusations. Or glares. Or whatever other nonsense you think you need to do to protect me."

Her voice rose slightly with every word, so that the sharp silence when she stopped seemed deafening, though she'd stopped shy of actually shouting. This wasn't how this was supposed to go.

...Buffy didn't need to say anything else. This was Jilly's microphone; it would be wrong of her to infringe upon it. And the woman's words were strong enough, the Slayer thought. They didn't need anything else to impose upon Jack that he was being beyond unreasonable.

Jack could have his chance to apologize (or not) and then, she considered, she might drag him back to bed. Anything she wanted to add on to Jilly's speech could be done in private.

............Uh oh.

Jack cleared his throat. Jilly had never spoken to him like that before. It was scary.

He sort of liked it.

NO. No, he couldn't LIKE it. But he should probably do what she'd ordered.

God, this meant lots of apology gifts later, didn't it......maybe for weeks. Lots. His heart sank. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. He loved Jilly and Buffy and both of them were fit to nail his piratical hide to the wall, and all because of this......

Someone from home.

"Sorry. I'll just ------"

He backed out of the room VERY slowly. In fact -- all the way back to their bedroom. Softly the door sealed off his retreat.

As Jack retreated, Geordie stood alongside Jilly. It was rare to see his friend so angry. Rare and frightening.

This was starting to feel less and less like a dream.

Sympathetically, he looked in the direction of the remaining stranger. Buffy. There really wasn't much left to say, was there? And anything he wanted to say - or hear - was for or from Jilly only. Still, he was grateful for her attempt to defuse the situation. At the very least, it deserved a mouthed, thanks.

Anger wasn't something that came naturally....and something about directing it at Jack, even when it was well deserved, felt a bit like kicking a puppy.

She closed her eyes as he backed away, taking a steadying breath, before looking back at Buffy. Then up at Geordie, his lanky form stretching at least a head over the two smaller women. She could see that familiar uncertainty sitting in his eyes--the same, guarded expression that showed up whenever he'd been listening too long to one of Christy's stories, or on rainy days when he couldn't quite convince himself he'd imagined Sam and her ghost. It was the look he got when he desperately didn't want to believe the impossible reality that was turning out to be all too possible.

There had been so many times when she'd mused over this. What would Geordie say to that? Yet, as crazy and impossible as this place could be, this had still managed to go even more sideways than she'd expected.

The silence lingered for just a moment longer, before she spoke up, her voice surprisingly quiet now that the anger had gone out of it.

"....Welcome to Luceti?"

"I'm...gonna let you two catch up. More. And maybe go chew Jack out another new one to match the newest one you just gave him, Jilly. And I..."

She frowned. Her face was filled with apology. But what else was there to say?

The Slayer turned away; she would leave the friends to their reunion.

He watched Buffy leave the room, happy for the brief few moments he had to collect his thoughts. Jilly had called the place Luceti, talked as if they really were somewhere else. Not necessarily Bones' spirit world but... somewhere. Somewhere that wasn't Newford or, he suspected, anywhere in North America.

And apparently Jilly had been here long enough to make friends that she trusted with her past.

Geordie looked down at his best friend and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Is there someplace else we can go?"

She'd check in with Buffy later. And Jack--lovable, damnable, pain-in-the-ass pirate that he was. But for now she looks down at that larger hand engulfing hers, and the wonder of it all seems to come rushing back in.

Here. Really here.

She feels a bit shaken after the adrenaline of the past few minutes, but it's just so much easier to chase away with a smile as she looks back up at him. "My room. Probably better to talk in there so we don't wake anyone else up." They'd have to find him a place of his own, later, but right now she isn't thinking about sleeping. Right now she just wants to sit him down and talk until the sun comes up.

"Here...follow me." With her mind made up, she side stepped the coffee table to pull him towards the hallway she'd exited from, leading to the room at the end. It was classic Jilly, of course. The floor was clean and her clothes were safely put away, but other than the bed, every available inch of wall or flat shelving was filled with canvases and art supplies, stacks of books, half-finished sketches, and what seemed to be the beginnings of wire framing meant to hold a paper mache creation.

He let her lead the way, hand remaining clasped to her own. It was so often like this for the two of them: Jilly setting the path and Geordie following behind, more often than not to keep her safe from harm. There was no reason for it to be any different in this dream/not-dream he had found himself in. It wasn't until they set foot into the room that he finally let go. And even then, it was with reluctance.

While the rest of the house had seemed too neat and orderly to be Jilly's living space, this room had her written all over her. There was no mistaking the resident of this section of the house. He had to smile as he walked over to the wire framing and touched it carefully. This was Jilly. So similar as the comfortable and messy dwelling he had been in less than an hour earlier.

Until now, he had completely forgotten about his own semi-nude state. The linen pants were loose and thankfully covered his legs. But the lack of a shirt was... well, now that he was alone with Jilly, surprisingly awkward. It shouldn't have been. Not with Jilly, not with his best friend. But after being mistaken already for friendly actions being something more by a dangerous pirate, it just seemed... wrong.

He glanced in her direction and flashed her a quick grin, rubbing at his neck for a moment. "Um, you wouldn't have a shirt or something, would you?"

"I might."

She gave him a lopsided smile as she picked her way around piles of books to get to the closet. This, at least, was unusual for Jilly. Where normally she would have only had enough clothes to get through a week or two of painting and work, now her closet was practically full. Living in a house of women, in a place where shops charged nothing, she supposed it was bound to happen.

Mostly, though, the clothes were still her usual style--or lack thereof. It wasn't hard for her to find a shirt that would have had her swimming in fabric. "It might be a bit snug, but try this?"

She held it out to him. "Just be glad you showed up here in the summer. You're dressed for the weather."

"Thanks." He took the shirt from her and slipped one arm into a sleeve. As he pulled it over his head and other arm, he continued to speak. "I can't say I remember ever owning a pair of slacks like these. And I had my shirt on when I fell asleep. I don't know-"

Geordie stopped talking and frowned. This was ridiculous. While the shirt did feel a little snug across his shoulders, there was something stuck there. He couldn't pull the shirt down. It kept getting stuck.

"Hey, Jilly?" He pulled again, accomplishing nothing. "Is there something on my back?"

"Hey, careful! You'll hurt them, doing that."

Stepping close, she moved back behind him to carefully guide the t-shirt down over the wings. Thankfully, slits had already been made in the back...or it would have been even more of an uncomfortable fit.

"Um."

Right.

"You're not going to like it."

"Hurt what?"

It felt a little funny, having someone dress him when he more than capable of putting a shirt on himself. He tried craning his neck to better see what Jilly was doing. It was impossible.

"Jilly, I can put a shirt on on my own." A pause. "What am I not going to like? Is there something on my back?"

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She'd have to find him first; Jack had found a very convenient hiding place under the bed.

The door closed none-too-softly behind her. Buffy didn't walk in much further. An empty room. Hah. Was he running, again? She really needed to talk to him about that whole running thing. How it made her feel...

"Oh, crap." She knocked her head back against the door in frustration. "Way to go, Summers. Forget your scythe. It's not like you can just walk back in there."

"You could, actually," piped a voice from beneath the bed. "Or you could run."

...Under the bed. Jeez.

"I think I'll pass. On both counts." Sigh. "Why are you under m--our bed?"

"Because that's where the lummoxes go," he replied unhappily. "Annie -- you're likely a mite confused right now. Angry. And I do not blame you. I was going to tell you something about Jilly. About...about her past. But it weren't my place to do so, not with her!

But she's been hurt very much by a particular man, and I needed to make sure..."

He sneezed. It was dusty under there.