Work Text:
October 2005
"You look like you need a drink."
The man winked at Miss Holloway as he slid up beside her. The Birdhouse was empty, save for a few bikers that lingered at the end of the bar and a single bartender. Miss Holloway had come here to drown in her sorrows after a particularly painful death.
"I have one," she said, not in the mood to put up with some god-awful flirting, especially not from a man wearing denim on denim.
"Ah, come on, foxy," he pouted. "Live a little. What are you into? It's on me."
She wasn't sure if that uncreative nickname was meant to refer to her attitude or her hair, but it was enough to convince her to send him away.
Miss Holloway turned to the man, looking him straight in his lifeless eyes. "It's getting late," she said, her hypnotism slow, almost sultry. "You seem tired. Don't you think you oughta be getting home?"
The man swayed, entranced. "Yeah..." he murmured. "Or...hell, maybe just one more drink."
Miss Holloway's eyes went wide with shock, which sent the man into a laughing fit. "Your pretty little words won't work none on me, foxy."
Though her heart rate would suggest otherwise, Miss Holloway tried not to panic. Whoever this man was, he clearly had some sort of power. Maybe he was an ally, maybe he'd pledged his allegiance to the Queen in White.
But one look in those dead eyes told her that this man's loyalties lied with something much darker.
Miss Holloway felt the knife she'd stolen from the police station—a black blade found in the corpse of Sheriff Keane—grow hot in her pocket. She forced herself not to draw any attention to it, in case worst came to worst.
"And you are?" Miss Holloway asked, putting on a facade of calm.
The man's eyes flickered to life, like a wolf cornering a rabbit.
"Oh, you don't know it yet," he smirked. "But I'm the patron saint of the things you've given up. I'm the ambassador of the family you'll never have. And I guess, when it comes to your good friend the sheriff... I'm the Jesus of wishing to Christ you can save him. Except Christ won't help you now, no ma'am."
Miss Holloway rolled her eyes, unimpressed by his dramatics.
"Do you have a name?"
"Cross," he said, holding out his hand to her. "Colonel Wilbur Cross."
Miss Holloway didn't reach out to shake his hand, which sent him into another fit of laughter.
"Smart foxy," he murmured, and turned his palm up to reveal a spike attached to a ring he wore.
Giving her a second to react, he took off the ring, slamming it down on the bar. When he lifted his hand, the ring was gone, and in its place was a pile of change.
"Was that supposed to impress me?" She asked dryly. Little transformations like that, those were simple. Maybe he even had the coins hidden in his shirtsleeve.
"Now that we're acquainted," Wilbur said, ignoring her comment. "Let me buy you a drink."
She didn't even care that he had the gift. This man looked like a roofie personified.
"No, thanks," Miss Holloway denied. "I have a funeral in the morning."
"Oh, I nearly forgot," Wilbur huffed. "Poor old Doug. Say, did they ever catch the killer?"
The world around her seemed to slow to a stop. The way that he said it was enough confirmation for Miss Holloway; far too playful to not have something to do with it.
"What do you want?" She whispered, eyebrows knit in anger.
"Just to talk, foxy," he held up his hands in faux-surrender. If only it were that easy...
"I don't want to talk," she said.
"Oh, but I think you do," Wilbur grinned once more. "See, there's a reason I stuck my blade through your little friendy-wend. And I think you want to know more than anything."
His words were like venom, snaking their way into Miss Holloway's nerves. Paralyzingly her. She kept her gaze fixed foreword, toward the bar, not willing to give him the satisfaction of looking in his direction.
"What do you want?" She asked again.
She watched out of the corner of her eye as Wilbur raised an eyebrow. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Miss Holloway sighed. Reluctantly, she flagged down the bartender, ordering a jack and coke and letting Wilbur pay.
He waited for her to receive her drink before he spoke up again, and Miss Holloway certainly wasn't going to break the silence.
"So," he said, almost conversationally. "How long did you know the sheriff?"
Miss Holloway didn't respond. Instead, she took a long sip of her drink, trying to finish it off as soon as possible.
"Don't remember?" Wilbur asked. "That's okay, I do. Twenty-three years sure goes by in a flash, don't it?"
"I would have known him longer, if not for you."
"Aw, foxy don't tease me like that!" he laughed. "Oh no, I'm well aware. Well aware."
"Is it because I used to solve cases with him?" Miss Holloway asked. "Where you really so pissed that he was trying to help the world?"
"Not at all," Wilbur said. "In fact, I didn't wanna kill him. It's a shame to break up a power duo as good as you were. Believe me, I've seen it. I've lived it."
Miss Holloway didn't look up from her drink. The colonel was reduced to a voice in her ear, though that did didn't make him any less unnerving. She was normally calmer than this, more able to keep cool under stress. But without Doug here, she felt bare; exposed.
"Why'd you do it, then?" she asked, feeling a mix of anger and grief and horrible curiosity rise in the back of her throat like bile.
Wilbur grinned.
"Like I said, I'm the captain of courage you've eternally lacked," he licked his lips, the smacking noise like a punch to the skull. "One of my mentors sent me to prove a point about you, foxy."
Miss Holloway swallowed hard, trying to force down the emotion. "Which is?"
Wilbur looked her up and down, the way a coyote looks at a housecat before snapping his jaws around this neck.
"Oh, a few things. That we can catch you off guard. That you still cry over death. But mostly..." He leaned in close, whispering directly into her ears. "That you're weaker than we thought, Darlin'."
Her old nickname on his lips was like a stab to the heart. It took everything in Miss Holloway to focus on her breathing. She closed her eyes, trying to ground herself.
If Wilbur was right, then this was her fault. Doug would still be alive if it weren't for her playing this dangerous game. He'd killed him to get to her, for God's sake. And she didn't want to admit how much it was working.
And now Wilbur had come here for what? To taunt her? To rub it in? Maybe a lord in black had sent him, and that's what Miss Holloway wanted to believe. Because the other explanation was that he just got a kick out of it.
"You alright, Miss?" someone asked, and she opened her eyes.
One of the bikers at the end of the bar had made his way over. Miss Holloway looked back to where Wilbur had sat moments ago, only to find that he was gone without a traced.
"Yes," Miss Holloway said, lying through her teeth. "Thank you."
The biker smiled. "You were scaring us, for a minute there. We'd hate to see your mascara drip down in your drink."
Was she crying? Miss Holloway wiped her cheeks, and her hands came back wet and dark from smeared makeup. Apparently she was.
"Can I ask what's wrong?" The biker said.
Miss Holloway hesitated. But really, what was the harm? "A friend of mine died last week," she said. "It's just been difficult without him around."
"Aw, I can imagine," the biker said. "You hang in there, though. He's keeping an eye on you."
It was just the sort of kindness she needed. "Thanks," Miss Holloway said, and the biker smiled a goodbye before returning to his friends.
Even when the devil sat in her ear, whispering things she wished weren't true, someone still found it in themself to be kind to her.
That's it, Miss Holloway thought. That's why I do this.
She get feathered her things...only to find her denim jacket was missing.
Miss Holloway knew who took it. The black knife in her pocket grew heavy, but this time she took it out, holding it in her hand. A new determination came over her.
She was going to kill the bastard, if not for Doug, then because he took her fucking jacket.
Gripping the knife, she walked out of the Birdhouse, and slipped into the night.
The streets were silent. No one was out on a weekday night, not in a town as small as Hatchetfield. Miss Holloway slinked into an alleyway adjacent to the bar.
"Come, devil," she whispered into the black.
A second passed by. Then another.
Wilbur stepped into the alley with her.
"I knew you'd come looking for me, foxy," he delighted.
"My name's not foxy," she said, holding her ground.
Wilbur took a step closer. He still wasn't close enough for her to make out his face in the dark, but she knew he wore a sick smile.
"Should I call you by your real name, then?"
"She's dead," Miss Holloway replied simply. "I'm all that's left."
Wilbur tilted his head to the side.
"You have something what belongs to me, girlie," he said. "And I'm going to need it back."
"So do you," Miss Holloway said, and tightened her grip on the knife.
"I can respect that you have Willa's book—that was a gift, by all means," Wilbur said. "But the Black Blade is mine. Why don't I cut you a deal? If you hand it over nice and easy like, I'll give you back your jacket. Even though it looks better on me anyway."
He wheezed a laugh one last time, and the noise was like nails on a chalkboard. It only infuriated Miss Holloway more.
"I have a counter-offer," Miss Holloway suggested. "Why don't I stab you with your Black Blade and pry my jacket out of your cold, dead hands?"
"Well, girlie, I didn't wanna do this," Wilbur shrugged. "But you leave me no choice."
He had one last trick up his sleeve.
Miss Holloway braced herself as he took a step toward her, ready to strike. As he walked, he slowly came into view. And when he was close enough to see his face, Miss Holloway nearly screamed.
Standing in front of her was not Wilbur Cross at all, but Douglas Keane.
"Heya, Holly," he spoke, in the sheriff's voice.
Something broke inside of Miss Holloway's chest at hearing it again. It took everything in her not to throw herself at the man, collapse into his arms, sobbing about how much she missed him.
"Hiya, Doug," Miss Holloway replied, voice cracking with emotion.
She looked up into those same kind eyes she'd known for years and years. This was the person she'd grown up with, though he didn't remember. Her best friend. Dead, but not buried.
"I heard you're having a hard time," Doug said, eyes full of concern. It was almost genuine. "That true, Darlin'?"
Miss Holloway didn't want to admit her weakness to Wilbur. But this wasn't Wilbur, was it?
She nodded, frowning.
"Aw, Holly," Doug said, his tone soothing. "Come on, let's go to the diner. I'll make you those hotcakes you like."
There were people she needed to stick around for. The children she helped, hell, Doug's son. She needed to keep them all safe from people like Wilbur.
But could she do it alone?
Doug held out his hand. "Come on, now. You look like you need a drink."
A flash of recognition lit across Miss Holloway's face, and by the time Wilbur realized his blunder, it was too late.
With a loud yell, Miss Holloway plunged the Black Blade into Douglas Keane's chest.
She watched the light leave his eyes, feeling the grief all over again, when he began to change. His body contorted, face twisted into a new shape as he sunk to the floor, and when Miss Holloway got on top of him, pinning him down, there laid Wilbur Cross.
She twisted the blade in his chest, further driving in the pain, and he yelled out in agony. It was then Miss Holloway took the chance to lean down by his ear.
She savoured the pathetically human way he writhed in pain as she whispered to him.
"You screwed up, Cross. You messed with the people I love."
He would have died from that alone, but it wasn't enough for Miss Holloway. She wrenched the blade from his chest, just to drive it in again and again, stabbing relentlessly until he crumbled to dust.
So that's what happens, she realized. When an immortal dies.
Two things were left of Wilbur Cross: a set of army dog tags, which she pocketed, and her denim jacket. It lay limp on the alley floor, covered in ash and dust. She lifted it like a phoenix, shaking off what remained of Wilbur's death before dawning it herself.
Doug might have been caught in the crossfire, but from now on, Miss Holloway would be careful. She would not get caught off guard again.
But now, feeling like she deserved it, Miss Holloway stumbled back into The Birdhouse to buy herself a drink.