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beer_good_foamyTitle: The Scrying of Lot 48
Author: Beer Good (beer_good_foamy)
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Parks and Recreation (post-series and season 2-ish, respectively)
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~1300
Author's notes: Buffy fans unfamiliar with Ron Swanson can get a quick introduction here.
Summary: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
intoabar and the prompt: Willow Rosenberg goes into a bar and meets... Ron Swanson!
The Scrying of Lot 48
Ron Swanson kept coming to this bar for three things: their steaks, which were the best in Pawnee, IN; their selection of single malt whisky; and that the staff knew that he wanted to eat in peace. So what possessed the normally dependable bartender to let a young woman sit down right next to him and try to start a conversation was a complete mystery. He studiously ignored her, chewing his 12 oz steak while staring straight ahead, but when she took out her phone and started playing him a song ("...were in it, the pit, we all fell into the piiiit..."), Ron had enough. He turned his head and gave her the most withering look he could manage (which, if you've spent 20 years working in a public sector whose very existence you disagree with, is pretty withering). Mid-20s, redhead, clothes meant to look home-made even though they were clearly not, and Southern Californian to boot, which in Ron's experience was just a tiny step above European.
"Lady, I don't care what it is you're selling. I come here to get some peace and quiet. If you absolutely need to sit here, I would appreciate it if you would do so quietly."
The woman, to her credit, didn't seem too intimidated by this. She put her phone down, shutting off the racket. "Sorry. I'm kinda over college rock, anyway. Personally I'm more of a fan of... Duke Silver," she said with the sort of grin that implied she was in on a big secret. Which, of course, she was.
Ron groaned inwardly. But at least being blackmailed over his secret jazzman identity made some sort of sense. "Fine. What do you want? Is this some sort of groupie thing?"
She seemed taken aback by this. "What? No. No, sorry, you're really not my type. Which, don't get me wrong, you're very handsome and that mustache is very impressive a-as mustaches go I suppose, and I am sorry about the blackmail thing, but ... OK, getting to the point: I'm with this, um, citizen group..." (of course she was, Ron thought. Nobody ever just did things anymore) "... and with you being the director of the Parks and Recreation Department we kinda need your permission for something that needs quick and decisive action, and I tried to get in touch with you during office hours but your secretary said you were out, and - "
There was something about this that seemed awfully familiar. "Your last name isn't Knope, is it?"
"Nope. I mean, uh, no. Willow Rosenberg." She held out her hand for a few seconds, before seeming to realize that the look on Ron's face - usually reserved for vegetarians and people who bought ready-made furniture when there were perfectly good trees right outside their house - meant that most people don't shake hands in this situation. "OK. Well, like I said, my group looks into, let's say, certain kinds of places, and we keep tabs on when one of them pops up through location spe... um, keyword searches, and just the other day we got a hit on this song that seems to hint that one of those places is here in Pawnee."
She played him a few bars of the song on her phone again ("...I fell in it, the pit, you fell in it...") and after she assured him that this wouldn't cost the City of Pawnee a dime (which seemed like awful business sense to Ron) he reluctantly explained to her how there'd been a huge pit on Sullivan Street for years after a failed building project, how his deputy Leslie Knope had gotten the ludicrous idea of turning it into a park after her best friend's boyfriend stumbled into it and broke both legs, and how she'd wasted a lot of time and taxpayer's money trying to make it happen, but it was almost like the place was ...
"...Cursed?" Rosenberg offered.
"No. That'd be ridiculous."
"Because that's exactly the kinda stuff I can help you with."
Ron wasn't sure why he agreed. Maybe it was that she offered her help without expecting him to ask for it. Maybe it was that she agreed to go away for an hour and let him finish eating in peace. Maybe it was just that if she really could do something about Lot 48, Leslie could finally get to build her damn park and stop crusading about one thing, at least.
* * *
When they met up on Sullivan Street an hour later, the pit looked exactly the way it always did: a huge messy hole in the ground. At night, the shadows made it look almost bottomless in places. Rosenberg, however, seemed very excited.
"Aha! Paydirt!"
Ron sighed. "This is not paydirt. It's government dirt, the most useless of dirts. If anything, it's the literal exact opposite of paydirt."
"And you're sure you're OK with me, um, fixing this? As director you're sort of the official master of this domain, so if I have your permission this will go a lot smoother."
"For God's sake, woman, whatever you need to do, just - "
What Ron thought he saw, but obviously couldn't have been real, was that Rosenberg suddenly spoke a few words in some non-American language, then seemed to lift off the ground as her hair turned white. A light spread from her outstretched hands, covering the whole pit, until a column of bright light shot out of the bottom of the pit and dissipated into wisps of purple. A couple of figures stumbled up from the pit, baring impossibly long teeth at him, before disappearing in a stream of fire from Rosenberg's fingertips. And then the light vanished, and they were once again standing at the pit, with the stars above the twinkling in the usual way and no indication that anything weird had happened.
Ron blinked.
"There," she said brightly. "All done." She took her phone out and called someone "Hey, Dawnie. You were right, there was a hellmouth forming here, but ... No, really, don't bother, I took care of it. Sealed it right off. ... Yeah, I know, but the Slayers have enough to deal with in Cleveland, and the Lady Gaga thing. This was just a teeny tiny two-vamp hellmouth. No need to complicate things. ... 'Kay, talk to you later." She clicked off and turned to Ron, who wasn't exactly sure what he was seeing anymore. "So, that oughta do it. Should be a cinch for you guys to fill this thing in now. And again, I'm sorry about all this, but I figured, if there's a problem there's no point in not simply fixing it, y'know?"
Ron nodded. "Can't argue with that. Just... what... "
"What happened?" She gave him a strange look, equal parts curiosity and sadness. "I could, y'know, give you a good explanation of how this was completely normal and be very convincing, but that's … not really something I like to do. What do you think happened here tonight?"
"Well …" He shrugged and decided. He may not know how everything worked, but he recognized a solution when he saw it. "We've had a pretty big raccoon problem lately. I guess getting rid of those will make it easier to fix this place up."
"Raccoons, huh?" She nodded. "Hey, that beats gangs on PCP. Anyway, Mr Swanson, it was nice working with you."
"Miss Rosenberg." This time, he shook her hand when she offered it. He'd always appreciated good handywork. And though it was another thing he would never admit to another living soul, he was looking forward to seeing Leslie's face when she found out she could finally have her park.
Author: Beer Good (
beer_good_foamy)Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Parks and Recreation (post-series and season 2-ish, respectively)
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~1300
Author's notes: Buffy fans unfamiliar with Ron Swanson can get a quick introduction here.
Summary: Written for
intoabar and the prompt: Willow Rosenberg goes into a bar and meets... Ron Swanson!The Scrying of Lot 48
Ron Swanson kept coming to this bar for three things: their steaks, which were the best in Pawnee, IN; their selection of single malt whisky; and that the staff knew that he wanted to eat in peace. So what possessed the normally dependable bartender to let a young woman sit down right next to him and try to start a conversation was a complete mystery. He studiously ignored her, chewing his 12 oz steak while staring straight ahead, but when she took out her phone and started playing him a song ("...were in it, the pit, we all fell into the piiiit..."), Ron had enough. He turned his head and gave her the most withering look he could manage (which, if you've spent 20 years working in a public sector whose very existence you disagree with, is pretty withering). Mid-20s, redhead, clothes meant to look home-made even though they were clearly not, and Southern Californian to boot, which in Ron's experience was just a tiny step above European.
"Lady, I don't care what it is you're selling. I come here to get some peace and quiet. If you absolutely need to sit here, I would appreciate it if you would do so quietly."
The woman, to her credit, didn't seem too intimidated by this. She put her phone down, shutting off the racket. "Sorry. I'm kinda over college rock, anyway. Personally I'm more of a fan of... Duke Silver," she said with the sort of grin that implied she was in on a big secret. Which, of course, she was.
Ron groaned inwardly. But at least being blackmailed over his secret jazzman identity made some sort of sense. "Fine. What do you want? Is this some sort of groupie thing?"
She seemed taken aback by this. "What? No. No, sorry, you're really not my type. Which, don't get me wrong, you're very handsome and that mustache is very impressive a-as mustaches go I suppose, and I am sorry about the blackmail thing, but ... OK, getting to the point: I'm with this, um, citizen group..." (of course she was, Ron thought. Nobody ever just did things anymore) "... and with you being the director of the Parks and Recreation Department we kinda need your permission for something that needs quick and decisive action, and I tried to get in touch with you during office hours but your secretary said you were out, and - "
There was something about this that seemed awfully familiar. "Your last name isn't Knope, is it?"
"Nope. I mean, uh, no. Willow Rosenberg." She held out her hand for a few seconds, before seeming to realize that the look on Ron's face - usually reserved for vegetarians and people who bought ready-made furniture when there were perfectly good trees right outside their house - meant that most people don't shake hands in this situation. "OK. Well, like I said, my group looks into, let's say, certain kinds of places, and we keep tabs on when one of them pops up through location spe... um, keyword searches, and just the other day we got a hit on this song that seems to hint that one of those places is here in Pawnee."
She played him a few bars of the song on her phone again ("...I fell in it, the pit, you fell in it...") and after she assured him that this wouldn't cost the City of Pawnee a dime (which seemed like awful business sense to Ron) he reluctantly explained to her how there'd been a huge pit on Sullivan Street for years after a failed building project, how his deputy Leslie Knope had gotten the ludicrous idea of turning it into a park after her best friend's boyfriend stumbled into it and broke both legs, and how she'd wasted a lot of time and taxpayer's money trying to make it happen, but it was almost like the place was ...
"...Cursed?" Rosenberg offered.
"No. That'd be ridiculous."
"Because that's exactly the kinda stuff I can help you with."
Ron wasn't sure why he agreed. Maybe it was that she offered her help without expecting him to ask for it. Maybe it was that she agreed to go away for an hour and let him finish eating in peace. Maybe it was just that if she really could do something about Lot 48, Leslie could finally get to build her damn park and stop crusading about one thing, at least.
When they met up on Sullivan Street an hour later, the pit looked exactly the way it always did: a huge messy hole in the ground. At night, the shadows made it look almost bottomless in places. Rosenberg, however, seemed very excited.
"Aha! Paydirt!"
Ron sighed. "This is not paydirt. It's government dirt, the most useless of dirts. If anything, it's the literal exact opposite of paydirt."
"And you're sure you're OK with me, um, fixing this? As director you're sort of the official master of this domain, so if I have your permission this will go a lot smoother."
"For God's sake, woman, whatever you need to do, just - "
What Ron thought he saw, but obviously couldn't have been real, was that Rosenberg suddenly spoke a few words in some non-American language, then seemed to lift off the ground as her hair turned white. A light spread from her outstretched hands, covering the whole pit, until a column of bright light shot out of the bottom of the pit and dissipated into wisps of purple. A couple of figures stumbled up from the pit, baring impossibly long teeth at him, before disappearing in a stream of fire from Rosenberg's fingertips. And then the light vanished, and they were once again standing at the pit, with the stars above the twinkling in the usual way and no indication that anything weird had happened.
Ron blinked.
"There," she said brightly. "All done." She took her phone out and called someone "Hey, Dawnie. You were right, there was a hellmouth forming here, but ... No, really, don't bother, I took care of it. Sealed it right off. ... Yeah, I know, but the Slayers have enough to deal with in Cleveland, and the Lady Gaga thing. This was just a teeny tiny two-vamp hellmouth. No need to complicate things. ... 'Kay, talk to you later." She clicked off and turned to Ron, who wasn't exactly sure what he was seeing anymore. "So, that oughta do it. Should be a cinch for you guys to fill this thing in now. And again, I'm sorry about all this, but I figured, if there's a problem there's no point in not simply fixing it, y'know?"
Ron nodded. "Can't argue with that. Just... what... "
"What happened?" She gave him a strange look, equal parts curiosity and sadness. "I could, y'know, give you a good explanation of how this was completely normal and be very convincing, but that's … not really something I like to do. What do you think happened here tonight?"
"Well …" He shrugged and decided. He may not know how everything worked, but he recognized a solution when he saw it. "We've had a pretty big raccoon problem lately. I guess getting rid of those will make it easier to fix this place up."
"Raccoons, huh?" She nodded. "Hey, that beats gangs on PCP. Anyway, Mr Swanson, it was nice working with you."
"Miss Rosenberg." This time, he shook her hand when she offered it. He'd always appreciated good handywork. And though it was another thing he would never admit to another living soul, he was looking forward to seeing Leslie's face when she found out she could finally have her park.
no subject
Date: 2016-12-09 10:23 pm (UTC)