Title: Maybe This Time
Word Count: 680
Summary: A visit to Buffy’s brain, as well as her basement, circa Chosen in BtVS Season 7.
A/N: Thanks to snickfic for the once over. (It wasn’t like that.) And, yes, I blame Glee for putting the song of the title in my head.
Love is like…
…oxygen? (Eh. I’ve gone without.)
…a battlefield? (Warmer.)
…a warm puppy? (Hmm. Oh, wait. That’s happiness.)
…never having to say you’re sorry? (I’m not even going to touch that one.)
…the hardest thing in a world of very hard things? (Bingo. Yahtzee. Whatever.)
Stupid Moulin Rouge with its
Not with my own hands, anyway.
God! I’m surprised he didn’t gouge out his eyes after tonight. Stupid Buffy! Kissing Angel, and for what? Hello? We aren’t that kind of greeters. He’s barely even a hugger! I guess we might’ve been hello kissers, once upon a time, but it’s been over a year since the absolutely, positively last goodbye kiss. Until tonight.
“Well, any port in an apocalypse...”
Argh! It doesn’t do any good to beat myself up about this. It’s done, Spike’s still got his eyeballs (even if Xander doesn’t), and what was that thing about saying you’re sorry? Would it hurt anything to say it?
Besides, it’s the eve of another apocalypse. Apocalypse Eve eve. That’s what I should be thinking about…
Look at him. I shouldn’t look. Every time I look, it feels like something inside me wants to jump out. Things like smiles and soft words and softer kisses. I could kiss him right now, while he’s sleeping. Just there, on his temple. I could brush his hair back with my hand (even though it’s already out of the way) and touch his skin with my lips. I could close my eyes, breathe him in and nuzzle his face. His ear.
But I can’t. There’s a war on. With people dying, like people tend to do. Love, especially the problematic area of Buffy love is off the menu.
“Does it have to mean something?”
I’m such a coward. Why did I say that? Why is the big bad slayer afraid of those three little words? Yeah, yeah, I’ve been hurt before. Who hasn’t? Him too, and not just by me. What do I think is going to happen if I just spit it out? He’ll leave? In the words of the Bard, “Not bloody likely.”
It’s ridiculous that I feel like such a loser in love. One bad breakup, one fair-to-middling one, and one that didn’t seem to take. That kind of history doesn’t exactly make me Anna Karenina. (Except I dropped out of Russian Lit before I found out what happened to her.)
And look! I’ve got a champion in my…spare cot. Most girls my age don’t have champions. Most slayers don’t even get ‘em, I’ll bet. This hand I’m holding is the hand of a sleeping champion. My sleeping champion. God, Spike’s hands are huge! I never really thought about it, but I guess it’s true what they say.
I’d better get up. Get a little air. It’s hot down here.
Oh, for crying out loud! Not this again. If the First thinks all this trash talk is going to get to me, it doesn’t know me very well. I’ve bested Cordelia Chase at this game, or almost.
“Then why aren't you asleep in your dead lover's arms?”
“You’re right.” That shut it up. Buh bye.
He’s awake. Footwear? He wants to know if something is wrong. I think maybe …
“I just realized something. Something that really never occurred to me before. We're gonna win.”
I look at him, sitting there, open, trusting. Even after everything. Not going anywhere. Not running away.
Maybe this time I’ll win.