sevendeadlyfun (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sevendeadlyfun) wrote2008-05-03 07:53 pm
sevendeadlyfun) wrote2008-05-03 07:53 pm
Entry tags:
Crossing Paths (1/1)
Characters: Buffy, mentions of Spike/Buffy and Buffy/Angel
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The photo rests against the mirror and she reaches for it, her fingers idly caressing the thin paper edges. After a chance meeting, Buffy reflects on the men she loves...
A/N: This was born in part from the James/Sarah Michelle photo taken at the Paley Reunion and encouraged by the discussions on Spuffy at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
girlpire's journal. And a thank you to clawofcat for the many characterization discussions we've been having. They really keep me on my toes...
NOTE: This is post-comics canon but knowledge of the comics isn't necessary. It's just my interpretation of an older Buffy and how she might react to Spike after all that time...
It’s Tuesday. She thinks it’s Tuesday. Staring at the mirror, she tries to remember why she thought teleporting into the middle of a demonic war was a good idea. She’s fairly certain it’s Xander’s fault. He was baiting her again, the usual lines about not being fit for the fight. Gets her every time and he knows it. Knows her, she’s forced to admit, all too well. It’s been just about 15 years since that first day at Sunnydale High when she bounced in, opening his eyes and endangering his life.
She’s thirty. Even if her vanity pipes up to say she doesn’t look thirty, she’s still thirty. She’s still the oldest Slayer and she knows she owes that to luck as much as skill. There have been fights she shouldn’t have escaped, close scrapes that should have planted her firmly back in the ground. She likes living, enjoys it now in a way she couldn’t before the spell. Looking back on it, she’s grateful to Willow for pulling her from the grave. It wasn’t right and it damn near killed them all, but Spike was right. The pain of living is better than the perfection of death.
The photo rests against the mirror and she reaches for it, her fingers idly caressing the thin paper edges. He’d been happy to see her. She thinks he was happy. Spike is different now, not as easy to understand. Too much time with Angel, maybe. Angel practically perfected the inscrutable expression.
Maybe that’s what went wrong between them. Her fingers drop away, even if her eyes stay firmly focused. She and Angel were so alike, so unwilling to remove the barriers and just let someone in. It was what she loved about him and what she hated about him. He was unattainable and that made loving him…safe. No worries Angel would ever drag her away from her friends or her calling. Hell, he’d be the first to tell her that saving the world was more important than the two of them. Angel was sometimes clichéd.
Spike’s openness, his willingness to wear his heart on his sleeve…she’d loved that about him. She’d seldom had to ferret out his thoughts or his motives or even his moods. They all paraded across his face, even when he hated her. She loved him for that and she hated him for that. Why should those feelings rest so easy on the face of a demon when they sat so uneasily in the heart of a Slayer?
Still staring at the two of them together, she grants him points for style. The new look is just as reckless and rebellious as the old one. A plain white Oxford and a headful of curls is almost heretical when compared to the press and polish of most men. She blinks furiously, because missing that horrible bleach job and dated leather coat is equally heretical.
He looks larger, as if he’d filled out. She sighs because she wonders if being away from her is just better for him. She wonders the same thing about Angel. After he moved to L.A., he’d lost the leanness that made him look haunted, battered. Or maybe they were always bigger than her and she never noticed. Maybe Willow was right and she minimized people.
Her cell phone chirrups at her, the noise dragging from her thoughts. It’s late, Dawn will be calling for an update and then she’ll need to sleep, or at least pretend to sleep. Sleep is another thing that isn’t as easy as it used to be.
Buffy curls her fingers around the photo, pulling it with her as she moves away from the mirror. He’s still in her heart, even if he’s not in her bed. She told him that, when they’d crossed paths. Crossed paths were his words.
“Can’t possess you,” he’d said quietly, and the grin on his face doesn’t match the solemnity of his eyes. “You an’ me only ever crossed paths, luv. But I’d rather have a bit of you than the whole of another woman.”
She slides the photo under her pillow and closes her eyes. She smiles faintly, a reflection of the ebullient grin from the photo. She and Spike could spend eternity just crossing paths. Crossing paths, crossing swords, crossing boundaries, and it’s almost enough for her. Almost…
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The photo rests against the mirror and she reaches for it, her fingers idly caressing the thin paper edges. After a chance meeting, Buffy reflects on the men she loves...
A/N: This was born in part from the James/Sarah Michelle photo taken at the Paley Reunion and encouraged by the discussions on Spuffy at
girlpire's journal. And a thank you to clawofcat for the many characterization discussions we've been having. They really keep me on my toes...NOTE: This is post-comics canon but knowledge of the comics isn't necessary. It's just my interpretation of an older Buffy and how she might react to Spike after all that time...
It’s Tuesday. She thinks it’s Tuesday. Staring at the mirror, she tries to remember why she thought teleporting into the middle of a demonic war was a good idea. She’s fairly certain it’s Xander’s fault. He was baiting her again, the usual lines about not being fit for the fight. Gets her every time and he knows it. Knows her, she’s forced to admit, all too well. It’s been just about 15 years since that first day at Sunnydale High when she bounced in, opening his eyes and endangering his life.
She’s thirty. Even if her vanity pipes up to say she doesn’t look thirty, she’s still thirty. She’s still the oldest Slayer and she knows she owes that to luck as much as skill. There have been fights she shouldn’t have escaped, close scrapes that should have planted her firmly back in the ground. She likes living, enjoys it now in a way she couldn’t before the spell. Looking back on it, she’s grateful to Willow for pulling her from the grave. It wasn’t right and it damn near killed them all, but Spike was right. The pain of living is better than the perfection of death.
The photo rests against the mirror and she reaches for it, her fingers idly caressing the thin paper edges. He’d been happy to see her. She thinks he was happy. Spike is different now, not as easy to understand. Too much time with Angel, maybe. Angel practically perfected the inscrutable expression.
Maybe that’s what went wrong between them. Her fingers drop away, even if her eyes stay firmly focused. She and Angel were so alike, so unwilling to remove the barriers and just let someone in. It was what she loved about him and what she hated about him. He was unattainable and that made loving him…safe. No worries Angel would ever drag her away from her friends or her calling. Hell, he’d be the first to tell her that saving the world was more important than the two of them. Angel was sometimes clichéd.
Spike’s openness, his willingness to wear his heart on his sleeve…she’d loved that about him. She’d seldom had to ferret out his thoughts or his motives or even his moods. They all paraded across his face, even when he hated her. She loved him for that and she hated him for that. Why should those feelings rest so easy on the face of a demon when they sat so uneasily in the heart of a Slayer?
Still staring at the two of them together, she grants him points for style. The new look is just as reckless and rebellious as the old one. A plain white Oxford and a headful of curls is almost heretical when compared to the press and polish of most men. She blinks furiously, because missing that horrible bleach job and dated leather coat is equally heretical.
He looks larger, as if he’d filled out. She sighs because she wonders if being away from her is just better for him. She wonders the same thing about Angel. After he moved to L.A., he’d lost the leanness that made him look haunted, battered. Or maybe they were always bigger than her and she never noticed. Maybe Willow was right and she minimized people.
Her cell phone chirrups at her, the noise dragging from her thoughts. It’s late, Dawn will be calling for an update and then she’ll need to sleep, or at least pretend to sleep. Sleep is another thing that isn’t as easy as it used to be.
Buffy curls her fingers around the photo, pulling it with her as she moves away from the mirror. He’s still in her heart, even if he’s not in her bed. She told him that, when they’d crossed paths. Crossed paths were his words.
“Can’t possess you,” he’d said quietly, and the grin on his face doesn’t match the solemnity of his eyes. “You an’ me only ever crossed paths, luv. But I’d rather have a bit of you than the whole of another woman.”
She slides the photo under her pillow and closes her eyes. She smiles faintly, a reflection of the ebullient grin from the photo. She and Spike could spend eternity just crossing paths. Crossing paths, crossing swords, crossing boundaries, and it’s almost enough for her. Almost…
no subject
YAY! Thanks, honey!
no subject
Well, except Ashes; I'm waiting until it's done just so I don't have to wait for then end. *g*