I wrote this just after watching Not Fade Away. Spoilers: Not Fade Away, mild references to Buffy Season 8, but I've only read the few beginning comics so I don't know what's going on there during Angel's series finale. This is my take on it. If you like it, comments are excellent. Hope you enjoy.
Buffy ran as fast as she could. She paid for the fastest plane, the fastest car, and when the cabman refused to take her any further, she grabbed every weapon she had brought with her. She had brought enough weapons to destroy a city.
Unfortunately, the party had started without her.
Buffy wondered how Angel would have felt if he had known how she had gotten the money. She quickly decided it didn't matter. It paid her way to L.A. more quickly, and that was what mattered. That she would be there for the fight. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her small frame, her confidence rising up and promising her that with each step she was closer to not being too late. Her mind flashed to their last conversation.
"Where are you going to go now?" he had whispered into the phone, as though afraid someone would overhear him.
"I don't know. We need somewhere big, somewhere we can keep and train all the Slayers. Maybe Cleveland; head for the other Hellmouth. Then again," she had laughed, "I don't think I'm quite ready for another Hellmouth just yet."
His voice had sounded timid, afraid. "I have some money now. You could come to Los Angeles... I could take care of you all."
"Angel," Buffy said exasperatedly, "You don't have to do that."
"I want to. If you need my help, I'm happy to do it."
If she were talking to him face to face, she would have shaken her head sadly. As it was, she simply channelled all of the emotion into the receiver. "I couldn't, Angel."
"You can. I'm not fighting your fight, I'm just... renting the battlegrounds."
Laughingly, she had replied; "No, I can't. I'm sorry."
She had almost been able to see the dejected look on his face. "Okay. Can you call me when you decide where you're going to go?"
"Sure," she had promised, her voice rich with ambiguity. "I'll call you. When we're ready."
"Be safe, Buffy."
"You too."
Not too late. Not too late. Not too late. Not too late.
The words kept in time with her hurried footsteps as her feet beat down on the pavement. There weren't nearly as many people evacuating L.A. as there had been Sunnydale, and Buffy wished desperately that she had chosen a less superstitious cabdriver.
Her view of everything was blocked by a steep hill. It was almost amusing to her, that one small obstacle could blindsight her so much.
As she sprinted down the highway and ran past the sign that told her L.A. was growing close with relief, her breath caught as a sob ripped its' way out of her chest.
She thanked God that her father had chosen to move to Spain.
Buffy ran faster, ran harder. Even with the visual evidence in front of her, the part of her that was for Angel only – the part that never stopped fighting, never gave up – told her that she could still help. There was still something she could do. She was powerful. She had superstrength. She was The Slayer, or, now, one of many. There was always something she could do. Some way she could help. There was no way that there was nothing she could do. Her mind rejected the word as it continuously broke through the walls she erected to keep out all of the hopelessness rising inside of her: useless. Right now, she was useless. She refused to accept it.
As Buffy grew close to L.A., her knees unwittingly gave out. The heat emanating from the burning city prevented her from getting closer. That, or something else.
There was nothing she could do.
No way to help.
No one left to save.
She screamed that it couldn't be true, again and again, as though someone out there would hear her and correct their mistake. She screamed a lot of things. She screamed and cursed at every God and Higher Power she knew the name of. Her body was wracked with sobs as she lay on the hot, tar pavement and clawed at it for some modicum of sanity.
"You could come to Los Angeles..."
She had paid so much to be here. She had paid, alright.
She clawed at the ground until her fingernails were completely gone, and her hands bloody. The physical pain was a cleansing fire. She welcomed it.
Buffy drew closer and closer to the city, pushing past whatever was trying to repel her. She was reduced to a crawl, eventually. Time failed to mean anything as the sun went down on the burning hell. She crawled like an animal towards it, but no matter how close she got she was never close enough, no matter how many borders she pushed. She was never there. She could never help.
Eventually she gave in and reacquainted herself with the gravel.
She cried and she screamed. She shouted and swore. She screamed his name. For hours, maybe for days, she screamed his name. Help never came. Salvation never came. He never came.
Buffy cried out all the liquid she had inside herself, refusing to look back; her gaze locked intently on the city that was ever-burning. She screamed cautions at the city that the fire would hurt him. She accused it of not appreciating what he had done for it. For all of the people in it. She told him she was sorry. She told him that she was baked. She was ready. She was a big girl now. She told him that it was okay, he could stop fighting now. He could walk out of the city and come to her. They could be together now, because she had grown up. She was ready to live with him, love him, spend the rest of her life with him. She was baked. She was baked. She was baked.
Nothing ever helped.
"I could take care of you all."
Buffy brought her head down onto the hard ground, grief overwhelming her entirely. She whimpered in fright as the familiar buzz that was her being acknowledging his presence began to subside. Before everything blacked out, a phrase flashed in her mind. She had no idea where she had heard it, but it possessed lyrical beauty that brought tears to her eyes. The words danced in her head as her eyes shut on a burning city.
Everything burns.