Carpe Diem
by ames
Buffy. Gen.
She wonders sometimes if it's worth it. If she's really making a difference, or if it's time to let another Slayer take a whack at defending the world. The trade off between her life and the life of the world is not a fair one, and the constant knowledge of her incipient mortality rankles. It's not something that she discusses with anyone. Facts are facts, and she is in the unenviable position of Having a Destiny.
This is something she should have come to terms with long ago, anyway. The life of a Slayer is brilliant and brief, a firecracker surrounded by pillar candles.
How many apocalypses? Four? Seven? How many rescues? Adam and the Mayor, the Master, Spike and Drusilla and Angelus - how many vampires staked, demons killed, disasters averted? How many sprained fingers, cracked ribs? How many times has Xander hurt his arm, or Giles his head? How many of everything in the past five years?
She used to keep track. Tick marks on the inside of her hope chest, on the wall next to the battleaxe. Careful tallies at the end of the week. Grand totals in her diary ("Brian Hurley smiled at me in Science. I got three vamps on patrol tonight - that makes nine for the week. I wonder if Angel will show up tonight?") The money her father sent to be banked for her future was spent replacing the clothes that were ruined each night - since she wasn't going to have a future anyway. The clothes had their own separate tally.
After a while, though, she stopped. It was more depressing, less inspirational. X number killed, how many more to come? And how long did she have left to fight them?
On her darkest days, she imagines her funeral. Never her death, just the aftermath. Her mom crying, Willow a dismal wreck, maybe her dad would show. Or at least send a card. The men would be strong and stoic, saving their tears for later. Everyone would wear black, and she'd have a tasteful floral arrangement on her coffin. The churchbell would chime out the hour, and they'd all leave in silence and tears. Angel would come that night to pay his respects, and maybe cry a little. With luck, there would be no chance of her being turned - she's not even sure if Slayers can be turned, and she's not eager to ask. If there was a danger, Giles would take care of it, and her coffin would be a symbolic one.
This funeral scene doesn't bother her.
They would grieve, and when the new slayer came to Sunnydale, they would naturally help her. Maybe her mother would take her in - a foster home for Slayers. The Sunnydale package, complete with ex-watcher, two witches, a former demon and civilian support.
The thought of her replacement doesn't bother her.
That fact does bother her.
The other day Anya made one of her usual "in my twelve-hundred years as a demon" comments, and Buffy was stunned by the sudden crackle of jealousy and anger that ripped through her. It took every drop of self-control not to scream, to reach across and slap Anya's mouth shut, to bang her fist and wail about how much she would love to see *thirty-five* and how dare Anya brag about having lived for centuries!
She was successful, she guessed. No one noticed the tension in her arms, and no one ever questions the sudden need for a bathroom break, even if all she did was splash cold water on her face and stare blankly in the mirror.
The hunt is seductive, heavy humid air pressing on her, whispering trees. She does this better than anyone else in the world, and she knows it. She is at the top of the class for the first time ever, and the best in her field. At night, when she slips quietly through graveyards or steps carefully in the sewers, her senses are preternaturally acute, humming with awareness. She feels like every falling leaf and every worm in the earth are speaking to her, telling her "go there, go there, the evil is there, save us, save the world". And she loves it, she revels in the strength of her body, the swiftness of her attack. The vampires hide from her, knowing her face and spreading stories of a Slayer unlike any other, a relentless foe who does not just stake - who kills with dark joy.
This too is a secret known only to her. She slips out after "patrol" (which has become more of a formality, as the gang comes with her and gossips) exchanging the dreamworld for the reality of Hunt, Fight, Death.
She is pretty, petite, and blonde. Her clothes are trendy to the minute, and her hair is always perfect. She paints her toenails every other night, bathes her hands in scented soaps and lotions, and gets a new manicure weekly. Accessories are chosen with care, and an eye towards the stylish, an orange bag, an animal-print sunglasses case. Her ears are pierced, her teeth white, her eyes bright, her smile wide. Her body is toned, strong without being overly muscular. She is witty, good in bed, and loved by her mother and friends.
Sometimes this is all she has to remind her of her other life. DayBuffy and NightBuffy. Buffy Summers, popular college student and Buffy Summers, doomed Vampire Slayer.
But now it is summer, with its longer days and quieter Hellmouth. She indulges in lazy mornings, padding downstairs for waffle breakfasts with her mother. Later, she might meet Willow and Tara for iced mochas and a trip to the movies. Yesterday she killed a vampire who was about to lunch on a convenience store clerk. The night before, she and Giles destroyed the lair of some demon whose name even he had trouble pronouncing. Xander's birthday came and went, complete with requisite party at the Bronze and slow dances with all of "his gals".
And she wonders if maybe it's not time to retire after all. Maybe, if this is what she's going to have, she should take it and keep it and fight for it. Maybe it's really about grasping every moment and holding it tightly, loving her friends and family, and keeping the world safe another night.
Maybe that's enough.
END