Title: Not Just a Punk Song
Author: Starla (fuzzylittlepackrat@hotmail.com or throwmywalrus@bored.com)
Disclaimer: Joss owns it all. I'll let him keep it as long as he never lets
Alyson Hannigan sing ever again.
Distribution: Take it. Let me know.
Spoilers: Once More With Feeling, the resurrection arc, Darla arc.
Summary: Buffy walks through the fire.
Author's Notes: This sucks. I'm sorry. It's just - bad. And the emotion
isn't too good, and I didn't really get across what I wanted to say. Whoops.
Feedback: Yes, please.
--
I walk with purpose, one-two-three-four stride, and when I smash through the
doors of that big old hotel, I feel the phantom echoes of that damned
infernal music in my blood.
((It's not real - I just want to feel))
I wish it had worked; I wish I could have plundered Spike's mouth and felt
it in my veins, but I didn't, and there's not much I can do about that.
I want Spike, I'll admit that; but it's not my body that's starving for
sensation.
So, hello, L.A, hello, mate of my soul, so lovely to see you again.
And there he is, pouring coffee into a mug, and shouting instructions to
someone in the next room. The instant he feels my presence, he looks up.
"Buffy? What are you doing?"
I don't break my stride as I walk right up to him. "Walking through the
fire," I tell him, a split second before my lips close over his, and for a
moment, it's heaven all over again, spark of recognition, homecoming of the
heart.
I kiss him.
I kiss him.
I kiss him.
And, oh, isn't this everything I've needed since I ((arose)) woke in that
damn coffin, and scraped my hands bloody on polished oak and rotting silk?
He seems to lose himself in my kiss for a moment, the coffee cup falling to
the floor with a smash, forgotten. His arms inch around my waist, and he
pulls me closer, closer, his hands biting into my back, gentleness,
tenderness, thrown aside in the desperate insanity to just be close to one
another.
It's been so long.
I pull away and press my forehead to his, and feel myself really smiling for
the first time in god-knows-how-long, and I feel laughter bubbling up inside
me, because, hello, life, how I've missed you.
"That's what I call letting it burn," I say, burrowing my face in his neck,
feeling this bizarre warmth seeping into my cheeks.
Woah. I think those are tears. Who knew I was still capable of those?
"Buffy," he whispers, his voice thick with confusion and wonder and that
rapidly disappearing ache for me. "Buffy."
"All of Sunnydale burst into song," I tell him. "It was this whole big
thing."
His eyes are dark as black coffee as he studies me, and his forehead
creases. "You're-"
"Alive?"
"I knew you were alive already," he snaps, hating the reminder that I was,
at some point, rather blatantly not-alive.
"Really? That makes one of us."
And isn't that true? I've felt dead for as long as I've been re-alive. I
felt dead the last time I saw him, and even his kiss wasn't enough to awaken
this sleeping beauty, then.
I guess it's all at the surface, this time. I guess, before I came here, I
could feel my heart beating, and the fire close to my skin, and just about
every part of me waking up again in the face of so much --
Stuff.
There's a lot of stuff in life, have you ever noticed that? In death,
there's not much at all. There's warmth, and there's contentment, but there
isn't really much *stuff*, and if I had had a proper human consciousness
there, I probably would have been bored out of my mind.
It's funny, though. When you're there, there's no need for stuff, or for
tangible human company, because you can feel it all, anyway. There's no
boredom. There's no uncertainty.
There's too much damn uncertainty in my life.
I snuggle in against Angel's chest, and look down at the coffee, splattered
over our shoes, bits of mug stretching from us to almost the other side of
the desk. "You spilled your coffee."
"You took me by surprise." I can still hear the bewilderment in his voice.
"I think it's part of my new dramatic, theatrical persona. I'm considering
calling her 'Buffionia Del Los Summertos' and giving her a harem of lovers."
I smile up at him, feeling young and goofy and chatty, and for a moment,
it's like I never knew the taste of heaven at all. "You wanna be one?"
"You're all... happy."
"I wouldn't go that far," I say, and feel my good mood slipping. "Hey!
You're swinging my mood!"
"I don't mean to - swing," he objects, "Just - last time you saw me, you
were kind of..."
"Icy?" I suggest, and then roll my eyes, "Have I not sufficiently explained
the 'Walking Through Fire' thing?"
"That'd be a no," he tells me. "I got lost at 'burst into song'."
I kiss him again, because I can feel myself growing numb once more, and I
don't want that.
I'm not stupid; I know Angel can't fix everything. I know that this - me
being here, falling into his armsmouthlove, won't make everything okay
permanently...
What's got me feeling good is more that I know it's possible that I *can*
fix things. I'm giddy at the prospect of not being a lost cause when it
comes to human emotion.
"I'll explain it all, sometime," I promise him, with a quick kiss. "So...
what's been happening with you?"
"I got another woman pregnant."
See? There goes anger. Wheeee! Go me.
No, wait, there goes anger. "What the hell?" My fingers tighten painfully on
his back. "Angel, you're the epitome of the barren wastelands! What do you
*MEAN* you got another woman *PREGNANT*??"
"I'm not sure I need to explain the concept of reproduction to you, Buffy."
"In relation to you, you better damn explain it." My lips tremble. "Who is
she? Are you..." I feel my stomach bottom out, and for a moment it's like
jumping and falling all over again. "In love with her?"
"I'm in love with *you*!" he tells me, horrified, as if he can't fathom that
I doubt his devotion. "I- I don't know what I feel about her."
"Who is she?" I repeat, gritting my teeth and my fists and my very soul.
"Darla."
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
"Either you're hallucinating, or they just don't make death like they used
to."
"Resurrection."
I pout, "And here I thought I was the only one."
His hand reaches out and smoothes over my hair. "If you don't want to be
here, I understand. If you've changed your mind about-"
"Walking through the fire?" I ask. "No, I'm just going to let it burn."
After all, I just gotta find me a song I can stand to sing.
I figure, as long as Angel's nearby - but not doing any vocal back up
whatsoever, because I've heard him sing, and it's a thousand times worse
than even Willow - I can get him to help me with my melody.
Y'know - as long as I'm in the neighbourhood.
Author: Starla (fuzzylittlepackrat@hotmail.com or throwmywalrus@bored.com)
Disclaimer: Joss owns it all. I'll let him keep it as long as he never lets
Alyson Hannigan sing ever again.
Distribution: Take it. Let me know.
Spoilers: Once More With Feeling, the resurrection arc, Darla arc.
Summary: Buffy walks through the fire.
Author's Notes: This sucks. I'm sorry. It's just - bad. And the emotion
isn't too good, and I didn't really get across what I wanted to say. Whoops.
Feedback: Yes, please.
--
I walk with purpose, one-two-three-four stride, and when I smash through the
doors of that big old hotel, I feel the phantom echoes of that damned
infernal music in my blood.
((It's not real - I just want to feel))
I wish it had worked; I wish I could have plundered Spike's mouth and felt
it in my veins, but I didn't, and there's not much I can do about that.
I want Spike, I'll admit that; but it's not my body that's starving for
sensation.
So, hello, L.A, hello, mate of my soul, so lovely to see you again.
And there he is, pouring coffee into a mug, and shouting instructions to
someone in the next room. The instant he feels my presence, he looks up.
"Buffy? What are you doing?"
I don't break my stride as I walk right up to him. "Walking through the
fire," I tell him, a split second before my lips close over his, and for a
moment, it's heaven all over again, spark of recognition, homecoming of the
heart.
I kiss him.
I kiss him.
I kiss him.
And, oh, isn't this everything I've needed since I ((arose)) woke in that
damn coffin, and scraped my hands bloody on polished oak and rotting silk?
He seems to lose himself in my kiss for a moment, the coffee cup falling to
the floor with a smash, forgotten. His arms inch around my waist, and he
pulls me closer, closer, his hands biting into my back, gentleness,
tenderness, thrown aside in the desperate insanity to just be close to one
another.
It's been so long.
I pull away and press my forehead to his, and feel myself really smiling for
the first time in god-knows-how-long, and I feel laughter bubbling up inside
me, because, hello, life, how I've missed you.
"That's what I call letting it burn," I say, burrowing my face in his neck,
feeling this bizarre warmth seeping into my cheeks.
Woah. I think those are tears. Who knew I was still capable of those?
"Buffy," he whispers, his voice thick with confusion and wonder and that
rapidly disappearing ache for me. "Buffy."
"All of Sunnydale burst into song," I tell him. "It was this whole big
thing."
His eyes are dark as black coffee as he studies me, and his forehead
creases. "You're-"
"Alive?"
"I knew you were alive already," he snaps, hating the reminder that I was,
at some point, rather blatantly not-alive.
"Really? That makes one of us."
And isn't that true? I've felt dead for as long as I've been re-alive. I
felt dead the last time I saw him, and even his kiss wasn't enough to awaken
this sleeping beauty, then.
I guess it's all at the surface, this time. I guess, before I came here, I
could feel my heart beating, and the fire close to my skin, and just about
every part of me waking up again in the face of so much --
Stuff.
There's a lot of stuff in life, have you ever noticed that? In death,
there's not much at all. There's warmth, and there's contentment, but there
isn't really much *stuff*, and if I had had a proper human consciousness
there, I probably would have been bored out of my mind.
It's funny, though. When you're there, there's no need for stuff, or for
tangible human company, because you can feel it all, anyway. There's no
boredom. There's no uncertainty.
There's too much damn uncertainty in my life.
I snuggle in against Angel's chest, and look down at the coffee, splattered
over our shoes, bits of mug stretching from us to almost the other side of
the desk. "You spilled your coffee."
"You took me by surprise." I can still hear the bewilderment in his voice.
"I think it's part of my new dramatic, theatrical persona. I'm considering
calling her 'Buffionia Del Los Summertos' and giving her a harem of lovers."
I smile up at him, feeling young and goofy and chatty, and for a moment,
it's like I never knew the taste of heaven at all. "You wanna be one?"
"You're all... happy."
"I wouldn't go that far," I say, and feel my good mood slipping. "Hey!
You're swinging my mood!"
"I don't mean to - swing," he objects, "Just - last time you saw me, you
were kind of..."
"Icy?" I suggest, and then roll my eyes, "Have I not sufficiently explained
the 'Walking Through Fire' thing?"
"That'd be a no," he tells me. "I got lost at 'burst into song'."
I kiss him again, because I can feel myself growing numb once more, and I
don't want that.
I'm not stupid; I know Angel can't fix everything. I know that this - me
being here, falling into his armsmouthlove, won't make everything okay
permanently...
What's got me feeling good is more that I know it's possible that I *can*
fix things. I'm giddy at the prospect of not being a lost cause when it
comes to human emotion.
"I'll explain it all, sometime," I promise him, with a quick kiss. "So...
what's been happening with you?"
"I got another woman pregnant."
See? There goes anger. Wheeee! Go me.
No, wait, there goes anger. "What the hell?" My fingers tighten painfully on
his back. "Angel, you're the epitome of the barren wastelands! What do you
*MEAN* you got another woman *PREGNANT*??"
"I'm not sure I need to explain the concept of reproduction to you, Buffy."
"In relation to you, you better damn explain it." My lips tremble. "Who is
she? Are you..." I feel my stomach bottom out, and for a moment it's like
jumping and falling all over again. "In love with her?"
"I'm in love with *you*!" he tells me, horrified, as if he can't fathom that
I doubt his devotion. "I- I don't know what I feel about her."
"Who is she?" I repeat, gritting my teeth and my fists and my very soul.
"Darla."
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
"Either you're hallucinating, or they just don't make death like they used
to."
"Resurrection."
I pout, "And here I thought I was the only one."
His hand reaches out and smoothes over my hair. "If you don't want to be
here, I understand. If you've changed your mind about-"
"Walking through the fire?" I ask. "No, I'm just going to let it burn."
After all, I just gotta find me a song I can stand to sing.
I figure, as long as Angel's nearby - but not doing any vocal back up
whatsoever, because I've heard him sing, and it's a thousand times worse
than even Willow - I can get him to help me with my melody.
Y'know - as long as I'm in the neighbourhood.