Title: Once Again
Author: Red Leopard
Date: 24/03/04
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Seasons 6, and 7 Buffy
Pairing: None
Summary: Anya. Thinking. Not talking. Two things she doesn't do very often.
Note: Sequel of sorts to Slippage.
The door clicked into place behind Buffy's departing back, and she was once again alone in her apartment. She could feel the cold soak melting into her jeans where she held the makeshift icepack. Her legs were probably dripping in blue right now. Cheap jeans were a better investment, but the dyes weren't always colorfast. She looked round, scowling at the devastation. Why did Buffy always leave a trail of broken furniture in her wake, no matter what she turned up for? It wasn't Buffy's fault. She knew this. It was Buffy's job, protecting people, but it was financially unsound, continually replacing nearly new chairs and tables (Picked up from Ebay in return for a useless old cyborg she'd tracked down. What a sucker that buyer had been.).
Assassins? Honestly. She would have thought D'Hoffryn have more important people to exact justice on. Who was he anyway to tell her what she could and couldn't do with her life anyway? Huh. He was just like every other male. He'd claimed he wanted what was best for her, but got all huffy when she struck out on her own, which really, when you thought about it, meant he was worse for her than Xander.
Xander. Non threatening, comfortable Xander. She should really tell him about this. Her arm reached out toward the phone without any conscious effort. And stopped short when she realized what she was doing. She didn't have to tell him about this at all. It wasn't any of his business anymore. Buffy knew and would keep an eye on the situation. There wasn't anything Xander could do anyway, and he would only worry, and that would lead to him checking up on her, which would lead to questions, which would irritate her because he was interfering again, and didn't he know she could take care of herself? Why, she had for nearly a thousand years, hadn't she? She may not have her powers anymore but she still knew a trick or two so how dare he treat her as if she was a child that needed to be protected all the time! If he thought he could slink back into her life after he dumped her so humiliatingly, just by taking care of her when her life was in danger, well he had another thing coming.
A door slamming in another apartment broke her from her reverie. She sighed and let her arm drop to her side again. There was no point in getting angry with Xander. He hadn't even known she'd been attacked, let alone tried to help her. And Buffy would tell him anyway. This was just so confusing. After the being really angry and trying to eviscerate him had passed, she'd thought she would become a confident, independent woman, like the ones on Sex and the City. Not always perfectly happy, but strong and determined, and with really good shoes.
Instead she was ducking hit men and turning every day to tell Xander something important about money or laundry or bloodsucking fiends from hell, only to remember he wasn't there to tell, and never would be again. It was worse than when Joyce died really. At least when that happened Anya knew she would never get to speak to Joyce again. Xander though – she ran into him every week almost. Scooby meetings, coffee runs to the Espresso Pump round the corner from her also destroyed shop (again Buffy slaying more than just demons), him trying to prevent Buffy from killing her, before they got over the whole vengeance demon problem and decided they could still be friends after all. How was she supposed to stop wanting to talk to him when he was always not quite not there? Every time they bumped into each other she felt like her insides were being rotated. Was she ever going to start feeling like a whole being again, like there was just the one of her, not as if she'd been split down the middle and somehow lost track of the rest of herself? Worse, who was the rest of herself anyway? What if there was nothing more of her? What if she was only any good with Xander to keep her from falling over?
A tingling in her left foot told her she'd been sitting still too long, reminding her of those boring math classes she'd had to attend after she'd made such a hash of Cordelia's wish. Her legs used to go numb during those as well. And her brain. She'd been going to flunk that course, not because she couldn't do the math, but because the teacher bored her to tears. Then the little matter of the mayor's ascension had distracted most of the school, and no one had really been worrying about anything apart from imminent death and destruction. Maybe there would be more of it soon. D'Hoffryn had mentioned something about it before he'd teleported off in a huff. Well it would certainly keep her mind off the ex-men in her life and give her something to focus on. She could only hope. Huh. Maybe she wasn't quite as ex-demon yet as she liked to imagine she was.
She moved the dripping cloth off her leg and threw it on the table next to her. Cloth met wood with a damp slap. She stood up and gently rotated her ankle to get the blood circulating again, looking around at the devastated room. Well, if she was going to have to straighten everything up she may as well rearrange the room while she was at it. She picked up a yellow pillow and plumped it halfheartedly, not entirely sure what the point was anymore. Nothing in Sunnydale stayed where you put it.
Finis.
Author: Red Leopard
Date: 24/03/04
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Seasons 6, and 7 Buffy
Pairing: None
Summary: Anya. Thinking. Not talking. Two things she doesn't do very often.
Note: Sequel of sorts to Slippage.
The door clicked into place behind Buffy's departing back, and she was once again alone in her apartment. She could feel the cold soak melting into her jeans where she held the makeshift icepack. Her legs were probably dripping in blue right now. Cheap jeans were a better investment, but the dyes weren't always colorfast. She looked round, scowling at the devastation. Why did Buffy always leave a trail of broken furniture in her wake, no matter what she turned up for? It wasn't Buffy's fault. She knew this. It was Buffy's job, protecting people, but it was financially unsound, continually replacing nearly new chairs and tables (Picked up from Ebay in return for a useless old cyborg she'd tracked down. What a sucker that buyer had been.).
Assassins? Honestly. She would have thought D'Hoffryn have more important people to exact justice on. Who was he anyway to tell her what she could and couldn't do with her life anyway? Huh. He was just like every other male. He'd claimed he wanted what was best for her, but got all huffy when she struck out on her own, which really, when you thought about it, meant he was worse for her than Xander.
Xander. Non threatening, comfortable Xander. She should really tell him about this. Her arm reached out toward the phone without any conscious effort. And stopped short when she realized what she was doing. She didn't have to tell him about this at all. It wasn't any of his business anymore. Buffy knew and would keep an eye on the situation. There wasn't anything Xander could do anyway, and he would only worry, and that would lead to him checking up on her, which would lead to questions, which would irritate her because he was interfering again, and didn't he know she could take care of herself? Why, she had for nearly a thousand years, hadn't she? She may not have her powers anymore but she still knew a trick or two so how dare he treat her as if she was a child that needed to be protected all the time! If he thought he could slink back into her life after he dumped her so humiliatingly, just by taking care of her when her life was in danger, well he had another thing coming.
A door slamming in another apartment broke her from her reverie. She sighed and let her arm drop to her side again. There was no point in getting angry with Xander. He hadn't even known she'd been attacked, let alone tried to help her. And Buffy would tell him anyway. This was just so confusing. After the being really angry and trying to eviscerate him had passed, she'd thought she would become a confident, independent woman, like the ones on Sex and the City. Not always perfectly happy, but strong and determined, and with really good shoes.
Instead she was ducking hit men and turning every day to tell Xander something important about money or laundry or bloodsucking fiends from hell, only to remember he wasn't there to tell, and never would be again. It was worse than when Joyce died really. At least when that happened Anya knew she would never get to speak to Joyce again. Xander though – she ran into him every week almost. Scooby meetings, coffee runs to the Espresso Pump round the corner from her also destroyed shop (again Buffy slaying more than just demons), him trying to prevent Buffy from killing her, before they got over the whole vengeance demon problem and decided they could still be friends after all. How was she supposed to stop wanting to talk to him when he was always not quite not there? Every time they bumped into each other she felt like her insides were being rotated. Was she ever going to start feeling like a whole being again, like there was just the one of her, not as if she'd been split down the middle and somehow lost track of the rest of herself? Worse, who was the rest of herself anyway? What if there was nothing more of her? What if she was only any good with Xander to keep her from falling over?
A tingling in her left foot told her she'd been sitting still too long, reminding her of those boring math classes she'd had to attend after she'd made such a hash of Cordelia's wish. Her legs used to go numb during those as well. And her brain. She'd been going to flunk that course, not because she couldn't do the math, but because the teacher bored her to tears. Then the little matter of the mayor's ascension had distracted most of the school, and no one had really been worrying about anything apart from imminent death and destruction. Maybe there would be more of it soon. D'Hoffryn had mentioned something about it before he'd teleported off in a huff. Well it would certainly keep her mind off the ex-men in her life and give her something to focus on. She could only hope. Huh. Maybe she wasn't quite as ex-demon yet as she liked to imagine she was.
She moved the dripping cloth off her leg and threw it on the table next to her. Cloth met wood with a damp slap. She stood up and gently rotated her ankle to get the blood circulating again, looking around at the devastated room. Well, if she was going to have to straighten everything up she may as well rearrange the room while she was at it. She picked up a yellow pillow and plumped it halfheartedly, not entirely sure what the point was anymore. Nothing in Sunnydale stayed where you put it.
Finis.