Kings of Nothing

She's perfect. Loves his cooking, laughs at his jokes.

He doesn't even mind that she works. It is the … whirr, click … nineties, after all, and it shows a certain spirit and determination he admires. As long as she doesn't step too far out of bounds … but, the cookies take care of that.

There's only one problem. Not insurmountable, but pesky and getting peskier.

A family was his first choice, but maybe it'll be better if it's just the two of them.

(Besides, everyone knows that three's a crowd.)

And if it doesn't work out, he can always find another one.


"Where can we get a real smoke around here?"

"You mean, like … grass?"

"Doesn't have to be grass. Just … something."

Bloody Yanks. The mellower the better, maaan. He pictures her naked in a field of daisies, talking about rainbows, Seals and Crofts warbling like fucking ponces in the background.

He kisses her, feels her up a little, thinks maybe he could put up with a few daisies and rainbows and Seals and Crofts. Even that Juice Newton coat isn't bad.

While she re-adjusts her knickers, he re-fastens his jeans, pauses as she cracks her gum, dangles the handcuffs.

"Once more?"


"That's a beautiful dress," he says with a smile. "You look gorgeous."

She smiles back and thanks him. "That's nice of you to say."

"Yeah, really. Like one of those cameos we don't know anything about."

"Um, if cameos wore dresses?"

"So, you do know more than I do."

She laughs a little and he laughs too.

At the restaurant, he asks about Buffy and Dawn. He can tell she worries, even now she's out of the woods.

The next day, he sends flowers and a card.

Later, there are different flowers and he addresses the card to her daughters.


He hears it through the demon-vine: Slayer's mum's dead.

He feels … not numb. Can't cry when you're numb. Can't tear the head off the bastard you hear laughing about it, watch him burst into dust in front of his mates.

He should've been there. She'd still be walking around, laughing, talking about the gallery. Making him chocolate with little marshmallows.

Buffy and Dawn would learn to love her again.

He needs something pretty, but he spent his last wad on smokes and she wouldn't want him to kill a florist. He steals some from a garden. Hopes they're good enough.


They try not to argue, but it's hard sometimes. They fight about treatments, about the escalating bills, about whether they should have had another child, about who left the lid off the ketchup.

But, he still loves her as much as he ever did, back when she was a freshman and they'd shared so many hopes for the future.

He kisses Buffy's forehead and she stares back, oblivious.

On their way out, a nurse smiles at them – hang in there.

He puts his arm around his wife's shoulders, hugs her close.

He just wants his fucking family back, that's all.