Spoilers: None at all
Rating: G
Author's Note: Hey guys! The idea for this came somewhere between the boarders of Arizona and Texas. I'm refusing to allow New Mexico the happy-feeling of having been the state I was in while I got this idea because when I got out of the van there one time I fell and skinned my hand. So there! Well, this is what a week-and-a-half-long excursion will do to you. The good part about moving from San Francisco to Dallas is the fact everyone tells me I have the neatest accent here. WHAT!
She Isn't Sleeping
Giving a slight gasp, the Slayer reaches up to move the dead demon from off of her thin form. His dark sanguine feathers are scattered all over the floor, mixing with its multicolored brothers. Scrambling up, she glances all around the room to check for more demons that may be hiding from her wrath.
Satisfied that there are none in this particular room, she walks to the closed door and retrieves her bag. Heaving it over her shoulder, she opens it briefly to grab something out of it. She holds the deep ruby-colored stone for a moment, then places the rectangular object on the door.
It slides silently open and the slayer replaces the stone in her bag. She walks out of the room, weary but alert. The dimly lit corridor is filthy. Her sharp eyes scan the area she walks with each step she takes. She reaches a second door at the end of the hall and places her fingertips briefly on the door handle.
"Yes?" The voice speaking is tired; old with an age that its owner shouldn't wear. The door remains closed and the places on the doorknob where the Slayer had placed her fingerpads are glowing red. On the floor near the doorstop there are crimson stains.
She is digging in her bag again, and this time she brings out a triangular ruby-rock. Placing it on the smooth surface of the wood covered by a peeling paint, the Slayer speaks.
"Pizza delivery," she says. The upbeatness in her tone is oddly displaced in this dirty scene; yet it does not hide the scratched quality that it displays.
The Watcher opens the door and the Slayer steps in, walking to the countertop spread with foodstuffs. Shutting the door behind her as quickly as possible, the Watcher begins to chant. Taking several herbs out from a small pouch fastened around his waist, he sprinkles some on the dark mahogany wood of the door.
"Running out of thyme," he says distractedly. Without looking up from the chili peppers she was expertly chopping, the Slayer promises to go out later this night to replenish his supply. "No," the Watcher explains, "we're running out of time. The prophecy has been translated and . . . we don't have enough."
"I've stopped the end of the world before," the Slayer says from the cherry-colored sofa where her plate of food is. "I suppose I can do it again. It's not like we have anything else to do Saturday nights."
He watches her behind half-closed lids, but the girl doesn't look up from her task. He sees that underneath her eyes there are dark circles; beside her left ear that old scar from her chin to her brow is red and irritated.
"It was different then," he says finally. "You were better prepared "
"You don't think I'm prepared now?" the Slayer asks, amusement in her voice. "I've been out fighting demons from dawn to dusk to dawn again; I've died six times and I still think we don't have enough Slayers to combat all of the baddies out there. I don't know if I can keep all the Hellmouths closed. But I am prepared for a fight that I've been told about. Forewarned is forearmed."
"Things were different," the Watcher says again. He pauses, trying to chose his words carefully. "The girls who slay beneath you . . . they are wonderful Slayers but you are The Slayer. You are the only one who really matters in this prophecy."
"And what does it say?" the Slayer demands in a half-dead voice that pained him to hear. He swallows back a comforting phrase; that's not what she needs at the moment. "What makes me so important?"
"It says . . . it says that you'll be forced to fight and in that you will be defeated in your fight and your defeat will open all the Hellmouths . . ." The Watcher is reluctant to say more and the Slayer can sense it. "I don't think," he says finally, "that this prophecy is negotiable."
The Slayer merely shrugs. She has dealth with non-negotiable prophecies before and there had always been a loophole; even when she had to die for it to open up. She sighs inwardly; she isn't certain if her indifference is from her years of work or the fact that she is truly apathetic about her own death. She has been brought back so many times that death has lost its appeal.
He goes to the cupboard and begins to open the doors, taking down cups and sauces. "Tea?" he asks even as he takes out the tins.
She nods while going to the side table by the door. "Did Mateo bring the mail by?" she asks. The answer is obvious when she sees several envelopes scattered across the top. Picking them up, she riffles through them a few moments before pausing on one.
"Lizzie wrote," she says softly. The Watcher continues with his ministrations at the tabletop as the tea kettle whistles softly. She stares at the cerise ink on the paper for a moment before placing it in the drawer, unopened.
"My thirty-fifth birthday is tomorrow," she says suddenly, her voice stronger. She turns. "I'm sort of dreading it. When I was younger I always had this idea that by the time I was thirty-five I'd have two kids with a third on the way and a husband and a dog and tons of friends that I could invite to a brunch in my honor." She pauses, then continues her prattling. "See, thirty-fifth is a big day for me. I've always wanted to be beautiful like Mom's baby sister Elsbeth." Nothing from the Watcher; he takes down more tins and adds different leaves to the mix that he is readying. "She died before she turned thirty-six. She had a bad heart. Isn't that horrible?"
The Slayer leans her head against the wall. "I always was going to have a perfect life before I became the Slayer, you know." Her eyes don't tear, but their weariness increases.
"I'm sorry," the Watcher says. He hands her the cup of tea and she takes it, looking into his eyes. His hand trembles a little bit. "I wish you could be with your daughter right now. But you know that it's dangerous for her."
"Her thirteenth birthday is tomorrow." If anything, the voice seems flatter; deader. He watches her as she sips her tea. Resolutely, he takes a drink from his also. "Lizzie was born on my twenty-second birthday. She was this big surprise. Remember how shocked everyone was when I told them I was pregnant?"
"The Council wasn't pleased." There is a trace of bitterness in his voice that the she doesn't miss, but the Slayer doesn't comment on it. "They tried to get you to abort."
"I ended up hiding for seven months, until little Elizabeth came a bit early. You were visiting me and . . ." the Slayer gives a laugh that is almost but not quite mirthless as she reminisces. "Even that seemed so simple."
"Drink your tea before it gets cold." His own cup is drained; hers is only three-quarters done. He gazes at her as she obediently gulps down the remaining liquid.
"I want things to be as simple as they were ten years ago," she says quietly. "Before the Hellmouth was opened, before those other Slayers had to be called. I want it like it was before I became the most sought after demon-killer in our world; before I became the head Slayer who is supposed to know everything. Sometimes I get so afraid of messing up. I don't want to have to be there to mess up . . ."
He says nothing, only closes his eyes and wills sleep to come. Already the Slayer's voice is slurred with drowsiness. He feels wicked, having done it, but there is no turning back.
"I want it like it was before I had to send Lizzie away."
"I know." There is nothing more to say to it; to comfort her will open old wounds that took too long to heal to be messed with once again.
"You listening?" she asks. He only murmurs to let her know that he's awake. "Do you think Lizzie is ready to become a Slayer at thirteen?"
She knows. A tear escaps his eye and runs a single path down his cheek. Silently, he reaches out and grabs her hands. "You," he says, "are my daughter in every sense, and I will love you forever. I'm sorry I did this . . . but it's the only way to keep the prophecy from fulfilling."
What he doesn't say was that he hurt to have to be doing it; and that if he could, he would be doing this alone just to save her. He doesn't say that he would if he could do it all just to give her a chance to be with her daughter who she was only allowed to get an occasional letter from; who only vaguely let the fact register that HER mother was The Slayer, The Slayer who had saved so many lives for almost two decades.
"Don't be." Her voice comes through a deep haze; the herbs he'd put in the tea are doing their work. "I wanted this. I would have never taken the tea if I didn't. I just wanted to tell you . . . " her voice falters for a moment and he waits for her to continue. She stays silent.
Painfully, he opens his eyes and looks next to him. Reaching across the few inches that seem to last forever, he takes her pulse.
She isn't sleeping.