Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the creation of Joss Whedon; South of Nowhere is the creation of Thomas W. Lynch. I own neither.

This is an AU crossover of BtVS and South of Nowhere. The only BtVS character included is Buffy Summers. Spencer Carlin will be the predominant SoN character. There are no vampires, demons, witches etc . . . though there is a subtle hint of the supernatural – and Buffy still possesses the abilities of a Slayer.

Spencer Carlin and Ashley Davies have never met – nor will they at any time.

Rated R for language and violence.

Will portray women in romantic relationships.

Will portray men and women in romantic relationships.

This is my last fanfic'. I'm having fun, playing with ideas and letting two pretty cool characters do most of the work for me.


Hello,

Seems that a few people have had a little look - thank you. Not normal - I know. It's about me and happy endings. Want one for Buffy and, this time, Spencer's the happy pill. Figured, if this is my last, gotta do what Whedon hasn't and give Buffy her forever. Arrogance? Hell yeah.

This is a long story that flits back in time and then forward where it will continue to a resolution. If the pairing isn't obvious, it's Buffy/Spencer . . . Eventually. But definitely before the end.

Comments and crit are very appreciated. Not into public comments? Send me an e-mail at:

paradocs. 1967 yahoo .ca (you know - minus the spaces)

Sláinte

And Happy Days,

Shawn


I watched the world float

To the dark side of the moon

After all I knew it had to be

Something to do with you

I really don't mind what happens now and then

As long as you'll be my friend at the end.

If I go crazy then will you still

Call me Superman

If I'm alive and well, will you be

There a-holding my hand

I'll keep you by my side

With my superhuman might

Kryptonite.

(3 Doors Down)


June 7th, 2011

Boston


She kicks the can and it clatters – once, twice, three times – before it stops, an inch from the red brick wall. The noise sounds rude in this alley, now a memorial for the last victim of the O'Coughlan family; Agent Damian Cross of the FBI died here. A week before Cross' execution, two of Boston's finest had been tortured by the O'Coughlans for information . . . info about her – because she'd made them nervous. They called her Miongháire Báis – Death Smiling. Kinda stupid, really, since she rarely killed anything anymore: a bottle of whiskey now and then; a heavy bag when she felt the need. Not that she hadn't been tempted, especially after Damian.

She sighs and lays the single white rose on the pavement beside the other flowers and cards and cold lightless candles. She hears agent Frost exhale slowly at the mouth of the alley; smells the smoke from his filterless Camel.

"You ready, Summers?"

Buffy smiles – for Damian – and joins Frost. "Yep. You know, we coulda said goodbye at the office."

Frost tilts his head up to the grey sky and blows out a cloud of something equally as sick and grey. He coughs once and tosses the stub of the cigarette to the ground. "Yeah. Didn't want you gettin' all weepy on me in front of Richards and Dom." He shoves his large rough hands into the pockets of his trench coat. "You sure about this? DC's like a pool full of piranhas and you–" he smirks, "– wouldn't take much to wear you down to bones."

Buffy smiles again, and means it; Frost's alright. She holds out her hand. "Been there before, you know?"

"Yeah, but you were a shark then."

She smirks. "Still am. And, yeah, I'm sure. I need some down time and . . ."

Frost shakes her hand; his touch is warm and firm. "Spencer, right? Must be a helluva girl."

"Yep. Helluva a friend, too."


She drives to Washington. She bought a new Mini Coop a week ago because it's small, like her, and it's great for city driving – especially when you have a permanent crosshairs tattooed on the back of your head – and she really does have a tattoo of crosshairs over her C4 vertebra; it was a thing. She'd sent her bike – a Ducati Streetfighter she'd purchased six months ago – ahead with a friend; she's hoping she can find a race or two before winter – and before she's too 'on' the radar; it's not like she races at a track.

She'd bought her first bike in LA – a Kawasaki Ninja – and, after some digging, found a race. She'd finished second to last but she'd lived. After that, it was just a matter of time and experience – on a track with a pro – and finding more races and spending more money before she'd become better than competent. She'd started placing higher; started winning; started earning a name. And, yeah, maybe it was a little like cheating – because no one, on or off the track, had reflexes, balance and control like her: maybe a cat; she'd always wondered. Racing was her fire and her passion. It was her brief and explosive moment of life and sensation. And it wasn't like there was anyone around to tell her that there was little difference in trying to off yourself with pills or by launching yourself across the unpredictable terrain of a race course at 258 feet per second.

She needs this break. She's spent the better part of her life protecting people from death or hunting down those who dealt the death. She's worked private security – the Twilight Girls ; yeah, the name? wasn't her idea – and she knows how to say the word tragedy in eight languages. But it was her choice – all of it. You can't make yourself a target and not expect to be shot; or stabbed; or broken: she knows this. At least, she does right now. Sometimes, though, she remembers what she's left behind: grave markers and memorials of one; scattered ashes and dry eyes. She's always expected the expected; she wishes she'd learned to see the unexpected. But she's self–centred by nature and it cost her almost everything.


She stops once, in Newark, for gas and coffee. It's all she needs to keep going. Her suite at the Jefferson is waiting and she doesn't see the point in eating on the go when she can dine in her room, maybe – probably – with a bottle of wine. She'd inherited sixty percent of the Twilight Girls assets, the legacies of five of her girls – including her sister, Eve, and her best friend, Siobhan; half had gone into the bank and the other half she'd invested – rather, Siobhan's brother, Nicholas, had done the investing. She has plans for the revenue from those investments, some selfish and some altruistic; she isn't going to feel guilty about living comfortably; having things that other people have, like houses and cars and TV's. She's earned this break. And what isn't hers, not really, she's going to use wisely; at least, she hopes she will.


It's funny how little things become so poignant. Tracy, the young woman who serves Buffy her coffee, has very blue eyes and a sweetly nervous smile. She keeps glancing at Buffy's eyes, trying to be surreptitious, as she makes the Espresso; she blushes when she's caught and Buffy smiles; shakes a little when Buffy's fingers brush against her palm as Buffy's paying – leaving a folded ten in her hand and telling her to keep the change.

It's sweet and it inflates her ego a little – in a good way, though, because she really does appreciate the attention, it's so normal.

Buffy knows that she's evolved in the two years since she met Spencer Carlin. Some aspects of the evolution were subtle and kind, others – not so much. Eight months of therapy have allowed her to realize how she's changed and find something of herself again. And that's all she's wanted: an identity and a little peace.

And an opportunity to, finally, admit to Spencer the most basic truths:

'You're my best friend and I love you.'