TITLE: Happy Endings Are All The Same
AUTHOR: Sunny D
DISCLAIMER: Thankfully it all belongs to Joss
RATING: PG
PAIRINGS: B/A, B/S implied
NOTES: takes place in BtVS S6 up to 'Doublemeat Palace' and Angel early S3, but Pylea, Darla and Connor never happened, (oh if only…)
The sun shone warmly over a quiet Sunnydale afternoon and Buffy covered the final yards to her house at the same languid pace she'd enjoyed the rest of the walk. It was the first time that week her shift had finished early enough for her to catch daylight, and she couldn't suppress an excited smile as she strolled up her driveway. Easily balancing the two shopping bags that contained actual food, she anticipated the long soak that would start her peaceful afternoon, as she slipped her key in the lock. Her mind cheerfully preoccupied, Buffy had fully shut the door before she picked up the mechanical sound of Willow's voice coming from the kitchen.
"…took a little longer than expected, what with all the decisions and Xander unable to choose between sprinkles and chocolate chips…"
Buffy's grin widened as she entered the kitchen and settled the shopping bags on the counter.
"…but we're on our way home now so – *what was that*?"
Abandoning the food, Buffy raced to grab the phone.
"Will?" she asked, instantly worried, but the phone on the other side had been forgotten.
"Erm Will, not to encourage the use of magic…" Buffy heard a nervous Xander suggest, and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe, her heart thumping erratically with fear at what her friends might be witnessing.
"I can't, I burnt it out last week…" Willow responded, her voice a terrified whisper.
"WILL?" she tried again, her voice raised to a desperate shout, but almost immediately she had to yank the phone from her ear as a deafeningly sharp crack filled the line. Pulling the handset back to her face she barely caught Xander's yelled, "No Dawn, through the car park," before she was running for the door at Slayer speed.
Watching in shock as Willow gently closed the eyes of the crumpled, broken figure; Xander didn't notice Buffy slip away as abruptly as she had come.
The front door still hung wide open and she didn't shut it as she entered. Wandering back into the kitchen, she stared at the bulging shopping bags and tried to make sense of the last five minutes. She felt she should be unpacking them, putting aside the items she'd bought for dinner, the first meal she'd cook for Dawn in far too long. Simultaneously, she tried to process the overwhelming new knowledge that thoughts like this weren't necessary anymore. The battle was over, and it was lost. 'But how could it be lost?' the first part persisted. Dawn was the reason she dragged herself to mind-numbingly long shifts in the Doublemeat Palace day after day. Hell, for a long time Dawn was the only reason she'd dragged herself out of bed at all, putting on the façade of living when really she was just existing. She'd made a promise and she'd tried so hard to keep it - it couldn't end like this, in a car park, on a Saturday afternoon, for no reason. How could it end like this?
Turning, she reached up and grabbed the small pickle jar from the top shelf of the spice rack. Trying not to see the 'EMERGENCY MONEY' printed in Dawn's precise cursive script, she pulled out the bills, screwed the lid back on and placed it neatly back before exiting the house a final time.
She didn't run, didn't even walk fast, just let her feet guide her. Not Willy's, too many demons looking to start a fight. Jake's? Closed too early. The Red Dog? No questions, no ID, no familiar faces – perfect.
She vaguely remembered the last time she'd been drunk. Hanging out in the crypt with Spike. It seemed several lifetimes ago. She hadn't enjoyed the experience, it was painful, disconcerting and made her feel out of control. There were too many people depending on her – too many responsibilities – for her to be out of control. But now…there was nothing. She could feel the pain, the despair, the overwhelming fury at the unfairness of it all lapping at her consciousness, threatening to break down the walls that contained them; but she concentrated on the pavement - which cracks she shouldn't step on, she counted the number of red cars and she wondered which drink to start with.
Getting drunk is no matter of accident for a Slayer, her natural defences fight the invasion of alcohol as though it were a threat. The body desperately resisting the confusion, the temptation to relax and be carefree, the out of body feeling and the general dampening effects of the alcohol. It takes a concentrated effort for a Slayer to become truly inebriated and it was a task Buffy set about with determined single-mindedness.
Twelve shots of neat whiskey later and she wasn't having to concentrate on not thinking about that horrible thing that she really didn't want to think about, it was still there but it didn't threaten to engulf her. The bartender was lining up the shots as far as the $100 she'd given him would allow, no longer afraid that the young, seemingly innocent, girl would have any trouble handling her liquor, instead amused that a hardened drinker would still grimace after each mouthful.
Customers came and customers left and Buffy kept right on drinking. Another six shots and she was beginning to see the funny side of the situation. A Broman demon - of all things – a creature she could kill with her eyes closed - without supernatural strength – hell, with no arms, it was strong but not very smart. That Dawn should die at the hands of a *Broman* demon; well, that was just plain funny. She downed another shot, completely at ease now, and wondered why she'd never noticed how silly people looked through the bottom of a shot glass. Attempting to explain her observation to the bartender she found talking was suddenly very difficult, and anyway, he seemed to be giving her the evil eye as she filled her empty glasses with nuts from the large bowl on his bar top. When time was finally called in the early hours of the morning she found she was in love with the world at large, the smallest things were sources of hilarity and more importantly, she couldn't feel her legs.
After much trouble - and a little help from the barman - she finally stood outside. The stinging cold air whipped her light sweater closer to her body forcing her to take a long draught from her whiskey bottle in order to stave off any semblance of sobriety. The night was beautiful and silent. The local demons knew better than to mess with a Slayer, drunk as she might seem, and Buffy felt like a walk.
She'd passed the 'Welcome To Sunnydale' sign hours back when a car slowed to a crawl beside her. The driver rolled down his window to call out to the attractive young girl who was stumbling along the edge of the increasingly busy freeway oblivious to the annoyed car horns and the fact that she'd be killed before she got anywhere near her destination.
"Kid, you wanna lift?"
And she'd accepted, the notion of danger from a mere human a long forgotten worry.