BtVS, AtS
Story Notes: Set post Chosen and NFA. Buffy POV.
A/N: Apologies to all for any grammatical errors or just plain wrongness. Feedback is always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either.
NIGHT
During the night she sits alone. They all had their own places, her family and friends. Places where they belonged, where they fit. They had people they belonged to and were able to hold in the night. Their arms weren't cold and empty. Their hands didn't cling to phantoms.
It was too difficult for her to look at them so she spent the evenings in her room alone. She would lounge around not really doing anything at all, mind free to wander, and that's when the peace- no, not peace- the numbness she had managed to find would slipslide away and she would feel it rising.
A leviathan from the deep, it rose and rose, getting bigger and closer all the time. It pushed everything else out of the way until it filled the world or her world, the world behind her eyes. She had to stop it. Because if it broke the surface, the surface would break. Shards of bright, glittering glass tearing her mind, her heart, her self to pieces.
Push it back, push it down.
So she moved. She cleaned or danced or walked restlessly back and forth and around and around trying not to think. If she could just do everything the right way, then it would stop. Stop for ever, for good, for God's sake, pleasepleaseplease. Stop. Think of something, anything, else.
Lie to yourself.
But nothing and none of them were ever just right. Not the movement. Not the thoughts. Not the phrases whispered over and over trying to fill her mind and push back the thing that couldn't, shouldn't, can't ever be allowed to surface into the night. To be real.
To be the truth.
Some night she might win. Might find that one perfect combination and it will be dead- NO, not dead, NEVER think dead- it will be chained. Yes, chained is better. It will be chained far, far down never to rise again. She will be free. No longer on guard. Body busy, mind busy, keep busy. No longer searching. Able to rest.
Or not. Maybe she'll finally lose the fight and have to face the truth. And then she'll break. For the last time, for ever. None of the pieces fit right anymore and a couple of sections in the middle seem to be missing. Nothing at all like the picture on the box.
Living a lie.
But for now it's the motion: even pace, crossed arms, dig nails into skin and draw blood if you can. And the feeling: stomach churning dread, adrenaline to fight or flight, anticipation because you can feel it rolling just under the surface. And the thought: havetostopitmakeitstop looped in your head over and over, sing what words you can remember of "These Arms of Mine" by Otis Redding. Maybe tonight, because it's been the worst night yet, a recital of "Sonnet XLIII" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. You definitely know all the words to that one. Lather, rinse and repeat until the mind runs clear.
Make it the truth.
It only looks crazy as seen from the outside. Unless you're on the inside and then it is crazy. But it keeps her heart alive and bleeding one more night. Wait. Did I say bleeding? I meant beating- alive and beating one more night. She's winning the battles but the war's already been lost and she doesn't deal all that well with losing.
Push it down, push it back and lie, lie, lie.
She'll eventually shake it off and pretend she forgets. She'll say she's going out to patrol but she knows she's still searching for a familiar blonde-haired form that smells like cigarettes and alcohol or a dark shadow that says her name, just her name, in that milk chocolate voice. They'll find her if they can. God knows she hasn't found a trace of either of them. Not that that means anything, mind you. They've both come back from impossible situations before- soulessness, hell, insanity, flaming death. Can't keep a good man down, especially if he's a vampire.
Finally she'll stop for the night and maybe she'll be able to sleep if the nightmares don't come. Nightmares in which they are bleeding and broken and calling out to her, thinking she has forsaken them. Nightmares in which she tries to run and stand beside them but her feet are held fast and her ears, mouth, and eyes are covered by hands that are all too loving and familiar.
Tonight before she climbs into bed she'll mark another day off on the calendar and make believe she doesn't notice herself counting. Make believe there's no event she started counting from. Make believe there's no reason that her family and friends won't look her in the eye.
No reason at all.