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| To Be or Not To Be, cont'd |
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And enterprises of great pith and moment She found that sleep was her solace, when this new life of hers proved too much. She scarcely knew how to operate without the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was learning. But the years of waiting for the other shoe to drop had left her suspicious of runs of either good fortune, or of simple "normalcy." She'd struggled for so long to be normal, only to learn that she didn't trust it when it was given to her. The irony was not lost on her. Yet she began to remember what it had been like before she'd been Called: to assume that one birthday would follow another, and that the sunrise would always come. These old certitudes of youth she greeted warily, but tried them on for size and discovered that, with time, they might become her companions again. Of course, the tangible requirements of rebuilding her day-to-day life were taxing. And when starting over became simply too much, she would seek out that dream world. There she could find simple and unadulterated pleasures unburdened by the worries and realities of the world. She found that, after a time, her dreams of him changed ~ becoming less about the two of them. She began to see images of the life he might have pursued had he not paid such a dear price to secure her tomorrows. She was puzzled by this, as she had never become ready for him to not "be there" for her. But while she observed these scenes, she had an understanding that he had always been a separate entity from her. It seemed obvious, yet she had really only thought of him in terms of how he impinged upon her life and her choices. To think of him as an individual was a revelation. And she felt ashamed all over again, regretting that she would never know him this way, beyond the random constructions her subconscious fed her in her sleep. ~ / ~ It seemed that the stillness continued for a long time, to the degree that time had meaning. He returned to his initial activity of conjuring pictures that had never been. But this time, they were not exclusive to her. Certainly, she was sometimes part of them. Yet he recognized that the whole world potentially lay before him. That if he chose to return to it, he could truly test that free will of his by casting himself into the unknown, without her as a tether. And thereby come to know himself as a man. In this regard, their currents turn awry Yet she tempted him. As did this nothingness. He had asked, when in his ranting he'd revealed the soul to her, if he could rest. He'd been granted that rest. Along with love and forgiveness. Who was he to ask for more? To expect it? To upset a plan that he had evidently fulfilled properly already? Besides which, looking back, hadn't most of his schemes gotten bollocksed up one way or another? Granted, those schemes had generally been evil, so perhaps their failure could be chalked up to the intervention of The Powers or whatever puppet master it was who seemed to effect the outcome of things. But still, it would be quit a gamble that he would take, should he opt to reprise his earthly existence. And so, faced with a choice, he waited. But eventually, all those thoughts and impressions coalesced into a decision. And lose the name of action "Buffy! Buffy, wake up!" Dawn's frightened voice reached out into the void and drew her back into the world. She came awake suddenly, sitting up and turning a face wet with tears and sweat to her sister. "I'm okay! I'm awake!" Her heart hammered against her ribs, and though she looked in Dawn's direction, her eyes were wide and unfocused. "Buffy, what was it? You were crying and holding onto the sheets like someone was trying to steal them." "I'm not sure. I -- I've been.... It was...Spike." She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "Reliving the Sunnydale sinkhole?" Dawn inquired gently, sitting on the bed next to her and handing her the box of tissues from the nightstand. "No, it wasn't that...something else. I just don't know...." Buffy dabbed at her damp face, and then laid her cheek upon one of her knees. "It was like I was there with him. Not then, now," she clarified. Clear as mud, apparently, from the look on her sister's face. The dream had begun innocuously, like so many others, with a vague sense of drifting pleasantly through a warm impenetrable fog. But then it shifted. First, she'd seen him, standing before her in the midst of that fog. It was the first time she'd dreamt him in anything other than a real world setting. But he'd solemnly taken both of her hands, and held them to his chest, an enigmatic little smile passing over his face. He hadn't spoken to her, but she'd felt their connection, as real as it had ever been. And she'd felt something else, under her fingers. Something warm and alive. The awesome realization hit her and he nodded. Then he'd lifted both of her hands to his lips and kissed them. He'd released her then, in slow motion, backing away from her. She'd followed him, but he kept getting further away, two steps for each of hers. Finally, he'd stopped, and lifted his arms out to his sides. When he tilted his head back, he'd looked just as he'd been in the cavern on that last day. But this time, there were no beams of light. And very slowly, he'd fallen backwards, as if over the edge of an unseen precipice. She could look down and see him falling away, so slowly that it seemed to take hours, until finally he disappeared. She had called after him all the while, begging him to come back. She had tried to follow him over the edge, but could not. And so she'd prostrated herself and wrestled with the fog and wept. She realized that Dawn was still waiting for some kind of explanation. "I don't know exactly what I was dreaming. He was dead, but he was alive, and he was with me, and then he left. And it felt like he really did leave for good." "Maybe it means you're finally accepting that he's dead, Buffy," she offered softly, stroking the side of her sister's face. "Maybe," she agreed weakly. She didn't believe that was it at all, but explaining her gut instincts to others was usually more trouble than it was worth. She sighed, and moved to throw off the covers. She had no more desire for sleep tonight. "I'm going to fix myself some toast or something. You go back to bed, Dawn. I'm sorry I scared you." Dawn's look of concern indicated she was not really placated. But she didn't argue as she returned to her own room. When she was gone, Buffy opened the drawer in the nightstand, and withdrew her journal. She carried it out to the kitchen, where she opened a window and sat down at the dinette below it. Her skin prickled as the cool night air wafted over her damp skin, drying the remnants of her tears and struggle. First she wrote her impressions of this most recent dream, her pen never stopping until she'd poured out her guesses and fears and hopes. Then, as the sky began to lighten, she turned back to the beginning of the book and immersed herself in each of the many dreams she had had of him. Some hours later, she laid down the journal. She felt very calm, in studied contrast to her emotions upon waking. Yes, she now understood what she had felt when he'd held her hands earlier this evening, and what he had told her with his eyes and his beating heart. She could now see clearly that this active dream life of hers had really represented. And she believed that she new knew what came next. ~ / ~ 6,000 miles away and ten hours later, Angel unlocked the door to his offices at Wolfram & Hart. He knew it was probably a sham, this care he took regarding his privacy. Odds were good that the Senior Partners did not find deadbolts an impediment to their gathering of information. Nonetheless, he found it a comforting ritual. He was enjoying the many new habits that he had acquired since moving into these comfortable offices, not the least of which was the sense of leisure -- time and money both seemed equally abundant here. Granted, the lawyers and operations teams were rather tedious, with their releases and indemnities and tracking devices. And there were the evil clients. But, still... He hung up his coat, tossed his briefcase on the sofa, and flung himself into his leather chair, ready to enjoy the morning paper. It was laid aside, however, as he glanced at the mail, moving a few pieces randomly on his desk, uncertain how to prioritize it all. Much like the conference room full of client files that the team had been sorting through in recent days. How to get a handle on it all? He took up a particularly bulky manila envelop without a return address, but set it down again as he fumbled with the telephone intercom. "Um...can I get a cup of coffee or something?" The speaker informed him, unhelpfully, "You have reached ritual sacrifice. For goats, press one or say 'goats.' " And the mail was forgotten, at least, for the moment.... |
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| This story nominated at: |
| Acknowledgements ~ Thanks to Xionin for your editorial input (aka "beta"). Thanks as well for your own great writing, which I take as both challenge and inspiration. The section from Chosen was lifted directly (save for tense changes) from http://studiesinwords.de, and the dialogue from Afterlife came from www.thelostlibrary.net. Bits of Conviction came from www.buffyworld.com. |
| Though Sooner or Later wasn't written with the intent of being a follow-up to this story, it can have that effect.... Check it out!! |
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