buffy anne summers (
herotypical) wrote2012-11-01 11:22 am
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voice + action ✪ there must be some way to bring the hero home
[ after a week of agonizing combat, buffy summers returns home with only exhaustion on her mind. despite all the excitement and crisis, there's little left to do other than collapse onto her bed and fall into a sleep fit for a weary, worn-out soul. morning sees her feeling no less -- shudder -- zombieish. the horror of the last week is bone-and-marrow deep and has yet to fully make itself known in her system. the slayer is running on auxillery humanity, stringing herself along from second to second until she can find a friendly face. find willow and...
and all she finds is an empty room. an empty closet. empty drawers. her best friend is gone. deported while she wasn't even looking. come the afternoon, after she's gotten the first onslaught of emotions out of her system, buffy sits alone on the empty bed. she addresses her journal: ]
Willow and I have this game we like to play. Willow Rosenberg. She was in town...but now she's not. [ a pause allows buffy to catch her breath. to stay strong. ] We call it 'Anywhere But Here' -- self-explanatory, really. Pick a fantasty-elsewhere to be and a fantasy-someone to share it with. I'm not talking about the obvious ones: home or family or anything even remotely whiffing of responsibility. I'm talking about fun. I'm talking about pure escapism. I'm talking Daniel Craig on the beach or Amy Yip at the waterpark.
I'll go first. Show you how it's done. [ but which escape route from reality should she take? ] The '88 Winter Olympics. The Saddledome. Calgary, of all places. Brian Boitano is taking the time to personally skate me through his gold medal routine. Perhaps there's hot chocolate involved. I, being made entirely of my own imagination, copy each move perfectly.
Got it? Good. Because now it's your turn.
[ when her broken little tribute to an absent friend is finished, she'll be searching out her injured pirate (wherever he may be convalescing) and it's off to good spirits, where she can be found working a shift behind the bar. ]
and all she finds is an empty room. an empty closet. empty drawers. her best friend is gone. deported while she wasn't even looking. come the afternoon, after she's gotten the first onslaught of emotions out of her system, buffy sits alone on the empty bed. she addresses her journal: ]
Willow and I have this game we like to play. Willow Rosenberg. She was in town...but now she's not. [ a pause allows buffy to catch her breath. to stay strong. ] We call it 'Anywhere But Here' -- self-explanatory, really. Pick a fantasty-elsewhere to be and a fantasy-someone to share it with. I'm not talking about the obvious ones: home or family or anything even remotely whiffing of responsibility. I'm talking about fun. I'm talking about pure escapism. I'm talking Daniel Craig on the beach or Amy Yip at the waterpark.
I'll go first. Show you how it's done. [ but which escape route from reality should she take? ] The '88 Winter Olympics. The Saddledome. Calgary, of all places. Brian Boitano is taking the time to personally skate me through his gold medal routine. Perhaps there's hot chocolate involved. I, being made entirely of my own imagination, copy each move perfectly.
Got it? Good. Because now it's your turn.
[ when her broken little tribute to an absent friend is finished, she'll be searching out her injured pirate (wherever he may be convalescing) and it's off to good spirits, where she can be found working a shift behind the bar. ]
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She plugged in the hot air popper and made a simple can't-mess-it-up honey glaze over one of the burners. Buffy stood near the stove as she waited and worked, leeching up its warmth despite the fact that the rest of the house wasn't all that chilled to begin with.
Dipping her head now and then, she checked on him and his messy progress -- allowing perhaps just a quirk or two at the corner of her mouth.
"Not long now," she promised him as the popper shut off and she carefully drizzles honey and salt into every freshly popped nook and cranny.
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And she was gone -- her disappearance followed hard upon by the sound of silverware on ceramic. Coffee.
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There. The apple was gone, and now his fingers were sticky.
"Also, you're going to have to wash me, woman."
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Eventually, she walked the negligible distance from the kitchen door to the living room coffee table. Buffy nudged the tray onto the table and took the shortcut -- a hop -- over his legs to get to the other side of the couch. That was where she found the narrow shelf where their eclectic collection of DVDS were kept.
"Nothing new there. Washing you is practically like a second job," she murmured, distracted, as she flipped through the booklet of discs.
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Flip. Flip flip flip. "Next time, we're having an en-suite. Bed-and-bath combo."
Next time. A lofty request/promise from a woman who'd practically let herself get bombed less than a week ago.
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Too bloody. Too warlike. Too much like last week.
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The bravado masked a twinge of pain that was slowing down to a dull throb with those handy pain pills.
"And hurry it up, I need cuddles!"
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She snagged the DVD with her index finger and pulled it out of the holder. "And you're only getting cuddles if you leave some of that popcorn for me."
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She exhaled.
"I think you'll like it," she nodded back at the tv after standing. Soon, she found the perfect position snuggled up against his good arm.
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"I think you're right, love."
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Buffy nudged her feet up onto the coffee table, bending her knees ever so slightly. And she fiddled with the remote.
"I don't want you getting any ideas, though..."
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But soon enough the first of the ideas started: Jack, humming at first quietly under his breath, and then a bit more loudly along with the opening credits:
"Bum bum bum bum BUM BUM bum bum bum bum BUM BUM..."
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Quietly -- helpfully -- she pointed out actors. Named them. Or most of them. It was disappointing when she found herself drawing this or that blank. Away too long.
But there was one name that was unforgettable: "Cruise," she tapped Jack's shoulder and reached for a handful of popcorn. "Tom Cruise."
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"Like your DiCaprio's Titanic. I like her. The dark-haired one. Lovely."
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But when people began to die, she cleared her throat and hemmed and hawed and "Have you been to Prague, Jack?" Speaking over their deaths. "Does look like that? Really?"
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"Sarah dies?!"
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"Sarah dies. Other people die. It's--" motivating "--just watch."
Buffy chomped down on some popcorn.
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And then:
"Bugger! Their cabinet of fish wonders certainly did just explode, didn't it?"
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The actiony bits provided the best respite. Running, jumping, blowing things up. All the things that keep you from feeling...
From feeling exactly what Ethan must feel, not that the running and jumping and blowing things up was done. And the making sense part of the problem reared its ugly head.
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Ethan was very busy tackling his teammate to the bed after frisking her down.
Actually, it kind of reminded Jack of how Buffy had treated him on more than one occasion. Before. Before all the courtship and dating and such.
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