+ appointments

[strangelyliteral]

Please follow the format below:

- If it's a private journal ring: [ voice + date ] (i.e. [Voice - April 11])

- A private journal note: [ written + date ] -- of course, if it's just a note saying "lets meet here", it can progress to action quickly enough.

- A knock/planned meeting/continued thread/etc and so forth: [ action + date ]

Comments

S U R P R O S E

[herotypical]

Buffy was on her fifth chai, and a half-finished danish she must have smuggled in now sat on a plate at her elbow. Her head was down. Her expression veiled. The Slayer looked to be at least mostly invested in her journal, flipping pages and scribbling messages and doing anything to avoid glancing at the entrance. Because entrance-glancing looked desperate, and Buffy hated to look desperate. Especially when the other someone involved was a thousand-and-some year old ex-vengeance demon who you've wronged in a pretty serious capacity. Anya might have been powerless, but she was still walking around as though she expected the sky to fall on her head.

It was all very undignified.

[strangelyliteral]

[Hmmm.]

If you throw in a little something extra, I could be willing to sweep and mop your floors.

[dissonates]

I've tried. He refuses to listen to reason.

[strangelyliteral]

Try being a little more forceful.

gasp.

[strangelyliteral]

For the longest time Anya finds herself pacing in front of the mural that had been erected on a lone wall opposite the building. It hadn't taken much to figure out that the tea shop - Celsius Tear, by the name on the sign - was located on the second floor of the Welcome Center. Which, okay, she had poked in once or twice after arriving out of curiosity, peered at the large maps inside, mostly disappointed with how limited the entire place was.

Eventually she decides that pacing won't get her anywhere - in fact, it only would attract strange looks, and the last thing she needed was one of these goody-goody strangers to poke their head in her business and for her to decide whether or not the mess of a situation was worth explaining or complaining about to them.

Maybe Buffy wasn't even there.

She stops her pacing, taking a few uneasy breaths. Just what was this meeting supposed to do, anyway? One step, two. Eventually she reaches the top, scowling at the door for a few moments before pushing it open.

And there she was. Wonderful. And now Anya was here, framed in the doorway, bright colored halter in contrast to her still dark hair. Not as dark as she had worn it while possessed, but enough. She lets the door close behind her and stands, with her arms folded across her chest.

[herotypical]

Perhaps it was the particular way in which the door had just closed. And, as if its sharp note was filled with all the hatred and disappointment Buffy expected to be met with, she suppressed a wince as it sounded across the relatively quiet tea house. Her fingertips touched the lip of her mug, she mourned how lukewarm her tea had become, and she gathered her wits about her as she stood from her chair. She didn't have to look; she simply knew. Anya was here.

Buffy raised a flattened palm, canting it once in an almost-wave. A signal. An invitation. But she didn't look happy about it.

[strangelyliteral]

Anya cautiously slides her eyes to the left and right to survey the shop, feigning slight disinterest before quitting the human game and striding forward silently until she's standing two feet away from the Slayer.

"I'm here. Talk now."

[degleamed]

A slice of lemon cake?

[strangelyliteral]

Sold! Where do you keep your broom?

[degleamed]

In the closet next to the dishwasher, thanks.

[strangelyliteral]

No problemo. I'm one girl who knows her way around a broom handle.

[dissonates]

Do you suppose punching him in the teeth would do it?

[He's been seriously tempted by now.]

[herotypical]

Buffy could be equally blunt when she wanted to be: "I wanted to apologize."

[strangelyliteral]

"... that's a first."

She doesn't budge in her stance. After all, Buffy hadn't actually apologized yet.

[strangelyliteral]

It might. {She has to pause to think about it though - men are, as ever, strange creatures.] ... Orrr it might make him even more convinced you need help. What about faking it?

[herotypical]

"...Not as first as you might think," she sighed -- but couldn't really explain how this place had changed her. And so: "I am sorry, Anya. I had no right to tell you what I told you. Especially not the way that I told you. It was scummy."

Her voice shook. Clearly, the apology was no easy feat -- and she'd only managed to talk herself into giving Anya one once she'd hashed the situation through with Jack.

[strangelyliteral]

"You're sorry." The word felt almost alien to her, strange to hear and strange to repeat on her own tongue. "Sorry...?" She frowns, looking puzzled at first, until it fades to disappointment. "Is that supposed to make me feel better, or you? Because, it's not doing a whole lot for me. Not that it matters, I guess."

[degleamed]

Just let me know when you're done, then, and I'll get you your treats.

[welnares]

Really? [Then what's mundane over there; extremely boring?] I'd like to hear about that some time – ah, though I think I've kept you long enough. You have to put up the rest of the tags, haven't you?

[herotypical]

"It's not supposed to make anyone feel better," Buffy insisted -- but could already feel the disappointment settling in. "It's just supposed to be the right thing to do."

[strangelyliteral]

[And she's already started sweeping.

... So many crumbs. This might be worth an extra cookie or two.]

[strangelyliteral]

Yes, I do. Thank you for not interfering.

[strangelyliteral]

"You can't take it back, you can't change what happened. It's too late to do the right thing."

Anya could recall a time all too clearly when doing the right thing involved her being impaled on the end of the slayer's sword. And when taking it back meant sacrificing herself - or so she thought - until she watched her oldest friend's life wiped out in front of her. The guilt that followed, thinking that it should still have been her - and then for all of that, she died anyway. What was even the point of living those few months longer?

"It's always been too late for me."

[welnares]

. . . But that doesn't mean I have to pay for my own things, does it?

[dissonates]

Faking it? What, tell him I'm sleeping with someone? He'd probably ask for disgusting details.