Anya Jenkins (
strangelyliteral) wrote2013-05-01 09:08 am
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+ appointments

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 ]
S U R P R O S E
It was all very undignified.
gasp.
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.
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Buffy raised a flattened palm, canting it once in an almost-wave. A signal. An invitation. But she didn't look happy about it.
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"I'm here. Talk now."
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She doesn't budge in her stance. After all, Buffy hadn't actually apologized yet.
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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.
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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."
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Buffy is not the only one raising her arms. "I mean, what is the point to any of this?"
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Deep down, the lack of monetary system shouldn't have bothered her. She had only gotten used to it because of needing to adjust to being human in the first place - and Xander. "There's nothing to gain by living here. We just wait for our turn to go, and we don't have a choice. Isn't that what you said?"
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I'm engaged. She couldn't outright say it, because only know was her capacity not to blurt things aloud deciding to function. "I'm not ashamed to say I've put down roots. I'm rooted. You could be rooted too -- a little. Eventually."
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But she doesn't have a choice. "Don't you understand how much that bites?"
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In Buffy's case? Four years. Four whole damn years and all the development that brought her to this very tipping point: a day where she would willingly apologize and try and make peace with a nebulous ally like Anya.
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And that might not have been so bad, if she hadn't been taken here. A taste of hell before real hell? But it was so different. Everyone was so - friendly. Overly so, even to someone like her.
It just felt wrong.
And what could she do? All she could do was adapt. It was such a joke - that's all that ever was left to do: adapt. With nothing to cling to. Except the Slayer, who was seeming to offer it. In a way. With her want of forgiveness. That she wouldn't get. It wasn't Buffy's fault, true, in the long run: she was the messenger, though, and those never were treated well in the scope of things.
God, what could she even say? Her mouth opens and closes a few times, but her throat is dry. Thick.
"Look, I just ... I just don't know what to do. I mean - I know -- things. I want to live. But I don't ... know how to live, like this. And you just make it all sound so easy. LIke it's a human thing, you know? You just sort of pick up and dig in and ..."
She was so lost.
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"Nothing about it is easy. I used to think the first six months were the hardest part -- all the shock and change and every new injustice getting into you like lemon juice in a cut. But it's not the first half a year or even full year that gets you; it's a few years in. You start forgetting what your favourite Starbucks drink tastes like. Or what the password was to your voicemail. Or which channel number is your favourite. The little things, 'cause the big things never leave. Before you showed up, I could still see what you looked like -- in my mind, right? But damn me if I can't remember who had the big pop hit the year I left."
She pulled in a tight, shaking breath. "I miss home. But I know I'd miss here, too, if given the chance to remember it. Don't sell this place or yourself short, Anya. If there's anything I have complete faith in, it's your ability to somehow figure out how to swindle the common Lucetian out of their hard-earned somethings."
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