strangelyliteral | + appointments

"Anya. You've lived a thousand years. How could anything be too late?"

"For someone who's survived dying twice, you're awfully dense! You know that? You - you just take this life thing for granted!" She waves her arms to emphasize her frustration. "You think that saying sorry is - what. Something you needed? What if I don't accept your sorry?"

"...For granted. Me. Hah. What gives you the right to say anything like that?" She sighed -- audible and bitter.

"When you decided that it was for the best to tell me - in the middle of a bar, in the middle of a crazy situation, that oh, by the way, you have no future."

"I didn't decide anything. It...happened. It happened it was wrong and I was in the wrong -- jeez, Anya. What more do you want from me?"

"Oh, geez, Buffy! If - if you remember, I didn't ask anything of you! You're the one who called me here."

"S-so I could be nice! Do the right thing! We're..." Her voice was raising. Her arms lifting. A public scene was close to being made. "We're the only ones. It's just you and me, y'know. From home. I just thought maybe, considering that fact, we oughta try and get along."

"Because we were doing so well at that before. Look, I'm already one of the last people you wanted to see here, and when I'm gone, I'm - gone? According to you?"

Buffy is not the only one raising her arms. "I mean, what is the point to any of this?"

"You know, there's something to be said for second chances. O-or even third ones. Some of us? We make something of our time here."

"Yes, you give booze to people for free. I know."

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?"

"That's just the sideline stuff. The little keep-me-from-going-crazy stuff. There's more to here than that -- there's the waiting, sure. But there's the people. And the..."

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."

"So what, I'm supposed to just - live here knowing that it's all a joke? That when reality comes back, it will bite back hard? I'd rather be dead than just - live knowing I'm going to lose it all again anyway."

But she doesn't have a choice. "Don't you understand how much that bites?"

"...Maybe we don't all go back to death when we leave her, Anya. But it is a colossal mistake to think we don't all lose something when we go."

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.

For a moment she remains silent, arms crossed. Buffy had made some semblance of a point - she knew, rationally, that if she hadn't known she was going to presumably die, then maybe the life here still would feel fake. It was what made adapting rough to begin with. There was no real niche for her to slip into - nothing new, or exciting, and nothing that filled her with such purpose as being a demon had, as being engaged to Xander had, the shop - all things that she had gained and lost, back home. And even if she was alive on returning home - it wasn't as if she knew what the next step would be for her there, either. She watched others prepare themselves for the battle and had even given herself for it.

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.

Buffy laughed. Tired and worn out and old-sounding. Perhaps only now did she start to look her age -- a full twenty-seven years, with added baggage beside. Not a high number even in human terms, but so unbelievably old for a Slayer. She laughed, yes, and she shook her head.

"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."

She was... laughing? Anya stares at her, as the laughs subside and the words continue. It was just - different, for Buffy. One of her speeches, but with a different tone. For the first time she really did seem older than she had been when Anya had last seen her - there were four years experience separating them, and Anya knew full well that any amount of time in human years could make a big difference.

How many years had she had before letting herself go back to vengeance, for instance? She had grown, and lost it, and now was trying to go back again on this uneven ground.

"If there's anything I've already learned, it's that Luceti doesn't lend itself toward budding entrepreneurs."

She'd need something else. Something new. And a place to start, before that.

"Mmhm. Depends on the enterprise. The kids at the smithy seem to do okay. Some people still barter. Only..."

Only what skill, really, did Anya have? Even Buffy couldn't stretch her imagination that far. "Only if I were you? I'd focus on finding a place. Making some contacts. The other things'll...happen."

A problem Anya had realized for herself when people had the gall to rebuff her during her possessed pricing spree. Some were okay with it at the time, but she doubted that she could consider Rapunzel a contact. Shikamaru... seemed okay, but there he was, running a store for conveniences without anything to show for it. And then there was Jack, the Bar, and ... well, Buffy herself.

And what did Anya really want? Safety, security, belonging ... but still being herself. Things she wouldn't ever ask for, all save the last. And she had tried.

"They always do, I guess." She lowers her folded arms with a shrug and looks off to the side window.

Edited 2013-07-08 00:30 (UTC)

...Buffy dropped into her chair -- looking almost deflated. With a murmur: "Can I get you anything? Tea?"

Anya felt fidgety. This was the part where she should have been leaving, finding some hole to crawl in while her head ached. She almost missed Buffy's murmured question, and even then it takes her a while to answer, as she keeps her gaze focused on the window.

" -- What? Yeah, whatever."

Normally, she was the kind of customer who would get up and log her order at the counter -- even stand around chatting with Sheena or Albert or other patrons while she waited for her drink. But today, fearing Anya might (rightfully) slink off should she so much as avert her gaze, Buffy signalled the staff with a casual gesture -- holding up two fingers: two more of the same. It was rude, of course. Terribly rude. But some situations trumped courtesy.

"I hope you don't mind chai," she followed up -- a little lamely.

"It's fine, I guess."

She offers a shrug, not paying that much attention to the bustle of the shop. She might have liked tea once, some centuries ago. Not really a big drinker, but that might have been because of the job. Always somewhere to go, something to do, who had time to sit for tea? And when human, it wasn't as if tea was high on the beverage list. Particularly in a household with Xander.

"They do a decent one, here. More than decent."

She was chattering -- self-concious and prattle-y. Desperate to move beyond the initial blowout.

Anya didn't know why she was still here. She said her piece, Buffy said hers - really, she should have left already, but it wasn't as if she had anywhere to go. Anything else to do. And wasn't that usually the way? Being a demon she worked constantly, always in search of someone who needed her. With Xander the need eventually developed into a mutual one, up until the wedding. And then ...

God, why was she still here. She could hear Buffy prattling on, but she wasn't even sure what the woman was talking about anymore. Tea? Were they actually doing this?

"Yeah?" She sounds more distracted than interested, her gaze drifting back to the door, though one of her arms absently touches the back of a chair.

"Mmhm," she confirmed -- her mouth bowing into an almost-smile but faltering but trying but failing to maintain the emotion. So she swallowed hard and was grateful to see their two mugs arrive -- hot and steaming and spewing forth earthy, spicy notes that hit the nose like a mack truck. Buffy gratefully grabbed onto hers, wrapping fingers around the mug but waiting for it to cool a little more before drinking.

"Small blessings, I guess. Like I said. They get me through your average Luceti day. Good tea. A nice day of weather. The chance to go out for a sail, maybe a quick dip in the ocean. We could take you, sometime, if you wanted. We have a boat. Two boats, actually."

She'd slipped so casually into a we, she hardly even noticed.

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