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West of the Moon, East of the Sun by KnifeEdge
 
Chapter 29: Intervention
 
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Author's Notes: Thank you guys so much for the really wonderful reviews on the last two chapters. This chapter is still pretty angsty, and a mix of canon, fill in the blanks, and AU… we’re getting ready to go major AU soon, though.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.

Credits:This chapter contains dialogue from episode "Intervention" written by Jane Espenson.

Betaed by Phuriedae

Banner by Phuriedae








Chapter 29

Intervention


Everyday living, Angel called it. I don't even know what that is.

Two days after the funeral I go back to school, but I feel like I'm sleepwalking through my classes. Most of my professors give me pitying looks. They tell me to take my time making up the work I missed. Except my History professor who, I decide, is probably part demon.

At home I move through the house quietly. I clean.

I feel my friends watching me, and it makes me self-conscious. Like they're waiting for me to fall apart. Like…if I stop, even for just a minute, all of the carefully put together pieces of me will shatter. So I keep moving, keep doing, keep quiet.

There are things that have to be done. Bills, buying groceries, doing the dishes.

Willow and Tara have started to make it a habit of coming over for dinner. I think they're afraid that if they don't feed me, I won't eat. Sometimes Giles drops by. Sometimes Xander and Anya.

At night I walk.

Not patrol. I'm not ready for that. Not yet. The others handle it for me, but they've said it's been pretty quiet.

I don't tell them that Spike is patrolling, too. He hasn't said so. We haven't spoken since the night before the funeral, but…I can still feel him following me at night, when I walk. I know when other vamps approach. I know when he takes them down.

Wondering why…I'll leave that for another time. Right now I just can't bring myself to care beyond the fact that I don't have to do it.

I really don't want to think about killing anything. Not even the already dead.

***


In the mornings I start on the lists I made the night before. There's stuff that needs done.

The house needs cleaned, so I start there. I empty the fridge and scrub it down, then put everything back where it was. All the pots in the cabinets…who knows how long it's been since they were polished? And the silverware. I scrub the tile and mop and wipe down every surface.

Then I move to the next room. It's a big house, and mom always kept it so neat. I don't know how, but someone has to so…I do.

In my head a little voice keeps urging me to move, to do.

I clean the bedrooms, starting with the spare room. There's so much junk in here…stuff from the gallery that needs sorted through and…old bolts of fabric and mom's sewing machine. I…there's all this thread and it really ought to be organized, and the ribbons. So I do that. And…and her patterns…I mean, how can you find anything when they're all so disorganized?

When I get to her room, I clean more carefully. I put everything back just as it was.

The others help, sometimes, but mostly I do it myself. Someone has to.

Days pass.

I keep moving.

***


I'm in the basement, going through boxes of junk when Xander and Willow come down to check on me.

"Buffy…” Willow says. "What…what are you doing?"

"Cleaning," I say. It's kinda obvious. I'm hip deep in boxes full of old figure skating trophies and broken picture frames.

"Why?" she asks.

"Because," I say. "It needs done. I don't think I've gone through this stuff since we moved and…uh…I really should. Do you think Spike would want this ugly candleholder? Or maybe…maybe I should have a yard sale? Or…maybe it's an antique? Does this look antique to you?"

Willow takes it out of my hand and glances at the bottom. "It was made in China."

"So probably not. Okay. Yard sale pile." I put it aside and start digging in the box again.

"Buffy…h-how long are you going to clean?" Willow asks.

"I don't know. Until it's done, I guess," I say. She puts her hand over mine, stopping me from pulling anything out of the box.

"You've been cleaning for the last two weeks, Buff," Xander says. "It's…it's getting kind of scary."

"There's just …so much to do," I tell them. "I have to…the house should be clean. Mom always kept it clean and…with her being sick it just…"

"Buffy," Willow says, gently. "You can't keep on like this. It's…"

"Freaky," Xander says. "We know this has been really hard on you but…Buff, you need a time out."

"I'm the Slayer," I remind him, "I don't get time outs." I jerk a trophy out of the box and stare at it blankly.

"But you're not slaying," he says. "You're turning into Donna Reed's scary obsessive compulsive twin."

"You need time to grieve," Willow says, which makes me angry.

"I am grieving," I say, throwing the trophy back in the box. "I grieve all the time. I just…I have to keep moving. I have to…because if I stop, even for just a minute…then…then…"

The trophies in the box stare back at me. I won that one at a skating competition when I was nine. Mom and dad brought me roses. Pink ones. I was going to grow up and be Dorothy Hamill. I'd go to the Olympics and skate in front of millions of people. Mom was going to be my manager and we'd go everywhere together. The little bronze one beside it I won my first year of high school at a cheerleading competition. Mom was there, front row, clapping so hard…

Now the only awards I win are for…most vampires staked in a single night. Most apocalypses averted. Most efficient killing machine. The only people who see my high kicks are usually dust before they can appreciate them. Most of my cute outfits are covered in blood. I can't keep a boyfriend because every year I just…get harder. Colder. More closed off. My father won’t even return my phone calls and…and my mother is dead.

Death is your art. You make it with your hands…

…these are the hands of a warrior, Buffy…

…you can't save everyone…


It's probably a sign of major badness that the voice in my head lately is Spike's. But what good is it, being the Slayer, if I can't save the people I love? Is that why Riley thought I was closing up? Am I right, that the people I love most are…doomed? If I stop loving…then maybe I can protect them. But I don't want that, do I? I don’t want to…

"Then what, Buffy?" Willow asks, gently, startling me back to the present. "If you stop, then what?"

There are tears in my eyes now, but I don't know if they're for my mom…or for me. "Then she's really gone," I say, choking a little on the words. "She's really gone, and I'm …god, I'm alone. I'm all alone."

Willow's arms open and fold me in tight, and then I'm crying, sobbing like I haven't at all while awake. Then Xander is there, too, holding us both, and we're all sinking to the floor in one big soggy mess, holding each other tight.

"You're not alone," Willow says, through her own tears. "I promise. You're not alone."

"We're here for you, Buffy," Xander says. "No matter what. We're family."

***


Things get…better, after that.

Not okay, but…better.

I start focusing on school again, because it's what mom would have wanted. I lay off the frantic cleaning. Mostly. Every now and then I find myself in the garage staring at storage boxes, my mind scarily blank. Usually I shake myself out of it.

Usually.

I still walk at night.

Spike still follows.

At night I fold myself into Mr. Gordo's arms and cry myself to sleep. But not as hard. Not as much as before.

Money looks like it might be a problem, but I put it off for now. Mom's insurance is doing its job, and if things are a little tight…I'll manage.

After all, it's just me now, and I don't really need that much.

***


One morning after breakfast, Giles stays to help clean up. They've been taking turns coming over for meals, cooking for me. Giles says it makes him feel useful.

"How are you?" he asks, as he towels dry the dishes.

"Okay," I say. "Some minutes are harder than others."

"I'm so sorry," he says. "All I can say is…i-it will get better."

I just shrug. "It has to," I say. "I'm…holding up, though. You know, getting into a routine." Even if my routine is pretty boring, it's something. It keeps me going.

"Good," he says, sounding as if he's got something on his mind. "Routine is good. In fact I was thinking that we…might…ah, return to our training schedule."

Yeah, something on his mind all right.

Training. Slaying. More death. Killing.

I dry the last dish a little slower, thinking. The last few days…I've been doing a lot of thinking. About me. About mom. About Riley and Angel and my friends and Mr. Gordo. About my life and…

I sigh, not really sure how to tell him what I'm thinking, which is, mainly…I'm not sure I want to be the Slayer anymore. Not if it means that I'm doomed to lose everyone around me. Everyone I love. Not if it means that I have to…you know, wall myself up. Because the alternative is …worse.

"Um…” I say. "I don't know. I was, um…thinking about…maybe…taking a break, or something." I finish up the last of the dishes and step back from the sink. "Just…ease off for a while. Not get into fully slay mode."

"But you were doing so well," Giles says, looking surprised.

Yeah. That's the problem. I know how much he likes training and teaching and I don't want to hurt his feelings but…

"And…you were great, helping me with everything. I just…I'm starting to feel…uneasy, about stuff," I tell him.

He raises his eyebrow and I try not to squirm. "Stuff?" he says.

"Training. Slaying…All of it," I admit. "It's just…I mean…I can beat up the demons until the cows come home and then I can beat up the cows but…I'm not sure I like what it's doing to me."

"But you've mastered so much," he says, totally not getting it. "I mean, your strength and resilience alone—"

"Yeah," I say, sinking into a chair. "Strength. Resilience. Those are all words for hardness. I'm…I'm starting to feel like…being the Slayer is turning me to stone." Or ice. All I feel inside right now is cold. And I hate it.

"Turning you into stone? Buffy—" he says, frowning.

"Just…think about it," I say. I feel like I have to move so I don't atrophy in my chair, so I get up and pace instead. Moving is good. "I was never there for Riley. Not like I was with Angel. I…I'm closing myself off from people. From my friends. You."

"At a time like this, you're bound to feel emotionally numb," he says.

"Before that," I tell him. "Riley left because I was shut down. He's gone. And now my mom is gone…and I loved her more than anything and…I don't know if she knew." I feel like I've cried myself dry, lately, but then someone says something or I say something and there they are. Tears. Waiting for me. Ready to sneak up and pounce whenever I feel like I'm starting to put myself back together.

"Oh, she knew," Giles says. He puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me to face him. "Always."

I want to believe him. I do, but…sometimes I think about all the times when I could have been with mom, and wasn't. Or the arguments we had or the…I know this isn't what she wanted for me, and if I'd really loved her, maybe I'd have found a way to give it up, to be with her. Then she wouldn't have been alone. And maybe…maybe she wouldn't have died.

But I can't really tell Giles that. It would crush him.

And the other thing, the worst thing, is thinking that, if I keep on being the Slayer, I'm just going to get colder. Harder. And I don't want that.

"I don't know," I tell him. "To slay…to kill…it means being hard on the inside. Maybe being the perfect Slayer means being too hard to love at all. I already feel like I can hardly say the words."

"Buffy," he says. There's so much compassion in his voice. Dear, wonderful Giles who is always there for me. The dad I never had. My friend. Who would have thought that this stuffy old librarian guy would turn out to mean so much to me?

"Giles, I love you," I tell him. Meaning it but…"Love, love, love, love…Giles, it feels strange."

He rolls his eyes at me. "Well, I shouldn't wonder," he says with all the dry humor of a British guy. He does that eyebrow thing that makes that line in his forehead point toward his nose. "How serious are you about this?" he asks.

"Ten," I tell him, sitting back down. "I'm serious to the amount of ten."

He thinks for a bit. "There is something…in the Watcher's diaries…a quest."

"A quest? Like…finding a grail or something?" I ask.

"Not a grail. Maybe answers. It would take a day, perhaps two."

I think about it. About answers. Maybe…maybe it's not as bad as I think it is. Maybe…maybe it doesn't have to be this way. Maybe I'm not cursed. Maybe…

So many maybes. He watches my face. "Some Slayers before you found it helpful in …regaining their focus, learning more about their role. There is a sacred place in the desert. It's…it's not far."

"Okay," I tell him. A quest. Focus. Maybe this is what I need.

He looks so concerned sitting there beside me and I wish, not for the first time, and probably not for the last, that he really was my dad.

"I do love you Giles," I tell him.

"I know," he says, patting me awkwardly on the shoulder. "But…please, it's…weird." I shrug.

"Sorry," I tell him. "But it's important that I tell you. Weird love's better than no love." He doesn't really have anything to say to that.

***


It only takes a few calls to the others to arrange things. Xander and Anya will patrol. Willow and Tara ask if I mind if they stay here tonight, cook, take care of things. I don't. I kinda hate the idea of the house being empty.

Giles tells me to dress warmly; since we'll be in the desert, and with this cold weather who knows how low the temperatures will drop? Then we stop by his apartment to pick up some things.

We're mostly quiet in the car. I watch the scenery go by. I remember the last time I left Sunnydale, after Angel had died. How I'd felt like I never wanted to come back.

But as long as the Hellmouth is active, I don't think I can really leave. I'll always come back. Even now, seeing the Now Leaving Sunnydale sign flash past…I can feel it. This low tug in my chest and a vague prickle at the back of my neck that tells me to turn around, go back. Something ties me here.

I could find my way back blind.

Depressing.

***


It takes a couple of hours to get where we're going: a long stretch of desert that looks pretty much like the rest of the desert around us. I picture little hooded guys marching along the dunes, leading us to the sacred place while singing the "Dink Dink" song.

Giles pulls off the highway, then drives as far across the hard packed sand as he can, just to the base of some foothills. The sun has started to slide down past noon, but it's still kind of cold. The wind blows from the direction we came, and it's chilly, with the promise of worse to come.

I haven't really forgotten our ice demon prophecy. It just hasn't seemed that important. The arctic breeze that makes me keep my gloves on tells me I ought to be paying more attention, though. Balance, Tara said. This early in spring it ought to be warming up again. Instead the sky overhead is gray and cold. It looks like my heart feels.

Giles pops the trunk as we get out. "What's in the trunk?" I ask curiously. He'd left me to wait in the car while he went in to his apartment, muttering something about it being messy and not fit for company. I've never seen Giles's apartment messy, but whatever. It was warmer in the car.

"Supplies," he says, pulling out a duffel bag.

"Supplies? I was wondering about that," I say, looking at the bag. It doesn't seem like there's much in it, but he did say we'd only be out here for a day or two. Still, shouldn't we be more…you know, Boy Scout prepared or something? "Like…food? Water? Maybe a compass?" I ask.

He opens the bag and pulls some things out. "How about a book, a gourd, and a bunch of twigs?" he says.

"I don't think I'll be that hungry," I tell him. Damn. I was hoping for some Snickers bars or something.

"They're for me," he says. Oh good. "Come on, this way."

He leads me up into the foothills a bit, until we're out of sight of the road. "You see, the location of the sacred place is a guarded secret. I can't take you there myself. I'll have to perform a ritual to…transfer my guardianship of you, temporarily, to a…a guide. Here. This will do."

He stops and begins arranging his twiggy stuff.

Right.

"A guide, but no food or water? So…it leads me to the sacred place, and then a week later it leads you to my bleached bones?" I ask.

"Buffy, please," he says, slightly exasperated. "It takes more than a week to bleach bones."

I try not to laugh. It feels good to joke, I realize. I haven't really joked much in the last few weeks. I'm kind of surprised that I can.

"So how's it start?" I ask. He looks kind of funny, arranging his twigs into a circley thingie.

"I, uh…I jump out of the circle and then jump back in it, and then…um…" he looks embarrassed, not meeting my eyes. "I shake my gourd."

I grin. "I know this ritual! The ancient shamans were next called upon to do the hokey-pokey and turn themselves around."

Giles huffs a sigh and glares at me. "Go quest," he says, then settles down to…shake his gourd. Nothing happens.

"And that's what it's all about," I tell him. He just shoos me off. I go, trying not to laugh at him as he jumps in and out and shakes. So glad I can leave the ritual stuff up to him.

***


I wander for a bit, kicking at the sand, looking at the scraggly plant life that somehow manages to survive out here. Sympathy wells up in me for those poor twisted little trees and shrubs. I know how they feel. Giles's voice drifts over the dunes, speaking in…some language I don't understand. It's peaceful out here, quiet.

Which is why the low growl behind me gets my immediate attention.

About thirty feet away, sitting in a gap between two dunes, is a…really big kitty. Mountain lion, maybe. Or…a cougar? Something sleek and gold, with big, big teeth. It sits there, watching me patiently. When I take a step toward it, it stands. "Hello, kitty," I murmur.

It turns to walk away, then glances back at me.

Hopefully this is my guide.

If not, well…death by kittycat isn't really the most glorious way to go.

I follow it into the desert.

I'm not sure how long we walk or how far. The cat only looks back once or twice. The sun seems to drift slowly toward the horizon. It's cold, but not unbearable, though I'm a little worried about what'll happen when the sun goes down. It can get pretty cold out here, even when there aren't ice demons messing around with the weather. Good thing I put on a few extra layers.

Eventually the cat leads me through a place where rock rises high on either side of us. Just beyond it, the land stretches away into the distance, falling back down to the desert floor. It's…weirdly familiar. I know this place.

The cat is gone. There's nothing for miles but the long and lonesome sands. A nearby rock looks kind of comfortable, so I have a seat, hoping there aren't snakes living around the base. It's probably too cold for them, but you never know.

For a long time it nags at me, this feeling like I've been here before, like I've seen this place.

Then I remember.

The dream. Last spring, right after we defeated Adam, when we had those freaky dreams. When the First Slayer decided to go all Predator on us. This is where I fought her. This is where I spoke to the…Metatron Tara. I'm sure of it. It's so familiar.

For a long time I sit on the rock and watch the sun slip down toward the horizon.

It gets colder.

To pass the time I think about my dream from last year. I'm surprised how well I remember parts of it. About Anya trying to wake me up. About Tara and the clock and the tarot card. About my mom living in the walls, with mice nibbling on her knees…did I know? Was it a premonition? Could I have stopped it?

Then there was Riley and…some guy who I think was Adam. Aggression is a natural human tendency, he said. You and me come by it another way. He was talking to me, then. Implying…implying that maybe I'm not human? Riley kept calling me killer. Then he left me on my own.

There was mud. I remember that. A bag full of what should have been weapons but instead was just mud. Useless, except as a mask.

Then there was the desert. This place. Tara on the hillside. I was looking for my friends, but…I'm never gonna find them here, I said.

Of course not. That's the reason you came, said not-Tara. Then the Slayer. The Slayer. The first of us. She was here. Dark and almost…almost like a demon on her own.

On her own.

Alone.

I live in the action of death, the blood cry, the penetrating wound. I am destruction. Absolute…alone. The Slayer.

I am not alone, I'd told her. She'd argued. I talk, I told her. I shop. I sneeze. I'm gonna be a fireman when the floods roll back. There's trees in the desert since you moved out. And I don't sleep on a bag of bones. Now give me back my friends.

It had felt like a choice, I remember.

A choice.

To be alone. To be like her.

Or to be…something else.

To be me. To have friends. To love. To be loved.

I watch the sun sink below the horizon, watch the dark creep over the desert. I think about the necklace Tara gave me for my birthday. The sun and the moon making a circle.

I am the Slayer, but I'm also me. It's part of me, inseparable.

It gets colder. I huddle in my jacket, tired and dozing. Is this what I came out here for? Seems like a ripoff.

I close my eyes, just for a moment…

***


…and wake up in the dream room.

I'm still cold, as if somewhere out there my real body is aware of the fact that I'm sitting on a rock in the middle of the desert and the temperature is dropping. But it's distant, almost a separate awareness. Instead I'm comforted by the familiar feel of the bed around me, of the soft prickle of Mr. Gordo's presence as he approaches the bed.

His footsteps sound different tonight. Not as soft, or as nearly silent. Like he's wearing shoes. I can't remember if he's ever sounded that way before. "Hey," I say, as he comes closer. "I guess I fell asleep, huh?"

Yes, he taps with a soft little chuckle. He climbs into bed and I shift so that I'm sitting against the headboard.

"I'm…Giles told me about this…vision quest thingy," I explain. "It's supposed to help me figure out…some stuff. But I guess I fell asleep. Some Slayer I am." I can feel him watching me in the dark. If I roll my head toward him…but all there is is black. Nothing. Stupid room. I'm tired. Maybe if I go to sleep, I'll wake up and then I can find my way back to Giles and go home. This was clearly a bust.

I want to wrap up in Mr. Gordo's arms and go to sleep but…I'm not crying, and he hasn't really held me to sleep unless I was. Have we crossed that line yet? Can…will he hold me, just…just to sleep?

"Will you…Can we just rest?" I ask.

Yes.

With a sigh, I snuggle closer. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and tucks me against his chest. We're still sitting up, but that's okay. He's solid and he smells like leather and alcohol and snow and…wood smoke? It's a strangely comforting scent. Drowsy, I settle in, wrapping an arm around him. Beneath my arm his stomach is flat and ridged with muscles, under his cotton t-shirt. As I start to drift off, my grip loosens and my arm drapes his waist.

Huh?

Something hard…. and not, you know, guy hard but…out of place. Like…a belt buckle maybe. Since when does Mr. Gordo wear jeans and a belt? Normally his pants are sweats or something soft like pj bottoms. But, even without moving my arm, I can tell that his pants are definitely jeans tonight.

Do I subconsciously dress my vampire?

I feel him fall asleep. Vampires sleep a little different from people, I've noticed. They don't go, you know, dead body stiff or anything but…whatever animates them sort of takes a nap. His arms hold me, but not as tightly. I wait a little while, until I'm sure he's asleep. Then, very carefully I move my arm and touch the hard thing at his waist. Definitely a belt buckle. Big, kinda square edged. The belt is slick like leather.

Okay.

Shoes. I'm wearing boots but…when I snuggle closer to him and stretch my feet way down…it feels like he is, too, though it's hard to tell. I'd have to sit up and check and…probably not a good idea. So…lots of guys wear belts. And shoes. It's not that unusual, right? I just…never dreamed about it before. Maybe my subconscious felt like I'd be overdressed if he were in pj's and I weren't.

It's stupid, wigging out about this. Really. I'm tired and…this is just dream weirdness. Wasn't I just thinking about dream weirdness before I fell asleep? It's nothing.

Instead of checking his shoes or giving in to the impulse to try to touch his face, I settle back against him and close my eyes. It can wait. Right now, I just want to rest.

***


I open my eyes to fire.

A big bonfire, to be exact.

Something moves on the other side of it, something dark and vaguely familiar. "Hello? Who's there?" I ask.

The something shifts. I get a glimpse of dark skin, white face paint, ratty hair that really could use some deep conditioning treatment.

"I know you," I say. "You're the first Slayer."

A voice drifts from the fire. Deep. Female. Powerful. This is a form, it says. I am the guide.

Okay. Guide. Right…I'm here for questions. And answers. I hope.

"Um. I…have a few questions…about being the Slayer? What about…what about love?" I ask. "Not…just boyfriend love." God, could that have sounded more immature?

You think you're losing your ability to love, says the voice. Guide. Thing.

"I-I didn't say that…” I say, then realize it's pretty pointless. "Yeah."

You're afraid that being the Slayer means losing your humanity.

A shiver goes down my spine. "Does it?" I ask.

You are full of love. You love with all your soul. It's brighter than the fire. Blinding. That's why you pull away from it.

"I'm full of love?" I say, surprised. The guide shifts beyond the flames. Eyes gleam back at me through the light. "I'm not losing it?"

Only if you reject it. Love is pain, and the Slayer forges strength from pain. Love. Give…Forgive. Risk the pain. It is your nature. Love will bring you to your gift.

"What?" I ask. Briefly I remember another dream, more recent. A speeding subway car full of Slayers. The first Slayer standing at the door. Your gift.

Love. Give. Forgive.

Love is pain.

"I-I'm sorry," I say, squinting against the firelight, trying to see. "I'm just a little confused. I'm full of love, which is nice, and …love will lead me to my gift?"

Yes.

"I'm getting a gift? Or…or do you mean that…that I have a gift to give someone else?"

Love will lead you to your gift.

"I don't understand."

Your question has been answered.

Then the fire is gone. The first Slayer is gone.

All that's left is the desert sands, stretching off to meet the dawning sky.

"Well," I say to nothing. "That was just maddeningly unhelpful."





 
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