Reading "Stay" - Accidental Fanmail to Anaross (and a Ficlet)
I was leaving a heart-felt but polite, not to mention brief review for anaross’s “Stay” on EF or AO3 like a normal person when all of a sudden, this began to pour out. And out. And out. In the interest of self healing, I’ve decided to unstopper this repressed memory and release it from the bottle. Because it would be way too embarrassing to post half of this as a comment somewhere people would see (such as in the feedback section of an anaross story), and because it wouldn’t even fit, I present it here instead, in all of its anguish in full technicolor. Uhm, spoiler alert for anaross’s “Stay”, for the three people in all of Spuffy fandom who haven’t read it or heard of it.
Written for anaross, but modified for general consumption and mockery. Overly self-indulgent reader reaction (fanmail) first, then ficlet at the end.
[Over-the-top dramatization based on real-life events. Or maybe this is exactly what happened, down to the last sodden tissue. Whatever makes you more comfortable. ;)]
Or, skip all this melodrama and jump to the "Stay"-inspired ficlet instead.
I really hated the story after I first read “Stay”, as I sobbed uncontrollably through a whole box of tissues, scrolling back that LiveJournal page on my iPad to see if I could blame my predicament on the lack of a “major character death” warning, as if it mattered. I couldn't even keep it down, I was crying so hard that DH ran into the room, panting, eyes big, and asked, "What happened?" in that urgent tone reserved for emergencies. I probably looked a right mess. And I had to make that sheepish reply, once I could gather myself to speak, that it was about...a Buffy fanfic (I didn’t mention “Spuffy”; I didn’t think he’d get the portmanteau, and it was no time to introduce him to fictional super pairings). But, but--off of his bemused look I dived straight into Defensive Mode, and told him: it was the most beautifully written, and most heart-wrenchingly tragic story EVAR!1!!
I was a tangle of emotions as I sat there and cried on, and DH put an arm around me, probably thinking the whole time how silly it was. How silly I was. (I’m glad he didn't break down laughing.) I tried to sort through the thoughts running in my mind, but they kept running into one another. What was the point--I vented to him (before he could go back to attending to More Important Things) and to nobody in particular--of writing fanfiction, if you were going to mass murder your fellow fans with something that'd just rip out their hearts by story’s end? (And with no recourse too--I knew because in my bargaining phase I’d imagined a sequel to “save” the story--major character death, natural cause to boot, and they wouldn’t dare magicking her back this time, not again.)
If I wanted an unhappy ending, I’d have stuck to rewatching the show, which, okay, I did anyway, but that was beside the point. Fanfiction was about fixing what went wrong, about wish fulfillment, about keeping the story alive (and not intentionally killing off the main character in the main ‘ship--god, cruel much?), about closure through self-empowerment, about--
I had a lot of theories about what fanfiction should and shouldn’t be then, to argue why the story, “Stay”, was simply, well, wrong.
It took DH a moment to follow my irrational reasoning through that tearful appeal, then he very simply and helpfully suggested that I not read stories like that, stories that upset me. “Not read anaross? But, but--” I think I threw even more counter arguments at him then, in defense of the author, and he was starting to get the picture that I had trick him with a Question That Had No Right Answers.
I ignored his look of concentration and kept going. And what was up with the non-Spuffy epilogue anyway? My Spuffy heart couldn’t take it, couldn’t even fathom it. Sure, there was a warning, and it was clearly indicated as an optional second ending, but I had rules. I read things cover to cover--introduction, preface, postscript, study guide, publisher’s notes, author bio, dedication--a habit drilled into me by teachers I can no longer recall. I sometimes read the Library of Congress catalogue filing categories printed on the back of the title page, just because they’re there... So I had to read the never-really-optional optional epilogue. Oh and I was livid, that Spike should get a not-unhappy Spike/Other ending that if existed at all in a Spuffy story, was only supposed be temporary.
I realized at some point that I had meandered from an impassioned critique into a confession of my own OCD-ness, but I didn’t let that deter my fury or let the author off the hook. DH had sneaked away soon after, smart guy, leaving me to stew in my own impotent rage.
After an eternity, I calmed down enough to regain the faculty to walk down the hall and pull out a new box of Kleenex from the cabinet where such things were stored. Armed with the new box of tissues in my lap, I sat down and re-read the story. Real masochistic. That lump in my throat getting bigger and lumpier the higher the chapter digit climbed and, true mark of an addict: I couldn’t but continue, scrolling down one bruising sentence after another, clicking on the next refresh to load in a whole page of hurt.
The writing is just too good. It’s not fair. This awful, depressing, angst-laden story that isn’t fluffy and doesn’t have a happy ending. This gut-twisting romance far from romantic (because death could never be romantic) but overflowing with distilled passion bursting from its restraint, held so perfectly in the balance, but only just. This story of love at its hardest, not withholding, not rejecting, not losing, but not having it either; when the choice is taken out of your hands and there’s no argument that can win, no act that can redeem, and not for lack of trying. This wonderful, marvelous story of holding on and letting go and knowing precisely the right time for either and for both. Which is unexpected and antagonizing (to a die-hard Spuffy fan) and so real and true it should’ve come with a severe warning from the Surgeon General and all the adorable kitten and unicorn chasers on the Internet (and maybe a prescription for an anti-depressant, or at least a suggestion for wine pairing). Which is bold in its premise yet understated in its execution. Which is insightful in all the things the characters do and subtle in all that they don’t. Which is thought-provoking and insistent yet loving in the way a lovers’ spat might be, where the only reason you’re not lashing out against each other is because you’re holding hands. Which redefined what fanfiction is to me and showed me its power, which of course is the same power of well-crafted, beautiful, heartfelt writing of any kind, more than I ever imagined possible. Needless to say, it has stayed with me through the years (sorry; couldn’t help it).
But maybe, in my head, just to feel comforted, I could insert my own happier deleted scene--nah, an AU prequel if anything at all, one that takes place not long after that Final Battle, with Spike’s latest brush with death providing just enough of a push for my favorite pairing to overcome inertia and pride and pig-headedness to concede to love’s infinite pull. Through her writing, she’s brought Buffy and Spike alive and settled them in my town (very nicely deposited them on my doorstep, really). Didn’t seem game of me to hold my hands behind my back, politely utter a “no, thank you” and refuse to play.
[For those skipping the melodrama above via the escape anchor link, here begins the ficlet.] If I close my eyes, I could see that butcher shop in Bernal, the one with the retro distressed sign, that could easily charm a small town yet manages to compete with both a Safeway and a Whole Foods and all the mom-and-pop grocery stores in the Mission, all within a couple of miles.
It would be downright easy to picture Buffy there, one late afternoon, picking up their usual to-go order: a panini (roasted tomatoes with provolone & mozzarella) and a fresh lemonade for her, a quart of fresh pig’s blood for him (warmed over in the microwave because she’s friends with the owners by now), and two strips of bacon as a treat for Kilo. Tia rings up the order, handing back loose change with gossip on ownership change at the bar next door. The new guy working the panini station flirts with Buffy, until Tia stage-whispers, “She’s Spike’s girlfriend!” and he blanches. Buffy hides a secret smile. Reformed Big Bad or not, he still has such a reputation.
But look: Waving a warm goodbye, she’s already out the door, walking briskly uphill to Holly Park, her insulated grocery bag swinging gently and her ponytail bouncing. The sun has just dipped behind Diamond Heights, giving off that magic diffuse light that is so pretty. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, because if she knows her vampire lover at all--and she dares say she does--he’d be out there already, risking that last ray of sunshine just to meet her a little earlier. She extends her senses to hone in on those barely-there tingles, like a homing device that always leads her back to him, and him to her. It’s comforting, incredibly so. Ever present. Never having to ask. Knowing he’s there. Knowing that he knows she’s there too.
She lets her tingles direct her to him, catching him poised to toss a ball at an enthusiastic Kilo. He pauses mid-throw and turns to flash her that impossible smile of his, and Buffy can’t help but admire that graceful body, those strong arms, the eyes that, even from this distance, lock onto her. The ball is thrown, but Kilo abandons his post to intercept Buffy and the two strips of bacon she’s carrying. Spike curses, then--sod the ball--he’s running to Buffy too, then bends to kiss her, full on the lips, long and deep.
And she allows her body to melt into his, and linger, blissfully, even as she hears wolf whistles and good-natured teases of “Get a room!” He’s finally convinced her of the virtues of PDA, and she’s making up for lost time. Kilo is going berserk, circling the two of them, barking and whining, nudging at the bag.
Finally, they part, sharing a charged look that promises “to be continued”. Buffy marvels a little at that, how natural this coupleness feels between them, how it makes her heart flutter, how it fans the flame--even without the tease of her withholding or self-denial, the angst of “will he or won’t he”. They’re solid now, aren’t they? How far they’ve come, the both of them, and together as well.
The wind has yet to pick up but the air is already chilly, so they snuggle up under the fiery sky on a picnic blanket spread over dry grass, as Buffy hands Spike his thermos of blood, and unwraps her sandwich. Spike chugs half of the blood right away, then leisurely sips the rest of it after lacing it with scotch from his handy flask and stirring it with his finger. This is their golden hour, the slayer and her creature of the night of a lover, coming together, each meeting the other half way. A quiet picnic at the top of the city. Almost like a normal couple, but without trying too hard.
The weather is accommodating: clear sky, no fog, visibility virtually unlimited. They’ve shared a hell of a past, a tangled mess of a history, with so many deaths between them, so many missed opportunities. It hurts to think, cringes to remember, so it makes no sense to question, to dig, to peel away the scabs to poke at the raw wounds beneath. Fortunately she was never existential to begin with. They’re both do-ers instead of thinkers, and that suits them just fine. They’ve simply risen above it, put it all behind, like the city by the bay glistening below, coming to life as the sky darkens, mysterious and alluring but quiet in the distance.
Buffy isn’t one to make long term plans: still a slayer, the looming expiration date still looms, though perhaps not so pressingly since she activated the band of slayerettes. But sitting shoulder to shoulder with Spike, savoring the tacit reassurance of each other, she thinks she could get used to the present. Kilo has long finished his bacon, and is now eyeing Buffy’s sandwich intently. So is Spike, who with vampire speed manages to snag a piece of focaccia from Buffy’s grasp. She puts on a good show of protesting, and Kilo, fired up, barks a storm as they tackle each other, fake-wrestling for the rest of her sandwich. Their laughter rises, carrying far in the still night air, chasing shadows of the past away. It’s done, the why or the how and all the stop-starts unimportant now. Their future stretching infinite before them.
Written for anaross, but modified for general consumption and mockery. Overly self-indulgent reader reaction (fanmail) first, then ficlet at the end.
[Over-the-top dramatization based on real-life events. Or maybe this is exactly what happened, down to the last sodden tissue. Whatever makes you more comfortable. ;)]
Or, skip all this melodrama and jump to the "Stay"-inspired ficlet instead.
I really hated the story after I first read “Stay”, as I sobbed uncontrollably through a whole box of tissues, scrolling back that LiveJournal page on my iPad to see if I could blame my predicament on the lack of a “major character death” warning, as if it mattered. I couldn't even keep it down, I was crying so hard that DH ran into the room, panting, eyes big, and asked, "What happened?" in that urgent tone reserved for emergencies. I probably looked a right mess. And I had to make that sheepish reply, once I could gather myself to speak, that it was about...a Buffy fanfic (I didn’t mention “Spuffy”; I didn’t think he’d get the portmanteau, and it was no time to introduce him to fictional super pairings). But, but--off of his bemused look I dived straight into Defensive Mode, and told him: it was the most beautifully written, and most heart-wrenchingly tragic story EVAR!1!!
I was a tangle of emotions as I sat there and cried on, and DH put an arm around me, probably thinking the whole time how silly it was. How silly I was. (I’m glad he didn't break down laughing.) I tried to sort through the thoughts running in my mind, but they kept running into one another. What was the point--I vented to him (before he could go back to attending to More Important Things) and to nobody in particular--of writing fanfiction, if you were going to mass murder your fellow fans with something that'd just rip out their hearts by story’s end? (And with no recourse too--I knew because in my bargaining phase I’d imagined a sequel to “save” the story--major character death, natural cause to boot, and they wouldn’t dare magicking her back this time, not again.)
If I wanted an unhappy ending, I’d have stuck to rewatching the show, which, okay, I did anyway, but that was beside the point. Fanfiction was about fixing what went wrong, about wish fulfillment, about keeping the story alive (and not intentionally killing off the main character in the main ‘ship--god, cruel much?), about closure through self-empowerment, about--
I had a lot of theories about what fanfiction should and shouldn’t be then, to argue why the story, “Stay”, was simply, well, wrong.
It took DH a moment to follow my irrational reasoning through that tearful appeal, then he very simply and helpfully suggested that I not read stories like that, stories that upset me. “Not read anaross? But, but--” I think I threw even more counter arguments at him then, in defense of the author, and he was starting to get the picture that I had trick him with a Question That Had No Right Answers.
I ignored his look of concentration and kept going. And what was up with the non-Spuffy epilogue anyway? My Spuffy heart couldn’t take it, couldn’t even fathom it. Sure, there was a warning, and it was clearly indicated as an optional second ending, but I had rules. I read things cover to cover--introduction, preface, postscript, study guide, publisher’s notes, author bio, dedication--a habit drilled into me by teachers I can no longer recall. I sometimes read the Library of Congress catalogue filing categories printed on the back of the title page, just because they’re there... So I had to read the never-really-optional optional epilogue. Oh and I was livid, that Spike should get a not-unhappy Spike/Other ending that if existed at all in a Spuffy story, was only supposed be temporary.
I realized at some point that I had meandered from an impassioned critique into a confession of my own OCD-ness, but I didn’t let that deter my fury or let the author off the hook. DH had sneaked away soon after, smart guy, leaving me to stew in my own impotent rage.
After an eternity, I calmed down enough to regain the faculty to walk down the hall and pull out a new box of Kleenex from the cabinet where such things were stored. Armed with the new box of tissues in my lap, I sat down and re-read the story. Real masochistic. That lump in my throat getting bigger and lumpier the higher the chapter digit climbed and, true mark of an addict: I couldn’t but continue, scrolling down one bruising sentence after another, clicking on the next refresh to load in a whole page of hurt.
The writing is just too good. It’s not fair. This awful, depressing, angst-laden story that isn’t fluffy and doesn’t have a happy ending. This gut-twisting romance far from romantic (because death could never be romantic) but overflowing with distilled passion bursting from its restraint, held so perfectly in the balance, but only just. This story of love at its hardest, not withholding, not rejecting, not losing, but not having it either; when the choice is taken out of your hands and there’s no argument that can win, no act that can redeem, and not for lack of trying. This wonderful, marvelous story of holding on and letting go and knowing precisely the right time for either and for both. Which is unexpected and antagonizing (to a die-hard Spuffy fan) and so real and true it should’ve come with a severe warning from the Surgeon General and all the adorable kitten and unicorn chasers on the Internet (and maybe a prescription for an anti-depressant, or at least a suggestion for wine pairing). Which is bold in its premise yet understated in its execution. Which is insightful in all the things the characters do and subtle in all that they don’t. Which is thought-provoking and insistent yet loving in the way a lovers’ spat might be, where the only reason you’re not lashing out against each other is because you’re holding hands. Which redefined what fanfiction is to me and showed me its power, which of course is the same power of well-crafted, beautiful, heartfelt writing of any kind, more than I ever imagined possible. Needless to say, it has stayed with me through the years (sorry; couldn’t help it).
But maybe, in my head, just to feel comforted, I could insert my own happier deleted scene--nah, an AU prequel if anything at all, one that takes place not long after that Final Battle, with Spike’s latest brush with death providing just enough of a push for my favorite pairing to overcome inertia and pride and pig-headedness to concede to love’s infinite pull. Through her writing, she’s brought Buffy and Spike alive and settled them in my town (very nicely deposited them on my doorstep, really). Didn’t seem game of me to hold my hands behind my back, politely utter a “no, thank you” and refuse to play.
[For those skipping the melodrama above via the escape anchor link, here begins the ficlet.] If I close my eyes, I could see that butcher shop in Bernal, the one with the retro distressed sign, that could easily charm a small town yet manages to compete with both a Safeway and a Whole Foods and all the mom-and-pop grocery stores in the Mission, all within a couple of miles.
It would be downright easy to picture Buffy there, one late afternoon, picking up their usual to-go order: a panini (roasted tomatoes with provolone & mozzarella) and a fresh lemonade for her, a quart of fresh pig’s blood for him (warmed over in the microwave because she’s friends with the owners by now), and two strips of bacon as a treat for Kilo. Tia rings up the order, handing back loose change with gossip on ownership change at the bar next door. The new guy working the panini station flirts with Buffy, until Tia stage-whispers, “She’s Spike’s girlfriend!” and he blanches. Buffy hides a secret smile. Reformed Big Bad or not, he still has such a reputation.
But look: Waving a warm goodbye, she’s already out the door, walking briskly uphill to Holly Park, her insulated grocery bag swinging gently and her ponytail bouncing. The sun has just dipped behind Diamond Heights, giving off that magic diffuse light that is so pretty. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, because if she knows her vampire lover at all--and she dares say she does--he’d be out there already, risking that last ray of sunshine just to meet her a little earlier. She extends her senses to hone in on those barely-there tingles, like a homing device that always leads her back to him, and him to her. It’s comforting, incredibly so. Ever present. Never having to ask. Knowing he’s there. Knowing that he knows she’s there too.
She lets her tingles direct her to him, catching him poised to toss a ball at an enthusiastic Kilo. He pauses mid-throw and turns to flash her that impossible smile of his, and Buffy can’t help but admire that graceful body, those strong arms, the eyes that, even from this distance, lock onto her. The ball is thrown, but Kilo abandons his post to intercept Buffy and the two strips of bacon she’s carrying. Spike curses, then--sod the ball--he’s running to Buffy too, then bends to kiss her, full on the lips, long and deep.
And she allows her body to melt into his, and linger, blissfully, even as she hears wolf whistles and good-natured teases of “Get a room!” He’s finally convinced her of the virtues of PDA, and she’s making up for lost time. Kilo is going berserk, circling the two of them, barking and whining, nudging at the bag.
Finally, they part, sharing a charged look that promises “to be continued”. Buffy marvels a little at that, how natural this coupleness feels between them, how it makes her heart flutter, how it fans the flame--even without the tease of her withholding or self-denial, the angst of “will he or won’t he”. They’re solid now, aren’t they? How far they’ve come, the both of them, and together as well.
The wind has yet to pick up but the air is already chilly, so they snuggle up under the fiery sky on a picnic blanket spread over dry grass, as Buffy hands Spike his thermos of blood, and unwraps her sandwich. Spike chugs half of the blood right away, then leisurely sips the rest of it after lacing it with scotch from his handy flask and stirring it with his finger. This is their golden hour, the slayer and her creature of the night of a lover, coming together, each meeting the other half way. A quiet picnic at the top of the city. Almost like a normal couple, but without trying too hard.
The weather is accommodating: clear sky, no fog, visibility virtually unlimited. They’ve shared a hell of a past, a tangled mess of a history, with so many deaths between them, so many missed opportunities. It hurts to think, cringes to remember, so it makes no sense to question, to dig, to peel away the scabs to poke at the raw wounds beneath. Fortunately she was never existential to begin with. They’re both do-ers instead of thinkers, and that suits them just fine. They’ve simply risen above it, put it all behind, like the city by the bay glistening below, coming to life as the sky darkens, mysterious and alluring but quiet in the distance.
Buffy isn’t one to make long term plans: still a slayer, the looming expiration date still looms, though perhaps not so pressingly since she activated the band of slayerettes. But sitting shoulder to shoulder with Spike, savoring the tacit reassurance of each other, she thinks she could get used to the present. Kilo has long finished his bacon, and is now eyeing Buffy’s sandwich intently. So is Spike, who with vampire speed manages to snag a piece of focaccia from Buffy’s grasp. She puts on a good show of protesting, and Kilo, fired up, barks a storm as they tackle each other, fake-wrestling for the rest of her sandwich. Their laughter rises, carrying far in the still night air, chasing shadows of the past away. It’s done, the why or the how and all the stop-starts unimportant now. Their future stretching infinite before them.