She remembered talks where Sam had expressed the exact same want she had - about hanging up their stakes for good and leaving this fight behind. Being safe. Having the 2-point-5 children and the white picket fence...
It had taken her Mom dying and her severe sense of Slayer Duty to kick in for Buffy to realize she was never going to have that - it was a dream, a way far off, never-going-to-be-attainable dream...
Yet now it was.
She hadn't had much time to process it, really. Two days since she'd activated every potential slayer in the world - from now on every girl in the world who might be a Slayer, will be a Slayer - and she didn't have to be. Not any more. Not a dream, now, she realized...
Right as Sam realized that he'd had that, that he was so fucking close, and Buffy's heart ached for him all over again.
"Sam--" What was she supposed to say, sorry? Of course she was sorry. No matter how much it had hurt, she'd wanted that for Sam because he'd wanted it too... And wasn't that what loving someone was all about? About having them be happy, even if they weren't with you while they were happy?
She sighed, wondering if this new-found elasticity of Sam's tongue was just from the alcohol when he said it.
Her head snapped up. Sam was looking at the shot he'd poured, not drinking it, and the whole bar seemed to bleed away. No more country music, attentive waitress, or talking patrons. Just Sam and Buffy. And whatever he'd been about to say.
"You just what?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper. She wasn't sure Sam had even heard her so Buffy reached out, placing her hand on his arm. "Sam, look at me."
He did. He wasn't finding it hard to focus, he wasn't all-out drunk. "You said wanted," she murmured softly, holding his gaze, "Is that... Wanted as in, past-tense?"
She bit her lip, watching him as her heart jack-hammered in her chest. He didn't speak, didn't even move and Buffy decided then and there that she was too impatient to wait for when they were sober (drunken kisses being something of a past-history between them).
Not that drunk, she rationalized, leaning over the table and pressing her lips to his gently.
It wasn't comfortable - there was a table digging into her stomach, after all - but Buffy didn't care. Because he'd been saying that very thing, right? That he'd wanted her.
She could only hope that it wasn't just past tense talking or this would turn out to be very awkward.
It had taken her Mom dying and her severe sense of Slayer Duty to kick in for Buffy to realize she was never going to have that - it was a dream, a way far off, never-going-to-be-attainable dream...
Yet now it was.
She hadn't had much time to process it, really. Two days since she'd activated every potential slayer in the world - from now on every girl in the world who might be a Slayer, will be a Slayer - and she didn't have to be. Not any more. Not a dream, now, she realized...
Right as Sam realized that he'd had that, that he was so fucking close, and Buffy's heart ached for him all over again.
"Sam--" What was she supposed to say, sorry? Of course she was sorry. No matter how much it had hurt, she'd wanted that for Sam because he'd wanted it too... And wasn't that what loving someone was all about? About having them be happy, even if they weren't with you while they were happy?
She sighed, wondering if this new-found elasticity of Sam's tongue was just from the alcohol when he said it.
Her head snapped up. Sam was looking at the shot he'd poured, not drinking it, and the whole bar seemed to bleed away. No more country music, attentive waitress, or talking patrons. Just Sam and Buffy. And whatever he'd been about to say.
"You just what?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper. She wasn't sure Sam had even heard her so Buffy reached out, placing her hand on his arm. "Sam, look at me."
He did. He wasn't finding it hard to focus, he wasn't all-out drunk. "You said wanted," she murmured softly, holding his gaze, "Is that... Wanted as in, past-tense?"
She bit her lip, watching him as her heart jack-hammered in her chest. He didn't speak, didn't even move and Buffy decided then and there that she was too impatient to wait for when they were sober (drunken kisses being something of a past-history between them).
Not that drunk, she rationalized, leaning over the table and pressing her lips to his gently.
It wasn't comfortable - there was a table digging into her stomach, after all - but Buffy didn't care. Because he'd been saying that very thing, right? That he'd wanted her.
She could only hope that it wasn't just past tense talking or this would turn out to be very awkward.
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