3 drabbles, 3 'verses.
If there's one irreconciliable inconsistency between the twin 'verses, it's this:
---
Courting Sin alt. Graduation I
Five minutes, Buffy thought. She needed five minutes to herself.
“He is dying,” Giles’s flat voice echoed in her head, and Wesley’s scoff, “Good riddance.”
Three more minutes. Out of pity, Willow’s resolve could stand three more minutes, then Buffy would guard Angel’s door herself. “I know we had plans, just us survivors,” she told the lone rosebush in the garden as she fingered a blood-red petal. “I know there’s a bag of seeds I would plant in L.A.. But….“ Two minutes left to cry and pretend she was addressing a flower. “If he dies, you’ll be on your own.”
Morning After & Other Fairytales
She’d called Willow and Jenny to join her because of their optimism. "Well?" At their non-optimistic faces Buffy felt disheartened.
“What’s the superlative for ‘abandoned’?” Willow wondered, looking in distress at the jungle of weeds running at the fountain’s base.
“Derelict?” Jenny supplied.
Buffy’s face fell. She’d hoped that by planting a few flowers, maybe adding a few spells, the mansion’s wilder spots could be tamed. She’d never tell Angel, but in the sunlight the place looked, well, eerie. “It can’t be that bad,” she showed them the pink blossoms in a corner.
Willow perked up. “That does look promising.”
Jossverse
Angel kneels on the ground, digging a hole between them. “It’s about choice.” His Claddagh glints under the sunlight, sometimes dimmed by fresh dirt (“You reap what you sow, love.”), sometimes by dried blood (“It’s not a difficult concept, Buff.”).
Without warning, he reaches into her chest. “Show me what you’ve got.” His hand comes out in a fist, and he positions it over the hole. Blood cascades down, freezing in mid-air. He covers the hardened droplets - half pink, half dark red - and meets her eyes. “Which will it be?”
Alone in her bed, Buffy whimpered in her sleep. “None.”
---
Courting Sin alt. Graduation I
Five minutes, Buffy thought. She needed five minutes to herself.
“He is dying,” Giles’s flat voice echoed in her head, and Wesley’s scoff, “Good riddance.”
Three more minutes. Out of pity, Willow’s resolve could stand three more minutes, then Buffy would guard Angel’s door herself. “I know we had plans, just us survivors,” she told the lone rosebush in the garden as she fingered a blood-red petal. “I know there’s a bag of seeds I would plant in L.A.. But….“ Two minutes left to cry and pretend she was addressing a flower. “If he dies, you’ll be on your own.”
Morning After & Other Fairytales
She’d called Willow and Jenny to join her because of their optimism. "Well?" At their non-optimistic faces Buffy felt disheartened.
“What’s the superlative for ‘abandoned’?” Willow wondered, looking in distress at the jungle of weeds running at the fountain’s base.
“Derelict?” Jenny supplied.
Buffy’s face fell. She’d hoped that by planting a few flowers, maybe adding a few spells, the mansion’s wilder spots could be tamed. She’d never tell Angel, but in the sunlight the place looked, well, eerie. “It can’t be that bad,” she showed them the pink blossoms in a corner.
Willow perked up. “That does look promising.”
Jossverse
Angel kneels on the ground, digging a hole between them. “It’s about choice.” His Claddagh glints under the sunlight, sometimes dimmed by fresh dirt (“You reap what you sow, love.”), sometimes by dried blood (“It’s not a difficult concept, Buff.”).
Without warning, he reaches into her chest. “Show me what you’ve got.” His hand comes out in a fist, and he positions it over the hole. Blood cascades down, freezing in mid-air. He covers the hardened droplets - half pink, half dark red - and meets her eyes. “Which will it be?”
Alone in her bed, Buffy whimpered in her sleep. “None.”