Almost There
Here's a post-series ficlet, written for the prompt of "knives" at still_grrr.
Almost There
She’d offered to give it back, once. Faith had just raised an eyebrow, and said, “That’s not mine, B. Not anymore.”
So it had gone back into her wardrobe, at the bottom, right where it had sat for the four years before that.
Buffy stood, in the cold morning air, watching the shadows shift as the sun got higher, and wondered why.
Why she’d tried to give it back. Why she’d kept it in the first place. Why she’d even made a space for it in her ‘just in case’ backpack, before the town collapsed.
It wasn’t like she needed it, or anything. Not at all. But she’d still gone and packed it, right next to Mr Gordo, a family photo, and her favourite set of pyjamas.
It would just have felt wrong, not taking it with her.
“You know, I really am a bit unexplainable, sometimes,” she said.
There was no reply.
“Why didn’t you take it back, anyway?”
She’d asked that before, too - years later, after a third bottle of wine.
(“Why would I?”
“Well, it was yours. And it was… it’s pretty nice. Weapon-wise.”
“Sure - but it’s not me. Hell, you’re the one who actually used the thing. Worked real nice for you, if I remember.”
“That’s not- um… I only… hey! You’re changing the subject!”
“Am not.”
“Am too - shifty person.” She glared, and poured herself another glass. “And that’s not the point.”
Faith blinked. “What’s the point, again?”
“Uh… that it’s… because it’s your knife.”
“Sure it’s not yours, B?”)
Buffy rolled her eyes, remembering. “That so wasn’t a real answer - and you know it.”
A breeze stirred up, slightly, rustling the trees for a moment before it all went quiet again.
She kept talking. “Seriously - what was it? Too sharp for you? Too heavy? Too much of a reminder of the bad old working-for-a-giant-snake days? ’Cause you kept saying it wasn’t your sort of weapon - but it sort of was. You can’t fool me, with the whole ‘I like swords’ thing. I’m swords girl… and I’m the one who had to keep hanging onto your knife. Why was that?”
She never was going to get an answer now, was she?
Buffy reached into her bag, and pulled it out, carefully. It was still sharp.
“You know, I never could throw this thing away. Not that I used it - not after the school blew up - but I wouldn’t have gotten rid of it. Not ever. It was… it was yours.” She paused. “It was nice - having a piece of you there. Even when I hated your guts.”
A mower had started up - over by the fence. Funny, she’d sort of forgotten that these places got mowed. Mostly because she was usually around after dark.
Everything looked different when the sun was up.
She was still looking at the knife, turning it round and round, slowly.
“This was yours. Everything about it - it was like you were almost there.” Buffy paused again, looking thoughtful.
Then she grinned.
“Hey, Faith? This knife - it’s mine. You know it is - you said so. It’s my knife. It’s part of me.” And that said, she knelt down, stabbed the knife’s blade straight into the grass, and stayed there for a moment, looking solemnly at the gravestone in front of her.
The breeze started up again, so gently, as Buffy slowly traced the words on the stone with her finger.
“It’s mine. Remember? My knife. And it’s staying here. So… I’m always going to be almost here. Promise.”
She raised an eyebrow, and said pointedly, “Even if you never do give me a real answer.”
Almost There
She’d offered to give it back, once. Faith had just raised an eyebrow, and said, “That’s not mine, B. Not anymore.”
So it had gone back into her wardrobe, at the bottom, right where it had sat for the four years before that.
Buffy stood, in the cold morning air, watching the shadows shift as the sun got higher, and wondered why.
Why she’d tried to give it back. Why she’d kept it in the first place. Why she’d even made a space for it in her ‘just in case’ backpack, before the town collapsed.
It wasn’t like she needed it, or anything. Not at all. But she’d still gone and packed it, right next to Mr Gordo, a family photo, and her favourite set of pyjamas.
It would just have felt wrong, not taking it with her.
“You know, I really am a bit unexplainable, sometimes,” she said.
There was no reply.
“Why didn’t you take it back, anyway?”
She’d asked that before, too - years later, after a third bottle of wine.
(“Why would I?”
“Well, it was yours. And it was… it’s pretty nice. Weapon-wise.”
“Sure - but it’s not me. Hell, you’re the one who actually used the thing. Worked real nice for you, if I remember.”
“That’s not- um… I only… hey! You’re changing the subject!”
“Am not.”
“Am too - shifty person.” She glared, and poured herself another glass. “And that’s not the point.”
Faith blinked. “What’s the point, again?”
“Uh… that it’s… because it’s your knife.”
“Sure it’s not yours, B?”)
Buffy rolled her eyes, remembering. “That so wasn’t a real answer - and you know it.”
A breeze stirred up, slightly, rustling the trees for a moment before it all went quiet again.
She kept talking. “Seriously - what was it? Too sharp for you? Too heavy? Too much of a reminder of the bad old working-for-a-giant-snake days? ’Cause you kept saying it wasn’t your sort of weapon - but it sort of was. You can’t fool me, with the whole ‘I like swords’ thing. I’m swords girl… and I’m the one who had to keep hanging onto your knife. Why was that?”
She never was going to get an answer now, was she?
Buffy reached into her bag, and pulled it out, carefully. It was still sharp.
“You know, I never could throw this thing away. Not that I used it - not after the school blew up - but I wouldn’t have gotten rid of it. Not ever. It was… it was yours.” She paused. “It was nice - having a piece of you there. Even when I hated your guts.”
A mower had started up - over by the fence. Funny, she’d sort of forgotten that these places got mowed. Mostly because she was usually around after dark.
Everything looked different when the sun was up.
She was still looking at the knife, turning it round and round, slowly.
“This was yours. Everything about it - it was like you were almost there.” Buffy paused again, looking thoughtful.
Then she grinned.
“Hey, Faith? This knife - it’s mine. You know it is - you said so. It’s my knife. It’s part of me.” And that said, she knelt down, stabbed the knife’s blade straight into the grass, and stayed there for a moment, looking solemnly at the gravestone in front of her.
The breeze started up again, so gently, as Buffy slowly traced the words on the stone with her finger.
“It’s mine. Remember? My knife. And it’s staying here. So… I’m always going to be almost here. Promise.”
She raised an eyebrow, and said pointedly, “Even if you never do give me a real answer.”