FIC: Circuit

[janandmel@xxxxxxxxxxx]

Howdy. I just joined this list, but everyone seems quite nice, if a bit
kooky. : ) Well, not only is this
my first "Buffy" fic, but I haven't written any fanfic for five months, so,
I'm a little (ahem) rusty. Therefore,
I'd like some "constructive" feedback. I have a healthy ego. I can take
it. In addition, this doesn't have
an overt B/W 'ship, but it's intended to imply one.

-- Rachel

And now, on with the show...

Disclaimers: The characters of the television show "Buffy the Vampire
Slayer" are owned and
copyrighted by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox and the WB
Television Network.
No copyright infringement is intended. "Jesus Nitelite" was written by Max
Collins and
belongs to its copyright holders.

Thanks to: Miriam for the beta. Forgive me for occasionally choosing
"poetic license"
despite your attempts to pound proper grammar into my head.

Summary: Willow makes her rounds.


CIRCUIT


I sleep and then I wake
Make sounds and go to bed
And wake again
- Eve 6, "Jesus Nitelite"

Some things haven't changed in the two years, three months and sixteen days
since Buffy
died. She still fights the good fight, plays research girl and occasionally
goes on patrol
with a crossbow, a quiver, and a prayer. Before each patrol she chants a
protection spell
and wishes the new Slayer good luck, which is always returned with a look
that says, "I
don't need any."

No, she and the Slayer are not friends or comrades, merely borderline
acquaintances, two
brooders who would have gone their separate ways if not for "destiny" and
other such
throwaway words. The Slayer is always serious, far above naming her
favorite stake "Mr.
Pointy", far above befriending her "Slayerettes", and will most likely be
dead before her
eighteenth birthday. Xander's money is on before Christmas.

She takes Fridays for herself, even in the midst of emergencies when one
more pair of eyes
could make all the difference. Believing variety is the spice of life, she
keeps her liquor
cabinet diversely stocked: sabra from Israel, chocolate and orange; the
crème de cerise and
framboise of the French; tia maria, Jamaican coffee and spice;
honeydew-flavored midori from
Japan; ouzo imported from Greece; a thousand more mundane drinks, even
domestic beer when
her checks begin bouncing. She returns to Giles' apartment Saturday at noon
with a
jackhammer in her head and Xander's eyes following her, but he never asks,
perhaps not
wanting to know the answer.

On the twenty-third of each month she makes a daylight pilgrimage to the
graveyard, placing
fresh flowers at Buffy's headstone and kissing its cool surface. Sometimes
the tightness in
her chest becomes too much, and tears stain her alabaster cheeks. She
always closes by
splaying her hand against the granite and saying, yes, she'll be careful,
even if she'd
rather not be, and, yes, things have gotten easier with the passing of time.

Then she returns home and pours herself a crème de menthe, ron coco, grand
marnier, sambuca,
even if it's not Friday.