The world’s inside out, upside down, sideways, backwards. Pick a direction, and it’s going there top speed on its way to hell. Recon says the enemy front is about a hundred or so demons strong and right on their doorstep, except that recon still calls them hostile HSTs, when recon’s not giving her a buck-up-little-cowgirl lecture or talking about his soon-to-be-firstborn.
Buffy swallowed a sigh and turned around. The guy was tall, a bit on the skinny side, with overly-pomaded dark hair, glasses, and a suit so stuffy it could only mean one thing: new Watcher.
“Do you guys all come factory-equipped with tweed? Tell the Council they can bite me. I’m through.”
Dealing with the weight of the end of the world, times two.
He found her waiting tables in a nondescript town somewhere up the coast. He hadn’t been looking for her, or for anything, really. Aimless wanderings had taken him around the globe and back again in the years since the world had failed to end for the last time, and this was just another stop with which to mark time.
Port in a Storm Part 3: “Wesley?”
He closed his eyes, and she noticed the tension in his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept or shaved in days.
“What are you doing here?”
A quick expression of exasperation crossed his face, and he grabbed the pen and notepad off the ground next to him. He scribbled something quickly, and handed her the pad.
Does it matter? She read.
Port in a Storm Part 2: Home is the last place he wants to be. Everything still tidy and neat except for the box in his hands, the one that reminds him (as if he needs a reminder) that he did have one more thing to lose after all. He sets it down carefully; decides to play the messages he knows are waiting on his machine.
Port in a Storm Part 1: It felt almost like the last time. She’d grabbed a bag, bought her ticket, and left a short note on her bed. Only this time, the bag was weekend-light, the ticket round-trip, and the note said she’d be back soon.
We’re all needful things at times.