“This is the job, without the diaries I am the nothing you made me.”
They put the drugs in his food. He knows this, but he still has to eat. The government of the United States may have given up on the research and manipulation of demons, but humans are still fair game.
It’s been six months since I took it off, but I still feel it like a missing limb.
It sounded at first like the buzzing of her alarm clock. Buffy slammed her hand against the spot about where it thought said clock had been three times before her sleep-addled brain realized that there was no clock, there hadn’t been a clock since before Sunnydale turned into a sinkhole, and that, in fact, not only was there no clock, there was no nightstand, no bed, just the sticky duct-taped back seat of a school bus that smelled decidedly ripe.
They say when you’re dying, your whole life passes before your eyes.
Before she died, she thought she’d tried kinky.
Nights like this are the worst. Quiet nights, nights where he can hear himself think, loud and clear. Nights where the sandman requires hefty bribes in the form of beer or whisky (or both) before Xander can drift into an uneasy state of something kind of like sleep, but without the restful part.
Okay. Ground rules. Thinking about Giles the way you’d think about Angel or Spike or Riley, or even Parker, was wrong. Giles was not allowed to be attractive.
She’s there for a good minute and a half before he notices her. She’s tempted to break the moment, to make some joke about the necklace he’s holding, how between its scrubbing bubbles and the slicing dicing scythe, their weapons should have their own infomercials. Instead she just stands there until he looks up.
Things used to be simple. Black and white. Good and Evil. G-d and Country. Boys and Girls.