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.
Before she died, she thought she’d tried kinky.
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.
I don’t want to ask myself why; I don’t want to know the answer—but if I didn’t come back wrong, what the hell am I doing?
Everything’s changed. Nothing’s changed.