Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or places of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer". The television show and all things related are the express legal property of Joss Whedon, the WB, Mutant Enemy, and a lot of other people who aren't me. Please don't sue.
See what I mean? Easy to forget.
It makes me feel a little guilty when I forget about that, as if I had forgotten her birthday or something. She told me once that being the Slayer was more than a job for her, it was her destiny. She was right, I don’t want to give the impression that I think she was lying or anything, but… I think it’s even more than that. It’s who she is, just as much a part of her as, I don’t know, being a girl is. So every once in a while, I have to remind myself of who she is. I follow her when she goes on patrol. I watch her fight. I know Buffy would hate it if she knew… except part of me has a sneaking suspicion that she already does know and she lets me do it anyway. I mean, if all these creatures of the night, who have been honing their lurking-in-the-shadows skills for centuries, can’t escape her notice, than what the hell makes me think that I can?
Well, take last night for example.
I usually just hang out in this little clearing right behind a couple bushes in Restfield Cemetery. It’s one of the oldest ones, and is therefore a prime undead hotspot. Buffy usually at least does a jog-through every night. Last night she, not to mention the vampires, didn’t disappoint me. She interrupted five of them, all swaggering and bravado, on their way home, I assumed. I love watching Buffy’s face as she sizes up an opponent. It’s this purely analytical look, mildly interested; her eyes darting over each participant, before letting the look pass away. You really have to be in the right place at the right time to catch this; it only lasts for maybe ten seconds. Honestly, that’s as long as it takes for her to process the number of opponents, their combined intelligence, strength, age, experience, and any really out-of-the-ordinary features and formulate a battle plan. Most of the time, with young and stupid vamps like these were, all she has to do is count them before she springs into action. That’s the most amazing part, the part that tells me the most about her as the Slayer, and not just because I get to see her waste these guys. If you really let your attention fall away from what Buffy’s fighting, you can learn a lot. One of the biggest reasons why her fighting is so smooth and beautiful is because she tends to hold back. She’s not just lashing out; for one thing, the vamps would go flying if she did and then she’d have to chase them before landing another hit, and for another thing, she likes the challenge and the control that comes with it. You can see the full physical proof of what she jokingly calls her “Slayer-sense”, she can tell without looking where her opponents are, how fast they’re going, how injured they are. During a fight, you can see the play of emotions on her face, how she’s torn between the ecstasy of the physical challenge and the seriousness of the fight against evil, the glory of the kill and the weight of this as her destiny.
As the dust literally settled, she finished as a true seasoned warrior does and looked around to make sure she was really done. She turned to the right four times, scanning the perimeter for other possible hostiles. In one instant, I became certain that she was looking directly at me, and I knew in that moment the fear of any being who would cross her. Her expression was all business, eyes steely and her body still poised and tense from combat, looking for all the world like the epitome of the femme fatale, deadly dangerous and the most indescribable kind of beautiful at the same time.
Buffy stood up straight, re-adjusted her ponytail, and sneezed twice, quickly and quietly into her hands… and the image of the Slayer was gone, like an optical illusion, leaving me to wonder whether it was ever there to begin with. She sighed, and just looked around idly… not really pursuing anything, just wondering where to go next, probably. And I swore once again that she glanced in my direction and smiled a little bit before jogging lightly out of sight.
It’s moments like these when it’s hardest to reconcile the two pictures, as she catches me staring at her and smiles, faintly blushing.
“Whaaaaaaat…?” She draws the word out, looking suspiciously to her left and right, and I laugh out loud. Does she really question whether or not it’s her I’m looking at? It’s always her, only her.
“Nothing. You just looked so cute, all concentrating and focused.” She rolls her eyes and smiles impishly.
“You’re crazy,” she half-giggles, half-mutters.
“Mmmm-hmmm, crazy for you, Summers.” She really laughs then, it never fails. I’ll never know why she thinks it’s so funny when I call her by her last name. She shakes her head and moves on to her other foot. I grab my textbook and highlighter and flip over onto my back, taking notes Sistine Chapel-style. Then, I can’t help it; I arch my head back over the edge of the bed and sneak another look. Damn, she’s cute upside-down, too. I sigh and pull my head back onto the bed. Not because she’s cute, that I didn’t even have to learn to live with. Because… she’s so amazing. Every day I marvel that she actually wants to be with me. I try hard not to, but I can’t help feeling like maybe Angel could have been better for her, if he wasn’t such a towering, violent, vampiric freak. I really don’t like him. Okay, I hate him. But you know, vampire with a soul… he’s really strong, and has been fighting for at least as long as she has, or so I understand it. Nobody around here really likes to talk about Angel much. I don’t know… maybe I just think that he would understand her better than I ever can. I mean, how understanding can I be when I can barely convince myself that my girlfriend the girl and my girlfriend the Slayer are the same person? I have so many doubts about myself in her life when I think about Angel…
I shift uncomfortably on the bed and flip back over to my stomach. Angel. Hmm. Denial isn’t entirely a bad thing. In certain situations, that is. I glance back up at Buffy, only to find that she’s changed positions on the chair. One foot is swinging lazily in the air; the other leg folded up in front of her. Her hands, palm atop palm so as not to smudge the polish, rest on top of her knee and cradle one side of her face as she just looks at me, smiling.
“What?” I ask, blushing a little under her scrutiny.
“Nothin’,” she murmurs, and I return the smile as my doubts of the previous pensive moments disappear like so much smoke in a breeze. She’s mine, I think, and the realization makes my heart swell in my chest; it awes me still. Fitting the two halves of my girlfriend into a solid image, like two sides of a coin, will come in time. I love her.
I’m going to make her happy.