Assuming I don't go have a baby tomorrow,

This is the best. excuse. ever.

I don't think so... If she gets a laptop in the labour room I expect her to read the fic and send immediate feedback.

They have Rules. No food, drink or electronic equipment. Bastards!

Bastards indeed. I was looking for comments such as 'Spike's pain over Buffy's death was not unlike the pain of pushing a nine-pound baby through your cervix SOMEONE GET ME SOME FUCKING MORPHINE!!!'

Greg got up because he was worried about me. We are now giggling hysterically at the morphine.

Morphine is a good thing.

Okay. I have no idea where I'm going exactly. This won't make it out to the lists. When I'm done, I will post it to the website, and maybe LJ. Makes no sense unless you've read at least Absolution: Part I, makes the most sense if you've read I and II.

Because any possible reunion was nagging at me.

-----

She told herself it would get easier as time passed, and she was at least partially right. The first couple of years were the worst--it seemed like everywhere she went, there were babies in strollers and backpacks, or rack after rack of the fanciful seasonal outfits department stores set out to tempt parents into playing dress-up. If she was feeling really low but wanted to feel even lower (which happened more often than she liked to admit), she'd go and sort through the selection and try to guess which size Tara might be wearing, which dress would look the best with her coloring (then she'd start wondering if her hair was still dark brown, and her eyes still blue like her father's, because she knew that both those things could change with time). Then she'd go and find something to fight, to kill, to remind her just why it was she'd walked away from a last chance at something normal.

A handful of Mother's Days spent off on retreat or whatever excuse was handy, a few Decembers where she had to be reminded about the holidays, a few well-placed glares at well-intentioned questions--that was really all it took to pretty much reclaim her life and push the what-ifs back. Eventually, when things were quiet and the world was less inclined to ending, she finished up her degree and actually managed to find a day job.

Xander and Anya kept trying to set her up with their friends. She wasn't sure if she was flattered or insulted, but as it never really worked out, it didn't really matter. Every so often, there'd be a blow up where Xander'd accuse her of shutting them all out. He was right and wrong at the same time. There were just some things he didn't understand, things she hoped he'd never be in a position to understand.

Dawn grew up, went to college, got engaged, got married. Aunthood followed, not without the uncomfortable pauses where Buffy felt the urge to advise and then thought the better of opening cans of well-sealed worms.

By her mid-thirties, if she wasn't happy-happy, at least she wasn't unhappy. Older, maybe a little wiser, but not unhappy. A few nagging regrets, but they were pretty much standard-issue.

"Dawnie, I'm fine."

"You keep saying that, but I don't see how you can be." Dawn had a kind of martyred look on her face that went hand in hand with her role as the little sister.

"It's called years of practice. I'm pretty certain I could be fine in my sleep at this point."

"It's not like you'd tell me if you weren't."

Buffy cast a quizzical glance at her sister. "You do realize that when you say that, you sound like you're about fifteen, instead of just past thirty?"

"You'll pull away from me again, like you did last time." No escaping the hurt and accusation in the tone. Maybe Buffy hadn't been as good at hiding her resentments as she'd thought.

"I'm happy for you, Dawn. And yeah, sure, it's a little hard on me, but it's not your fault."

Another niece or nephew was good news, she told herself. Good news that felt like a gut punch, but still good news.

Since I can't hear voice well unless someone writes something that really resonates, I wasn't sure if that was a Willow voice or not. I wasn't saying it wasn't. Mostly, I was wondering about the use of the word "God" since I couldn't, and still can't, recall a particular Willow-diety-usage. Goddess doesn't ring any bells either. I still very much enjoyed it and was glad I got to read it.

Oh, I wasn't trying to be pissy or anything. It's just that "god" has such a comman usage that it really doesn't seem like a far throw for Willow to use it. I'm pretty sure she's said it at least once on the show. And not with a spell.

And with this, I'm going to follow up with some Faith fic.

PS, SA, look what you're making me do.

Bitch, you have mail! I thought you were going to bed.

Ah, well. As of yet untitled.

---

Faith likes to dance. She likes the way she is in total control of her body, how it moves and slides with ease. She's not talking about the old kind of dancing, the "step one, to the left, step two, to the back, and everybody keep in time to the beat" stuff. She's talking about that kind of abandonment that comes with having music that lets you stop thinking for a few precious minutes.

She goes to clubs to get that, and more often than not the djs suck and she finds herself scamming free drinks from idiots who think they have a chance with her that night. Some of them do. Most of them don't. But she still gets her bourbon and Sam Adams chaser.

The times when it's good, when there's that hot, sexy vibe branching through the crowd and the music's good and everybody's stripping down because it's burning and sweaty and sticky and just better half-naked, those times she gets a smile on her face that means nothing but sin and grabs some unsuspecting person, dragging them onto the floor.

Their hips fuse, combining to form a fluidity led by her. Back and forth, fast or slow, it doesn't matter as long as they're moving, as long as she's moving. Her chest will rise and fall, and more often than not her partner's eyes will focus in on the extraordinarily hot image of her breasts bouncing in time with whatever song is being pounded over the speakers. It's okay, she figures, because she's not thinking about the person anyway, and if they're lucky they'll get to feel 'em up, so they might as well take a good long look.

Dancing isn't the same thing as sex. She doesn't even really use it as a seduction tactic, not anymore. Her tight body does that for her. She just moves the way she feels, to let out a lot of the things she won't let herself think about. It's one of those big words she heard, on one of those rare days she was in class--cathartic or something.

So she moves, she slides, she fucking slithers across the dance floor until the lights all bleed together and the music is just one big pulse throughout her body and the slap of skin against her own makes her mind hum.

And then she crawls into bed the next morning and sleeps until she can go back.