More of that other drabble
Apr. 24th, 2005 01:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shadowkatHad some fun this morning watching the featurettes on S6 and S7 DVDS. Must say they are far better than the ones on S1-3. Actually so is the quality of the picture. Nice thing about DVDs, you skip the scenes you aren't fond of, and focus on the ones you are. Watching them reminded me of why I became so obsessed with the show in the later seasons, so intrigued with certain characters and plotlines. The commentaries, however, are a tad grating at times - a little too self-congratulatory for my taste, far too fawning. (Oh as an aside, I never realized that Drew Goddard resembles buffyannatator/Rob. Or vice versa as the case may be. True I've never seen Drew Goddard before, just a few pictures here and there. But on the featurette, where they actually show the writer talking, they look a lot alike, right down to the body language and facial expressions and vocalization. Weird.)
Little more of the Buffy - Spike future fic I was writing or as my friend cjlasky calls it, Buffy as Proust (never read Proust, so will have take his word for it) - "No Regrets". (Where we left off - Buffy had just told Will that yes she did love him before he closed the hellmouth as she believed he loved her and love was messy.)
Buffy stared at the ceiling above her, a cross-thatch of pine and cedar with a few plants hanging near the windows. Her head resting against a lump of a pillow on the firm queen mattress. After talking for hours, he'd finally called it a night and led her to his guest room, a medium sized room that had clearly been decorated by Ann. Frilly curtains hung from the windows along with two ferns. A queen size bed with oak headboard sat in the center and against the far wall next to a small closet was chest of drawers. Pictures of flowers and birds hung from the walls. Not a cross or photograph in sight, outside of one on the nightstand of Will, Charles and a blond haired woman in her late thirties that Buffy guessed must be Anne. The woman looked faintly familar but Buffy couldn't place her.
She didn't know where his bedroom lay nor did she ask. Their last bit of conversation had made them both a little uncomfortable in each other's company.
Sort of similar to how she felt around Angel after a while. He wasn't Spike any more, hadn't been for some time, that much had been made clear. Yet she saw vestiges of who he'd once been in him. The years hard as they'd been on him, had if anything brought out more of the poet than the fighter, which may be why he and Angel were closer now than they'd been in the past. Angel was at heart a bit of sap. Her great romance, one true love, Angel, odd how the years affected ones views of such things. She no longer saw him that way and found herself laughing at the concept. Love only worked that way in story books and movies, where the characters stopped moving the moment the last chapter was completed. She no longer believed that a person had "one true love" or one
soulmate in their life. Nor as she'd told Will, that love itself could be defined so neatly. Wrapped inside a poem in a valentine's card. Love was messy.
And yes, it was possible for a girl to be raped by her lover or worse to kill him to save the world and herself from him. Just as it was possible for her to forgive him and for them both to move past whatever he or she had done. People weren't demons. They weren't irredeemable no matter how horrible their actions. Nor did their actions demonize them, that was something she'd learned from Willow of all people. Poor dear Willow, who'd taught her more about love and forgiveness than possibly anyone else in her life except for Faith. One could not control the actions of others, but one could, in her opinion, choose how to reacte to them. In her forty years of life, the one thing she'd learned was how to forgive. Herself and those around her. It wasn't an easy lesson. But it had in some ways given her peace of mind, something that seemed missing in him. Will was many things, but he was not a man at peace with himself. Perhaps he never would be, could be, considering the memories he had of the things he'd done. Some of which still gave her nightmares.
Turning over onto her side, she struggled with sleep. Being somewhat of a control freak, she never slept well away from home. Foreign beds no matter how soft, felt foreign to her. And her slayer senses seemed to be on heightened alert whenever she left her safe comfy abodes. This one, just smelled wrong.
Far too frilly to her tast. Scent of pressed lavender and rose. She turned over onto her tummy, scrunched her pillow under her head and let her mind relax, decompress, travel slowly into restless sleep.
Twisting and turning, she was jarred momentarily by a yell that sounded human but could also have been a coyote or wildcat or bird. Opening her eyes she looked about her in the shadows, the moon casting shadows of the plants and other objects against the walls, transforming them into something jaded and twisted in her half-dream state. Listened. Nothing. Just the soft twitter of insects and birds. Perhaps she'd imagined it? Shrugging, she let herself fall back into sleep. Other yells occurred. But they seeped into her dreams, to such an extent that she was uncertain, which was which. It was not until several hours later that she was jolted awake again, this time by the hum of a motorcycle engine that in her sleepy state felt almost surreal. Yet it did not go away, so much as drift away bit by bit into the distance. Rising, in nothing but her t-shirt, she quickly pulled on her jeans and padded barefoot into the hall.
"Will?" she called. "Will? Are you here?" Stumbling out into the foyer, she fumbled for a light switch. It wasn't pitch black; the sky was pale with the first sprinklings of dawn. Yet, light was still somewhat limited. As she wandered, she vaguely remembered the motorcycle she'd seen leaning against the front door. Had he taken an early morning ride? Had the screams she'd heard in the night been his own? Charles Gunn had hinted at a problem, as had Angel when she'd last seen him. Will, Angel had told her, was still struggling with the demon he'd once been, with the shanshue, with becoming human and all that entailed. Like you aren't? She had retorted. Angel had merely shrugged in response. He had Connor and his own family to give him support, Will...had lost everyone he'd loved. It had taken it's toll on him. Something she actually understood. One never got over losing people. She wondered how it felt to outlive everyone? Something he'd experienced possibly even worried over at one time.
Opening the front door, she discovered the motorcycle was in fact gone. Listening, she could hear its faint thrum in the distance, coming closer. Wherever he'd gone, he was coming back. Probably thinking she was still safely asleep in his guest room. This, she thought, felt more like Spike than Will.
Something Spike would have done. But then, she supposed the two were intertwined, you never really lost who you once were, you just redefined it.
Blended it. Just as she'd redefined herself so many times.
She wandered back inside, to dress and find coffee, thinking of putting on a pot for them both. She'd taken a shower before going to bed the night before, so passed on it and instead pulled on a new bra, panties, and soft pull-over sweater to go with the faded jeans. Brushed through her ratty hair, pulling the tangles smooth, and padded into his kitchen. Cleaner than she anticipated. She'd expected to find a mess for some reason. A pot was already on the stove. Next to it a french press coffee maker that reminded her of one she'd had in college ages ago. He'd clearly made some before he'd taken off.
All she needed to do was reheat the water and pour it into the press.
Moments later she was sitting on the veranda, sipping a cup, watching the sun slowly rise from the horizon, as a motorcycle hummed slowly up the winding trail path towards her. Just beyond the crest of a flowering bush, she saw his head, unhelmeted, then his eyes, and finely the full profile as he pulled into view. Screeching to a stop a few yards in front of her, he paused long enough to breath in the sunset, let the light hit him full on, bathing in its glory, before he kicked the stand down on the cycle. Hopped off and turned to face her. His eyes lighting up in surprise to see her there, facing him, calming sipping coffee, as if she belonged there.
Little more of the Buffy - Spike future fic I was writing or as my friend cjlasky calls it, Buffy as Proust (never read Proust, so will have take his word for it) - "No Regrets". (Where we left off - Buffy had just told Will that yes she did love him before he closed the hellmouth as she believed he loved her and love was messy.)
Buffy stared at the ceiling above her, a cross-thatch of pine and cedar with a few plants hanging near the windows. Her head resting against a lump of a pillow on the firm queen mattress. After talking for hours, he'd finally called it a night and led her to his guest room, a medium sized room that had clearly been decorated by Ann. Frilly curtains hung from the windows along with two ferns. A queen size bed with oak headboard sat in the center and against the far wall next to a small closet was chest of drawers. Pictures of flowers and birds hung from the walls. Not a cross or photograph in sight, outside of one on the nightstand of Will, Charles and a blond haired woman in her late thirties that Buffy guessed must be Anne. The woman looked faintly familar but Buffy couldn't place her.
She didn't know where his bedroom lay nor did she ask. Their last bit of conversation had made them both a little uncomfortable in each other's company.
Sort of similar to how she felt around Angel after a while. He wasn't Spike any more, hadn't been for some time, that much had been made clear. Yet she saw vestiges of who he'd once been in him. The years hard as they'd been on him, had if anything brought out more of the poet than the fighter, which may be why he and Angel were closer now than they'd been in the past. Angel was at heart a bit of sap. Her great romance, one true love, Angel, odd how the years affected ones views of such things. She no longer saw him that way and found herself laughing at the concept. Love only worked that way in story books and movies, where the characters stopped moving the moment the last chapter was completed. She no longer believed that a person had "one true love" or one
soulmate in their life. Nor as she'd told Will, that love itself could be defined so neatly. Wrapped inside a poem in a valentine's card. Love was messy.
And yes, it was possible for a girl to be raped by her lover or worse to kill him to save the world and herself from him. Just as it was possible for her to forgive him and for them both to move past whatever he or she had done. People weren't demons. They weren't irredeemable no matter how horrible their actions. Nor did their actions demonize them, that was something she'd learned from Willow of all people. Poor dear Willow, who'd taught her more about love and forgiveness than possibly anyone else in her life except for Faith. One could not control the actions of others, but one could, in her opinion, choose how to reacte to them. In her forty years of life, the one thing she'd learned was how to forgive. Herself and those around her. It wasn't an easy lesson. But it had in some ways given her peace of mind, something that seemed missing in him. Will was many things, but he was not a man at peace with himself. Perhaps he never would be, could be, considering the memories he had of the things he'd done. Some of which still gave her nightmares.
Turning over onto her side, she struggled with sleep. Being somewhat of a control freak, she never slept well away from home. Foreign beds no matter how soft, felt foreign to her. And her slayer senses seemed to be on heightened alert whenever she left her safe comfy abodes. This one, just smelled wrong.
Far too frilly to her tast. Scent of pressed lavender and rose. She turned over onto her tummy, scrunched her pillow under her head and let her mind relax, decompress, travel slowly into restless sleep.
Twisting and turning, she was jarred momentarily by a yell that sounded human but could also have been a coyote or wildcat or bird. Opening her eyes she looked about her in the shadows, the moon casting shadows of the plants and other objects against the walls, transforming them into something jaded and twisted in her half-dream state. Listened. Nothing. Just the soft twitter of insects and birds. Perhaps she'd imagined it? Shrugging, she let herself fall back into sleep. Other yells occurred. But they seeped into her dreams, to such an extent that she was uncertain, which was which. It was not until several hours later that she was jolted awake again, this time by the hum of a motorcycle engine that in her sleepy state felt almost surreal. Yet it did not go away, so much as drift away bit by bit into the distance. Rising, in nothing but her t-shirt, she quickly pulled on her jeans and padded barefoot into the hall.
"Will?" she called. "Will? Are you here?" Stumbling out into the foyer, she fumbled for a light switch. It wasn't pitch black; the sky was pale with the first sprinklings of dawn. Yet, light was still somewhat limited. As she wandered, she vaguely remembered the motorcycle she'd seen leaning against the front door. Had he taken an early morning ride? Had the screams she'd heard in the night been his own? Charles Gunn had hinted at a problem, as had Angel when she'd last seen him. Will, Angel had told her, was still struggling with the demon he'd once been, with the shanshue, with becoming human and all that entailed. Like you aren't? She had retorted. Angel had merely shrugged in response. He had Connor and his own family to give him support, Will...had lost everyone he'd loved. It had taken it's toll on him. Something she actually understood. One never got over losing people. She wondered how it felt to outlive everyone? Something he'd experienced possibly even worried over at one time.
Opening the front door, she discovered the motorcycle was in fact gone. Listening, she could hear its faint thrum in the distance, coming closer. Wherever he'd gone, he was coming back. Probably thinking she was still safely asleep in his guest room. This, she thought, felt more like Spike than Will.
Something Spike would have done. But then, she supposed the two were intertwined, you never really lost who you once were, you just redefined it.
Blended it. Just as she'd redefined herself so many times.
She wandered back inside, to dress and find coffee, thinking of putting on a pot for them both. She'd taken a shower before going to bed the night before, so passed on it and instead pulled on a new bra, panties, and soft pull-over sweater to go with the faded jeans. Brushed through her ratty hair, pulling the tangles smooth, and padded into his kitchen. Cleaner than she anticipated. She'd expected to find a mess for some reason. A pot was already on the stove. Next to it a french press coffee maker that reminded her of one she'd had in college ages ago. He'd clearly made some before he'd taken off.
All she needed to do was reheat the water and pour it into the press.
Moments later she was sitting on the veranda, sipping a cup, watching the sun slowly rise from the horizon, as a motorcycle hummed slowly up the winding trail path towards her. Just beyond the crest of a flowering bush, she saw his head, unhelmeted, then his eyes, and finely the full profile as he pulled into view. Screeching to a stop a few yards in front of her, he paused long enough to breath in the sunset, let the light hit him full on, bathing in its glory, before he kicked the stand down on the cycle. Hopped off and turned to face her. His eyes lighting up in surprise to see her there, facing him, calming sipping coffee, as if she belonged there.
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no subject
Date: 2005-04-24 12:42 pm (UTC)Sorry I can't pin down better what I like so much about these pieces, maybe the gentleness so far, the distance from the events that have shaped them giving the reflective tone? Jane
no subject
Date: 2005-04-25 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-25 06:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-25 09:56 am (UTC)As much as I like Marsters, I wish they'd left the actors off the commentary. Actors really don't add much especially for TV or film, where the director/writer is in charge of which takes make it to screen. In Lies they apparently all worked it out together - but the commentary is filmed so long after the fact, that no one remembers it and uses the commentary as a chance to just chat.
On a non-meta level one thing I loved about S7 was how both Buffy/Spike and Xander/Anya seemed to finally come to a true understanding when all thought of romantic love had been abandoned.
Would agree with this comment. And it is what Whedon states in his commentary in Chosen. That was what they were going for in the season.
Not "true or grand romance" - been there, down that - and possibly the best with Willow/Tara. No, something far more intricate, complicated, and mature.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-25 06:56 pm (UTC)