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Nothing Special
Here's a Buffy ficlet, written for the "Shindig" prompt at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
still_grrr.
Nothing Special
At breakfast, there were no spoons. Somehow, despite Willow’s roster of Washing Dishes Duty, stuck up neatly on the fridge, they’d still managed to run completely out of clean spoons.
She complained – which was fair enough, really.
And then Andrew said “There Is No Spoon” in a dramatic voice, and him, Dawn, and Amanda started a long, rambly discussion about virtual reality spoons, and if there were “no spoons” if they weren’t there in the first place, or if it was a double negative which cancelled out something vital in the space-time continuum of inherent spoon-ness… at which point Buffy gave up and started eating her cereal with the pancake-mix ladle.
There were no flowers, or card, or special cooked breakfast, either. But she hadn’t been expecting it.
- - - - -
At work, there were two jocks with black eyes and anger management issues, one sophomore with a stepfather she hated, one AV-club nerd with a crush on someone, one junior with too much homework, and three kids trying to get out of class by faking childhood traumas.
Principal Wood sighed and said “It’s a never-ending cycle,” and Buffy nodded silently.
There was no lunchtime phonecall. And no cheery well-wishers. But she had a good day anyway.
- - - - -
At the training session, there weren’t enough weapons.
Really.
She’d spent seven years building up an arsenal, with her own weapons chest, her own stakes, her own axes, her very own rocket launcher… and with Spike taking two of them, her taking one, the entire gang keeping one each, just in case, and now eight Potentials each lining up and choosing something to practise with, there just weren’t enough to go round.
Xander said he’d go and collect the emergency stash from his apartment, and hopefully they wouldn’t run out for a bit longer. Buffy was just glad no-one had asked to use the rocket launcher.
And there weren’t any streamers, or music, or party hats. There wasn’t time for anything like that, these days.
- - - - -
At the end of the day, there were a lot of tired girls going back upstairs, discussing the sword-fighting technique they’d just started learning.
Willow and Anya had fallen asleep on the couch – the TV still playing the last scenes of a black-and-white movie.
Andrew was curled up on the floor in a sleeping bag, already softly snoring.
Xander had gone home. Giles had gone to the airport again. Spike had gone out to find cigarettes. And Buffy went up the stairs.
There was no big burny demon. There was no psycho vampire after her mother. There was no Council testing her every reaction. There was no hellgod hunting down her sister. There was no boyfriend losing his soul. There were no vengeance demons. There were no chaos worshippers. There was no-one yelling “Surprise!”
It was utterly uneventful.
- - - - -
At bedtime, there was her bed.
But she couldn’t get into it and fall comfortably asleep, because her little sister was sitting in the middle of it, holding a cupcake.
“What’s this?”
This, Dawn informed her, was a cupcake. With – tadaa! – a candle in it.
“…because I figured, all you have to do is blow out the candle, eat the cake, and listen to me singing. Five minutes, tops. As birthday parties go, it’s relatively safe and unlikely to end in disembowelling or world-endage.”
And it was late, and she was tired, and tomorrow she’d have to get up and fight over clean cutlery again. And really, she didn’t need anyone fussing over her, or anything this trivial. She had a war to win.
But…
There was cake. And her sister singing tunelessly as she blew out the candle. And a goodnight hug.
And for five short minutes, Buffy had a birthday.
still_grrr.Nothing Special
At breakfast, there were no spoons. Somehow, despite Willow’s roster of Washing Dishes Duty, stuck up neatly on the fridge, they’d still managed to run completely out of clean spoons.
She complained – which was fair enough, really.
And then Andrew said “There Is No Spoon” in a dramatic voice, and him, Dawn, and Amanda started a long, rambly discussion about virtual reality spoons, and if there were “no spoons” if they weren’t there in the first place, or if it was a double negative which cancelled out something vital in the space-time continuum of inherent spoon-ness… at which point Buffy gave up and started eating her cereal with the pancake-mix ladle.
There were no flowers, or card, or special cooked breakfast, either. But she hadn’t been expecting it.
- - - - -
At work, there were two jocks with black eyes and anger management issues, one sophomore with a stepfather she hated, one AV-club nerd with a crush on someone, one junior with too much homework, and three kids trying to get out of class by faking childhood traumas.
Principal Wood sighed and said “It’s a never-ending cycle,” and Buffy nodded silently.
There was no lunchtime phonecall. And no cheery well-wishers. But she had a good day anyway.
- - - - -
At the training session, there weren’t enough weapons.
Really.
She’d spent seven years building up an arsenal, with her own weapons chest, her own stakes, her own axes, her very own rocket launcher… and with Spike taking two of them, her taking one, the entire gang keeping one each, just in case, and now eight Potentials each lining up and choosing something to practise with, there just weren’t enough to go round.
Xander said he’d go and collect the emergency stash from his apartment, and hopefully they wouldn’t run out for a bit longer. Buffy was just glad no-one had asked to use the rocket launcher.
And there weren’t any streamers, or music, or party hats. There wasn’t time for anything like that, these days.
- - - - -
At the end of the day, there were a lot of tired girls going back upstairs, discussing the sword-fighting technique they’d just started learning.
Willow and Anya had fallen asleep on the couch – the TV still playing the last scenes of a black-and-white movie.
Andrew was curled up on the floor in a sleeping bag, already softly snoring.
Xander had gone home. Giles had gone to the airport again. Spike had gone out to find cigarettes. And Buffy went up the stairs.
There was no big burny demon. There was no psycho vampire after her mother. There was no Council testing her every reaction. There was no hellgod hunting down her sister. There was no boyfriend losing his soul. There were no vengeance demons. There were no chaos worshippers. There was no-one yelling “Surprise!”
It was utterly uneventful.
- - - - -
At bedtime, there was her bed.
But she couldn’t get into it and fall comfortably asleep, because her little sister was sitting in the middle of it, holding a cupcake.
“What’s this?”
This, Dawn informed her, was a cupcake. With – tadaa! – a candle in it.
“…because I figured, all you have to do is blow out the candle, eat the cake, and listen to me singing. Five minutes, tops. As birthday parties go, it’s relatively safe and unlikely to end in disembowelling or world-endage.”
And it was late, and she was tired, and tomorrow she’d have to get up and fight over clean cutlery again. And really, she didn’t need anyone fussing over her, or anything this trivial. She had a war to win.
But…
There was cake. And her sister singing tunelessly as she blew out the candle. And a goodnight hug.
And for five short minutes, Buffy had a birthday.
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I loved it.
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It made me cry.
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>w<
(And seconding the person above me, it made me cry too, in that heartbreakingly cute way.)
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