Buffy Summers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whattingawhat) wrote2008-07-12 03:38 am
whattingawhat) wrote2008-07-12 03:38 am
Entry tags:
You will fly and you will crawl [God knows even angels fall]
[Rebuild]
Buffy had been avoiding the therapist. Like the plague. Or you know how she’d avoid him if she knew what the plague was like. In any case, it had finally caught up to her. Giles had insisted, the Watcher’s Council had insisted. Even Willow had meekly suggested that it would be a good idea. With the bombing and everything; which is how she came to be sitting on the couch in the therapist’s office staring at a piece of art on the wall that she was pretty sure was Georgia O’Keefe.
“You realize a lot of art critics think that Georgia O’Keefe’s paintings are metaphors…or something of vaginas.”
The therapist quirks an eyebrow at her and slides his glasses a bit further down his thin nose. “I think it’s an interesting painting and the colors go with my office.”
Buffy shrugs and examines her nails. They’re bare today but they are most days, long and smoothly filed into neat ovals. She does them at work while the boys are warming up for classes. “Okay. Mom always liked her stuff too. I’ve been thinking of filing my nails down short. I always get pissed when I break one because then they’re all uneven and I think maybe I’m a tiny bit OCD. I hate when they’re uneven. Are people with OCD control freaks? Because I’m pretty sure that fits me. I like the whole control thing. Never really did before the slay thing—okay so that’s not true. I was bossy even then. And why is it that being bossy is bad but having good leadership skills are good. Aren’t they the same thing? I mean really.”
The therapist listens to all of this, scribbling down a note or two. When she’s finished he regards her carefully, as if he wants to say something but he’s rather afraid she’ll hurt him. He’s had a few therapy sessions with several different slayers. They all handle therapy a bit differently. Some of them handle it violently.
“Right. Then. Let’s talk about what happened in Scotland.”
“What’s to tell? Big boom. Lots of casualities.” She’s still examining her fingernails. “I really should file them off but they make my hands look pretty.”
“I don’t think it’s that cut and dried for you, Buffy.”
“Hmmm?” she asks, looking up at him like she didn’t hear what he said. Finally she sticks her tongue out at him and rolls her eyes up. “FINE. You want to know how I’m dealing?”
“That might be a start.”
“Oh so now it’s a start which implies you want to know more than how I’m dealing,” Buffy sighs. She rests her elbows on her knees, burying her face in her hands. “FINE. I’m dealing the only way I know how. Inappropriate humor and research. I’m going to find whoever did this and I’m going to kick their ass. Then I’ll have Chicken and Stars soup, ice cream and curl up on the couch for a week.”
“You haven’t grieved for the girls? You spent a great deal of time with some of them.”
“I had a mini meltdown when Xander told me. Then I grew a spine and got it together so that I could handle this because no one else was going to. I don’t have time to grieve. I stop and grieve or mourn and these morons blow something else up. I’ll grieve later and you know grieving isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and maybe I’m a cold hearted bitch but I’ve been dead and I did that whole long fall into death and I know what you think when you’re dying and when you’re in Heaven and really—you just want the people you care about to be happy.” She pauses in her rambling to fiddle with a tiny hole in the knee of her jeans.
The therapist clears his throat and when she looks up he’s looking at her like he expects something else so she shrugs and continues, figuring she got this far without being tossed in the nuthouse, she might as well continue.
“Sure you want the people left behind to remember you. No one wants to be forgotten but remembering doesn’t have to mean crying and it doesn’t have to mean grief and the best way anyone can honor someone they loved is to just live ‘cause when it comes right down to it, that’s the hard part. Dying is easy. It’s just stopping.”
“Just stopping?”
“Stop breathing, stop trying, stop fighting. Stop,” Buffy clarifies. “Don’t worry. I’m not thinking about doing it. I guess I was a little suicidal and a lot self destructive right after the whole back from the dead gig but life is good now. No jumping from towers built by crazy people.” She pauses, considering something, however unlikely it might be. “Unless Dawn’s a sacrifice…again. You know what let’s just change the topic because words have power or something like that though my words never really stopped any-never mind there were the gentlemen…I don’t know if you can call a scream words but anyway…topic change. So how was your day?”
The therapist smirks at her and makes some more notes in her file before giving her another one of those looks that make it obvious he’s expecting something from her.
“What’s that about? That look? Because really, I don’t do well with expectations. Unless they’re low expectations and then I like to shoot high and surprise everyone but high expectations? I just get nervous and word vomit everywhere. Kind of like now.”
“I don’t have any kind of expectations for you, Buffy. I’m just here to listen and perhaps invoke thought in you,” the therapist assures her but now he’s giving her one of those ‘are you unbalanced’ looks.
“So you’re like Sweden,” Buffy says with a smirk that clearly declares her doubt in this whole concept.
There were several seconds of complete silence and baffled looks. “I’m Dutch?” he finally says. “No…I’m English.”
“No,” Buffy rolls her eyes at him. “You’re neutral.”
There were several more seconds of silence before the therapist speaks again. “That’s Switzerland.”
“Oh.” Buffy still looks confused but she shrugs it off after a moment and looks up at the clock. “Crap, I’m going to be late for my next class. Gotta go! It was fun in an apocalypse-y way…wait no it wasn’t. At least I get to hit things then. Anyway…bye.”
Buffy had been avoiding the therapist. Like the plague. Or you know how she’d avoid him if she knew what the plague was like. In any case, it had finally caught up to her. Giles had insisted, the Watcher’s Council had insisted. Even Willow had meekly suggested that it would be a good idea. With the bombing and everything; which is how she came to be sitting on the couch in the therapist’s office staring at a piece of art on the wall that she was pretty sure was Georgia O’Keefe.
“You realize a lot of art critics think that Georgia O’Keefe’s paintings are metaphors…or something of vaginas.”
The therapist quirks an eyebrow at her and slides his glasses a bit further down his thin nose. “I think it’s an interesting painting and the colors go with my office.”
Buffy shrugs and examines her nails. They’re bare today but they are most days, long and smoothly filed into neat ovals. She does them at work while the boys are warming up for classes. “Okay. Mom always liked her stuff too. I’ve been thinking of filing my nails down short. I always get pissed when I break one because then they’re all uneven and I think maybe I’m a tiny bit OCD. I hate when they’re uneven. Are people with OCD control freaks? Because I’m pretty sure that fits me. I like the whole control thing. Never really did before the slay thing—okay so that’s not true. I was bossy even then. And why is it that being bossy is bad but having good leadership skills are good. Aren’t they the same thing? I mean really.”
The therapist listens to all of this, scribbling down a note or two. When she’s finished he regards her carefully, as if he wants to say something but he’s rather afraid she’ll hurt him. He’s had a few therapy sessions with several different slayers. They all handle therapy a bit differently. Some of them handle it violently.
“Right. Then. Let’s talk about what happened in Scotland.”
“What’s to tell? Big boom. Lots of casualities.” She’s still examining her fingernails. “I really should file them off but they make my hands look pretty.”
“I don’t think it’s that cut and dried for you, Buffy.”
“Hmmm?” she asks, looking up at him like she didn’t hear what he said. Finally she sticks her tongue out at him and rolls her eyes up. “FINE. You want to know how I’m dealing?”
“That might be a start.”
“Oh so now it’s a start which implies you want to know more than how I’m dealing,” Buffy sighs. She rests her elbows on her knees, burying her face in her hands. “FINE. I’m dealing the only way I know how. Inappropriate humor and research. I’m going to find whoever did this and I’m going to kick their ass. Then I’ll have Chicken and Stars soup, ice cream and curl up on the couch for a week.”
“You haven’t grieved for the girls? You spent a great deal of time with some of them.”
“I had a mini meltdown when Xander told me. Then I grew a spine and got it together so that I could handle this because no one else was going to. I don’t have time to grieve. I stop and grieve or mourn and these morons blow something else up. I’ll grieve later and you know grieving isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and maybe I’m a cold hearted bitch but I’ve been dead and I did that whole long fall into death and I know what you think when you’re dying and when you’re in Heaven and really—you just want the people you care about to be happy.” She pauses in her rambling to fiddle with a tiny hole in the knee of her jeans.
The therapist clears his throat and when she looks up he’s looking at her like he expects something else so she shrugs and continues, figuring she got this far without being tossed in the nuthouse, she might as well continue.
“Sure you want the people left behind to remember you. No one wants to be forgotten but remembering doesn’t have to mean crying and it doesn’t have to mean grief and the best way anyone can honor someone they loved is to just live ‘cause when it comes right down to it, that’s the hard part. Dying is easy. It’s just stopping.”
“Just stopping?”
“Stop breathing, stop trying, stop fighting. Stop,” Buffy clarifies. “Don’t worry. I’m not thinking about doing it. I guess I was a little suicidal and a lot self destructive right after the whole back from the dead gig but life is good now. No jumping from towers built by crazy people.” She pauses, considering something, however unlikely it might be. “Unless Dawn’s a sacrifice…again. You know what let’s just change the topic because words have power or something like that though my words never really stopped any-never mind there were the gentlemen…I don’t know if you can call a scream words but anyway…topic change. So how was your day?”
The therapist smirks at her and makes some more notes in her file before giving her another one of those looks that make it obvious he’s expecting something from her.
“What’s that about? That look? Because really, I don’t do well with expectations. Unless they’re low expectations and then I like to shoot high and surprise everyone but high expectations? I just get nervous and word vomit everywhere. Kind of like now.”
“I don’t have any kind of expectations for you, Buffy. I’m just here to listen and perhaps invoke thought in you,” the therapist assures her but now he’s giving her one of those ‘are you unbalanced’ looks.
“So you’re like Sweden,” Buffy says with a smirk that clearly declares her doubt in this whole concept.
There were several seconds of complete silence and baffled looks. “I’m Dutch?” he finally says. “No…I’m English.”
“No,” Buffy rolls her eyes at him. “You’re neutral.”
There were several more seconds of silence before the therapist speaks again. “That’s Switzerland.”
“Oh.” Buffy still looks confused but she shrugs it off after a moment and looks up at the clock. “Crap, I’m going to be late for my next class. Gotta go! It was fun in an apocalypse-y way…wait no it wasn’t. At least I get to hit things then. Anyway…bye.”