sunnydale waitress (not_your_girl) wrote,
sunnydale waitress
not_your_girl

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Part Five, first person interlocking sequences (preview)


I don't know if I've found their voices, yet . . . tell me what you think.

0:04 into Surgery: Buffy

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, and I can’t feel anything, can’t make the room focus. It’s like I’m not even here, like I’m watching everything from underwater.

I wonder if he’s dreaming.


0:18 into Surgery: Lexi

“Lexi, you’re going to have to be reasonable about this . . .”

I don’t want to talk to Her. I know She’s not good. Everybody whispers black about Her. Everybody knows.

I put my hands over my ears. “Go away!”

She just raises an eyebrow and smirks, but She does leave when Eve comes in the room. She looks concerned. “Everything okay, Lex?”

She’s giving off red. I see that kind of heat around only her, because of her daemon blood. Daddy taught her how to control it, but I can still see it when she’s upset. It’s the color of raw strawberries now, hot like the sun even from here.

“Are you okay?” she says again, because she thinks I didn’t hear her the first time. There’s hurting, in her voice, and when she speaks, the red cools to yellow for a minute.

“Yes.”

She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she looks away and the yellow fires to red again as she leaves. She shuts the door, and She comes back.

“It’s funny for you to be afraid of her,” I say, and She looks angry. She doesn’t give off a color. Not a new one. Only just black, like they whisper about Her.

“I’m not afraid of her.”

But She is. She’s afraid of all of them, because She’s afraid that everything won’t go perfectly, that they’ll mess things up. Well, they might.


0:34 into Surgery: Chris

I think maybe I should touch her or something, but I don’t. She’s sitting away from me, next to me, yeah, but in a way that I know she doesn’t feel like she’s with me.

“Reagan.”

She doesn’t look at me, but she kinda turns her head a little, acknowledging that I’m here, maybe. Knowing that I’m here? Maybe that’s enough, that she knows. I don’t know.

“What.” It doesn’t sound like a question. Sometimes she talks like she doesn’t have emotions, like she doesn’t feel. I kinda get scared when she does that, cuz I don’t have anything that connects me to her anymore, I’m not sure that we’re even the same species. She gets like that and I feel like I’m with Warrior, Slayer, not my girlfriend, not my Reagan. It scares me, the kind of fear that you can’t fix.

“Is there . . . anything I can do? Maybe, do you want to talk about this?”

“You have no idea.” There’s emotion, there, but I’m not sure that it makes me feel any better. She sounds like she’s going to cry, like she’s going to break, and I don’t know if I can deal with that. She’s never done it before, and I don’t know how to help her, how to make it right.

I go for it, and touch her. Put my hand on her shoulder, pull her back against me, so that she fits against me and just falls into my hug. “I have no idea about what, baby?”

She feels cold and leaden in my arms all of a sudden, as though she could transform from soft, warm, living girl to hard icy steel at will, and felt that now was a good time to showcase her talents. “About . . . I can’t.”

“Reagan, I . . .”

“Get off me.” And all of a sudden, she’s crying, her too pale face in her hands, shaking in my arms, harder than a seismic jolt, steel then soft steel then soft, making half gasp half moaning noises and just shaking . . . I tighten my arms around her, trying to calm her, trying to give her something solid and sure and there . . .

“Get off of me.” I don’t know where she got that voice. It’s low and dark and primal and I can’t imagine it ever pairing with her face, coming out of those soft perfect lips.

Apparently, I didn’t move fast enough. Before I know it, she stands more quickly than any human can, and I’m against the wall on the other side of the room, sliding to the floor and landing hard against the floor. She seems farther than I know she is, eyes wide and tears down her cheeks, still shaking, still crying, but quietly, slowly, body stilling to a tiny tremble and eyes so wide . . . her lips tremble, and I can hear her breathe with a harsh gasp. Her arm’s still out from throwing me, and her eyes are just huge, and she looks so shocked, so scared . . .

“Chris.” She looks at her still extended arm, then draws it in close against her body, like she forgot about it until she saw it. She looks at me, trembling and scared, and starts to come to me, but then stops, shakes, looks like she can’t move. “Chris.”

I get up, okay, a little shakily, a little pain in my back, and go to her, take her hand, and use that to pull her to me, against me again. She melts, this time, and starts sobbing again.

“I’m so sorry . . . God, I’m so sorry, I . . . I didn’t . . .” she stops, looks up at me, extra pale cheeks looking luminescent and not quite real under the rain of tears washing over them. “I’m so scared. And everything’s wrong, and . . . and my dad . . .”

She cries, and I hold her, keeping her close and settling with her to the floor when her knees give. My girl.
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