The taxi rolled to a running stop. She got out of the cab, wheels still moving, tossed money over the seat at the still chatting, still ogling, still wondering driver who called some 'have a good day' salutation to her walking away form; but she said nothing.
The glass door was easy to open, it sat on hinges see? No biggie, not hard to maneuver, no big negotiation needed to walk all the way inside or all the way away.
She paused in the Atrium to get her bearings--sunlight cutting in from all angles showing her the world via a multiplicity of prism perspective. It could be confusing sure; light darting in from all over--here a road, there a view, hey you!--look at me, mean small questions for a conflicted nature, oh yes the world could be a confusing place--if...you didn’t know what you wanted.
She closed her eyes and opened her spirit--she felt the warm beat of her heart leave and go looking and she got a scrip, a scrap of a mental picture back. Back to squares.
She started walking without thinking, without mental accompaniment of any kind, no small notice of potted plant or abstract portrait binged or banged any mind talky, talk. Just colors and patterns and follow the square.
No one approached her, no one attempted to stop her. Her walk, her look, all spoke: killer. I am a killer. I kill the monsters that should have stayed politely in the movies thank you very much, happily, wreaking terror in two dimensions rending untried hearts in twain.
She was the killer of killers; she ate monsters like this on her triscuits for god’s sake, who would try to stop her? She was the reigning undisputed heavyweight Slayer Champion of the World and the fact of that flowed easily from her, easy to read no translation, no transcript, no dramaturge, no script or continuity girl needed to guide the uninformed, to see her walking was to see truth swing a sword.
Archangel Michael holy and on earth walking.
At the elevator door, she stopped to consider the enclosed space and something made her turn and head for the escalators instead. Open air and free range Slayer, Wolfram & Hart stand back.
She road the escalator up one floor and then another and by the third floor she had quite a little crew, a nice bundle of the home security team behind her but she said nothing.
Quiet, still, eyes. Calm and clear and fixed on some inner purpose in the outer world.
Blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun with no make up or making up to the world for slipped effort, for glam done gone.
She was Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Celeb status confirmed way back when with the repose of monster Adam and here on the eve of another conquest she was in fact too big to be approached, for autograph or even the common nod of hello. People stopped and turned and gasped out a surprised ‘oh’ but always, always, she said nothing.
It was the seventh floor, she paused before continuing and as if sniffing the air turned on her heel and headed along the open runway in the roundabout stopping for a fracture of a fraction when Harmony called/screamed her name but she said nothing.
No word, no: ‘you can’t go in there’ no lock, no closed door, no sullen wall would deter this one from her appointed round house kick to a security officer who got just a little too close to her back or that three inch wood door just a little too closed off to her front.
Angel was standing behind his desk when she smashed the door and walked calmly in.
“Buffy. Huh. I hope you have insurance?” He smiled, cautioned, asked, but she said nothing.
She looked around the room, searching for the trace, the end of the trail, the scent that brought her here.
Angel noted her eyes looking around the room and answered her question.
“He doesn’t want to see you Buffy.” No use pretending. No use in using mismatched words to beguile. What words would work in her Buffy brain? Angel had never seen her like this.
Angel had never seen her like this.
But he thought, closely guarded deep inside himself this: ‘she looked like that when she killed me. This is what she really looks like.' If his teeth had not been so completely perpetually clenched he would have been slack jawed astonished.
“Everyone thought it was for the best--I’m sorry if you found out in the wrong way--“
But she was already searching the room and then found it--a hollow ness on the other side of this empty. She took a running jump and landed both feet on the wall like an auto wreck. The panel collapsed with a solid thunk--her feet standing on top. She was in the adjacent room, past the secret panel to the best kept secret of all.
Loves me, loves me not and imagine trusting ones fate to the serendipitous act of plucking a daisy.
All secrets revealed with one small flower. One small gesture.
Or maybe a big one.
Spike stood up to face her. Sad eyes, cautious eyes and waiting for the coup de grace.
And suddenly Buffy understood.
It was the same look that was in his eye when she had come back from meeting Angel.
Resigned, cautious and still hopeful too and terribly, terribly, ironically, as much as we need hope in this world, only when there is hope--the heart breaks.
He stood straight and strong but even now she could see him saving himself for the final blow.
Security burst through the door on the hallway side of the room and Angel came into view behind her and motioned to the guards to halt and desist, but:
He, he said nothing.
Nothing in her mind, no words to speak this, so she opened her heart to him, flowed out to see if He was still there.
Are you still there?
His eyes widened when he got the news. The slow, thick, warm wave of love that flowed from her now for him. Didn’t even have to try, it was always there now all the time.
She walked forward slowly, the honey in her eyes to his eyes working all the way down through the Him to the He. That’s how it works. Love is real, it’s...it’s...in the end, say nothing...do...
Voices hollering all about them, quieted, dimmed by the sheer joy and wonder of being...together again.
She walked up close and opened her eyes to him to let him look, ('look all you want, look all the way into me'), and then he was inside her where he best loved to be, deep inside and changed forever and never going back ever...and...and she welcomed him there.
When he in turn opened his heart to her, she flew at him suddenly like a little girl been lost and now found and she seized him, wrapped her arms tight around his waist and he gripped her, buried his face in the crook of her neck and they sobbed into each other, finally holding, finally...home.
The room was still, struck dumb but not senseless. They stood in awe; right now, in front of their very own eyes, they had seen it proved--it was real, not a bedtime story or a ‘maybe, maybe someday...’or some bad carrot to keep you dangling and here they were, and all could bear witness to tell the tale:
The theory of love proved--moved...to theorem.
They said nothing.
