Author:
Nestra
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Date Posted: 21:14:34 06/03/03 Tue
Death is not at all what Buffy expected.
There's the pain from the gashes in her neck, and there's the water burning in her lungs, and there's the thought that her mother will never understand...
...and then there's light.
She opens her eyes, and it's a bit of a surprise to find herself in someone's living room. Or maybe someone's grandmother's living room. She's sitting on a nice plush couch as the bottom of her dress drips water on an equally plush carpet. Flowered wallpaper covers the walls, pretty and unobtrusive, and a row of framed pictures lines one wall. She sees a book and a heart, and one painting that seems to shift and move and walk across her eyes, but before she can make out many details, she realizes she's not alone.
"Hey," she says to the girl sitting next to her.
"Hey," says the girl, and smiles. But she doesn't say anything else; she just sits there, staring at Buffy without a hint of rudeness.
"We're dead, right?" she asks, surprised at how calm she is.
"You are," the girl replies. "For me, it's a little more complicated." Her skin is so pale it almost glows, and Buffy thinks her black hair must have had help from Clairol. Her clothing is just as dark, a sleeveless blouse and a frilly skirt, and there's some kind of symbol hanging from a chain around her neck. Buffy wonders briefly if she's going to spend eternity sitting in a living room with a Goth.
"This isn't really what I expected," she says.
"What did you expect?"
Buffy shrugs, and fabric tugs on her shoulders. The room is cool, but not uncomfortable, even though her skin is chilled from the damp dress. "I'm not sure. Pearly Gates, maybe. Or Charlton Heston."
"Ben-Hur?"
"Ten Commandments."
"Gotcha," says the girl. She looks down at the puddle of water forming under Buffy's feet. "Do you need a blanket or something?"
"No, I'm okay," Buffy says. "I mean, I look – and possibly smell – like somebody's wet dog, but I'm okay." It's when she pulls the hem of her dress up to her nose to sniff it that she realizes she's not actually breathing. It makes perfect sense. She's dead. Of course she's not breathing. She's trying to decide whether or not to panic when the girl interrupts her.
"I like your dress."
"Thanks," she says, clinging to the distraction. "I've been getting that a lot. My mom picked it out." Her mother, who will never understand when her daughter is found dead in the Sunnydale sewers. She will not understand how she drowned, or why there are two small wounds in her neck, or what Buffy was doing down there in the first place instead of attending the Spring Fling. She'd never looked forward to her mother's inevitable discovery of her secret life, but she'd always expected to have that discussion someday. She'd also hoped to reach her eighteenth birthday, and get her driver's license, and find out how Angel really felt about her.
She'll never meet Willow's first boyfriend. She'll never see if Xander forgives her for not going to the dance with him. She'll never get a chance to thank Giles for everything.
Giles will never forgive himself.
She's just about decided in favor of a screaming hysterical fit when the girl interrupts her. "I wouldn't worry too much," she says. "You'll get your chances."
"What? How did you know what I was thinking?"
"Occupational hazard."
Buffy's almost sure at this point that the girl's skin is glowing, and so is the symbol around her neck. "Okay, I think it's true confessions time. You said earlier that you weren't dead. Then what the hell are you? Because I don't think you're exactly alive, and I've got an extreme prejudice against the undead."
"You still don't know who I am?"
"No idea."
"Huh," the girl says. "I don't usually get that. People just...know. I wonder if it's because of who you are." At Buffy's puzzled look, she elaborates. "You know? Slayer? Chosen One? I could give you the whole routine, but I'm sure you've heard it before."
"So you can read my mind, and you know I'm the Slayer."
"And I know what you had for breakfast, and that your left foot is a quarter of an inch longer than your right one. I know how much your mother paid for that dress, and that you're going to get to wear it to the dance. I'm kinda jealous, actually. Do you know how long it's been since the last time I went to a high school dance?"
"I think I can safely say that I have no idea." The surreality of this conversation is starting to numb her emotions. The panic is gone, but so is the initial flash of hope that the girl had triggered.
"Anyway, I'm Death." The girl sticks out a hand, and Buffy doesn't know what else to do but reach out and shake it.
"You're Death? Okay, I can understand why there's no Charlton Heston, but aren't you supposed to be a big guy with a hood and a...big stick with a blade on top?"
"A scythe," Death supplies helpfully.
"Right. A scythe. And I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be a lot quieter. More menacing."
There's a flash of teeth as Death smiles. She seems to do that a lot. "My brothers and sisters tell me that all the time."
"You have brothers and sisters?"
"Oh, yeah. A few of each. You've met one of my younger brothers several times. You just don't remember."
"Of course," she repeats. "I just don't remember."
Death smiles like she knows everything. "Those prophetic dreams you get? Those are special order. He builds them himself. Gives it the personal touch."
"Right," Buffy says. Sure. Why not? She's sitting in a supernatural living room with Death. "So...if I'm dead, what am I doing here? Shouldn't someone be judging me? Oh, god, I'm not going to hell, am I? I've slayed a lot of vampires. That's got to count for something."
"Relax," Death says. "Have a cookie."
Buffy looks to her left, and there on the end table is a plate of chocolate chip cookies, freshly-baked. She breaks one open, and the scent of melted chocolate and sugar wafts up. "I'm definitely going to miss cookies. Does Heaven have cookies?"
Death laughs, and the glow surrounding her flickers. "Will you listen? You're not going to heaven or hell."
"Limbo? Do they actually play limbo there? Is that where it gets the name?"
Death holds up a hand. "Calm down. You're going back. You're only mostly dead."
"Princess Bride? I love that movie."
"Me too. It's very useful."
Buffy considers what Death has told her, but it's like trying to think through a layer of cotton fuzz. "So I'm only mostly dead. How do get back?"
"You'll be revived. Your friend Xander does it, actually. You're going to have a lot to thank him for."
"I will?"
"Oh, yeah. He'll come through for you in a big way, and it'll only be the first time. And you'll find out all those things you're worried about. You'll meet Willow's first boyfriend, and her first girlfriend. Giles will forgive himself, but he'll never forget, even a little."
"And Angel?"
"That's a long story," says Death. "But don't worry. It'll all work out eventually."
"How do you know all this?" The years that make up her future seem harder to comprehend than this embodiment of death, sharing a couch with her.
"It's my job. As long as you're dead, you're part of my realm. I like to take care of people."
"But you're telling me about things that haven't even happened yet."
Death opens her hand, and there's a cookie in it, even though she hasn't been anywhere near the plate. "It's okay. You won't remember any of this - not this time, and not next time. Maybe you'll tell a story about a white light and a tunnel, but no one really remembers. Not until it counts."
"But why? What's the point? I've seen movies. If you know the future, you can change it. Mess it up. Next thing you know, you're Linda Hamilton in Terminator, looking all scary and shooting people."
"Sometimes the transition back is hard for people. Coming back from the dead is kind of a big deal. This is just...look at it like a jump start. Knowing that you have all of these amazing things to live for will help you back into your body."
Buffy thinks of the stories she's heard. Near-death experiences. Homeless guys sleeping outside in freezing temperatures. Episodes of ER. "What happens to the people who don't have anything to live for?"
Death stares at her for a moment, and Buffy pretends that she can see ages of sorrow and knowledge in her eyes. "I can always find something."
"But..." Buffy starts, but she's distracted by a feeling of pressure in her chest.
"Wow," says Death. "It's time already."
"What? Time for what?"
"For you to go back. It always goes so quickly. But it was really nice to talk to you. I'll see you again in a few years."
Buffy wants to say something, make some sort of coherent objection, but she can barely take in everything she's being told. Death's glow intensifies. She looks down, and she's fading out. She manages a faint, "Thanks."
"And hey," says Death., blazing as bright as the full moon. "I'll take good care of your mother. Don't worry about her."
Buffy hears the words, but by the time they make any sense, she's already forgotten them.
--End--
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