BtVS FIC: Purgatorio 1/1
24 Nov 2006 11:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kangeikoTITLE: Purgatorio
set post S7. I never got the feeling that the story was completed - just the hellish bits of it. So, where does that leave us, then?
She gave up writing in her diary after a little while. She's not sure whether it's because it seems immature, now, when she can sit out at the Plaza and drink espresso, with tanned young women strolling past, or whether there is something more to it than that. The night she burnt her old diaries, she supposes, could have been the catalyst. It's an almost-lie: a catalyst, yes, but it had nothing to do with her need to record her life, and everything to do with her doubt over whether she had a life to record. That uncertainty bled away some time ago and she could pick up the pen at any time - at any point she likes - and write down what she sees.
It's not immaturity. Adults keep diaries a lot of the time, especially if they are travelling. Xander's letters are terrifyingly detailed, dipping into the everyday minutiae of his new life: each kernel and seed eaten; each child buried. They come infrequently, but when they do they are thick and weighty in her grasp, and they take a long time to read. She sits on the steps of the Basilica, ignoring the winding throng of tourists in knee-length shorts and panama hats, and pulls her sunglasses down to cover her face as she sits. Sometimes, pigeons or small lost children will wander up to her and watch her for a while, before an anxious parent or an over-zealous tourist will frighten them away. All through it all, we're staying with his family for a few days before we move out. Kigali is actually a lot cooler than Sunnyhell, but makes up for it in lightning and thunderstorms. I kinda miss the ones we had when Dracula moved into town - d'you remember when - and, no she doesn't remember.
She has been in Rome for two years, now, with passable Italian and an elder sister who is still alive and kicking despite every demon's best efforts, and the memories she has of Sunnydale are thinning and wasting away in her mind. She's trying to figure out what it could be due to - it's not like she has anything to compare it to, after all - but something 'anorexia of the brain' just doesn't translate that well. Plus, there's the added bonus of not being thought crazy, and she's all for that. They've had to move again, and it's the third time this year, and, so far, it's only been her fault once. The other times, it was Buffy, or Andrew, and, once, Willow, appearing in a flash of light outside their apartment door.
She's come to realise that whatever kept people in Sunnydale stupid or oblivious or whatever doesn't extend to the rest of the world, and they have a tendency to call the police when weird and unexplainable things happen. The Italian police, she has further learned, do not like either her or her sister overly much, despite some dubious overture of friendship from the highly-made-up Donatella Versace-esque woman heading up the Rome branch of Wolfram & Hart. So, yeah, they keep their heads down, now, and try not to cause a fuss or stir up much trouble.
Sometimes, they visit Giles. He doesn't write in his diaries anymore either.
Most days, like today, she's back at the plaza, staring at the tourists and scuffing her sneakers against the marble. She lights a cigarette, fumbling a little with the lighter. Inhale; exhale slowly, and the humid air grabs the smoke and twines it around her, like her own personal cloud of nicotine. She pulls a paperback out of her backpack and opens its well-thumbed pages. They're reading Inferno at the university this week, and she still has some ways to go.
*
fin
set post S7. I never got the feeling that the story was completed - just the hellish bits of it. So, where does that leave us, then?
She gave up writing in her diary after a little while. She's not sure whether it's because it seems immature, now, when she can sit out at the Plaza and drink espresso, with tanned young women strolling past, or whether there is something more to it than that. The night she burnt her old diaries, she supposes, could have been the catalyst. It's an almost-lie: a catalyst, yes, but it had nothing to do with her need to record her life, and everything to do with her doubt over whether she had a life to record. That uncertainty bled away some time ago and she could pick up the pen at any time - at any point she likes - and write down what she sees.
It's not immaturity. Adults keep diaries a lot of the time, especially if they are travelling. Xander's letters are terrifyingly detailed, dipping into the everyday minutiae of his new life: each kernel and seed eaten; each child buried. They come infrequently, but when they do they are thick and weighty in her grasp, and they take a long time to read. She sits on the steps of the Basilica, ignoring the winding throng of tourists in knee-length shorts and panama hats, and pulls her sunglasses down to cover her face as she sits. Sometimes, pigeons or small lost children will wander up to her and watch her for a while, before an anxious parent or an over-zealous tourist will frighten them away. All through it all, we're staying with his family for a few days before we move out. Kigali is actually a lot cooler than Sunnyhell, but makes up for it in lightning and thunderstorms. I kinda miss the ones we had when Dracula moved into town - d'you remember when - and, no she doesn't remember.
She has been in Rome for two years, now, with passable Italian and an elder sister who is still alive and kicking despite every demon's best efforts, and the memories she has of Sunnydale are thinning and wasting away in her mind. She's trying to figure out what it could be due to - it's not like she has anything to compare it to, after all - but something 'anorexia of the brain' just doesn't translate that well. Plus, there's the added bonus of not being thought crazy, and she's all for that. They've had to move again, and it's the third time this year, and, so far, it's only been her fault once. The other times, it was Buffy, or Andrew, and, once, Willow, appearing in a flash of light outside their apartment door.
She's come to realise that whatever kept people in Sunnydale stupid or oblivious or whatever doesn't extend to the rest of the world, and they have a tendency to call the police when weird and unexplainable things happen. The Italian police, she has further learned, do not like either her or her sister overly much, despite some dubious overture of friendship from the highly-made-up Donatella Versace-esque woman heading up the Rome branch of Wolfram & Hart. So, yeah, they keep their heads down, now, and try not to cause a fuss or stir up much trouble.
Sometimes, they visit Giles. He doesn't write in his diaries anymore either.
Most days, like today, she's back at the plaza, staring at the tourists and scuffing her sneakers against the marble. She lights a cigarette, fumbling a little with the lighter. Inhale; exhale slowly, and the humid air grabs the smoke and twines it around her, like her own personal cloud of nicotine. She pulls a paperback out of her backpack and opens its well-thumbed pages. They're reading Inferno at the university this week, and she still has some ways to go.
*
fin
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no subject
Date: 2006-11-25 03:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-02 09:00 pm (UTC)