For a brief instant in time, a blissful silence enveloped the world, or at least the small portion of it surrounding Buffy Summers. She smiled, considering the question posed by one of her companions. Her brain mulled over a million possibilities. What did she want to do? The short answer was obvious. Everything! Or would that be anything? Either way, for the first time in years, since that day long ago when she accepted the weighty mantle of being the Slayer, she was free.
Free!
Free of being responsible for battling evil's constantly looming presence. Free of fear for her sister and those she loved. Free from the heavy burden of being the person standing between the forces of doom and the destruction of the world, and life as it was known. But most of all, she was free to do as she damn well pleased.
She was no longer The Chosen One. She was now one of many, maybe hundreds of vampire slayers living throughout the world. The relief she felt in that sharing was indescribable. It lifted her spirit, holding it above the physical pain and weariness that touched her body. Her recently earned wounds barely registered as a nuisance. They were a faded background, white noise, the elevator music equivalent of stimulation. They were the tiny gnat buzzing around her, making its presence known, but not irritating enough to expend the energy to raise a hand and swat.
Listening to her friends, Buffy felt the smile on her face continue to grow. They were experiencing that same strange sense of satisfaction and happiness, too. It was gratifying to share in the moment with those people who had become the most important part of her life. She loved every one of them, and held a special place in her heart for each, enabling her to keep them close at all times.
First and foremost, there was her sister, of course. Dawn wasn't just family. She was blood. Then there were her closest friends from high school, Xander Harris and Willow Rosenberg. They had been at her side through several apocalyptic threats, and she considered them family as well. And, of course, there was Rupert Giles. Giles, the stoic Brit who had served first as her Watcher and mentor, and then eventually worked his way up to friend and confident. He was family, too, his maturity at times thrusting him into a parental role, though often he was more the quirky, doting uncle she wished she'd had.
But not everyone had made it out of the Hellmouth in one piece. Spike was gone. He’d left them as a hero, making the ultimate of sacrifices for the world. She felt no tearing grief at his loss, no all consuming sorrow at the vampire’s passing. Not to say that he wouldn’t be missed. He’d been a big part of her life, too, first as an enemy, and then as a solace for her own depression. In these more recent times he’d become something different, evolving yet again to support her in the midst of others’ doubt, and eventually to stand at her side in battle. His death was yet another empty place to tuck away in her heart, a memory she would carry with her until she herself died.
Spike was a strange dichotomy. Foe and friend. Enemy and hero. Terror and blood spilling scourge of the ages, yet savior of all human life. She said a silent prayer for him. For the man he’d been born. The vampire who had hunter her, hated her, been consumed with obsessed loved for her. Mostly, she prayed for the soul that had been restored to him, that precious and ethereal thing that had made Spike a champion when she needed one most.
Buffy?
As it so often did, reality reared its practical presence through the heady high of victory. Giles was standing at her side. He placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder, giving her a reassuring touch that grounder her again to the moment.
Perhaps we should think about moving along now,
the Brit suggested. There are wounded that need attending to.
His voice softened further, and a somber smile crossed his lips as he raised a hand to her forehead, brushing aside the lock of hair that a stray breeze had caused to dangle across her eyes. You look as though you could use a bit of doctoring yourself.
You’re one to talk,
she smiled back, nodding at his obvious bruises. But you’re right. We should get going.
Raising her voice slightly, she included the others in her announcement. Listen up, guys. It’s time to load up this cheese machine and head on out. Next stop,. . .
She paused, her mind suddenly drawing a blank. The once familiar hospital she had known in Sunnydale was gone, abandoned along with every other municipal and business building, as well as nearly all the homes in town. They were eithe damaged and beyond safe use, or had been all swallowed by the cavernous gaping hole that was the last remaining evidence of the former Hellmouth.
Uh, where is the nearest hospital?
she asked Giles.
He frowned, thinking. for a moment before replying. I suppose that would be Mercy General, in Westcliffe.
Then Mercy General it is!
she announced with a tired grin.
Gathering together her ragtag crew with a loud command and broad gesturing wave of her arms, Buffy ushered her tired, grousing and limping troops of slayerettes back onto the school bus that had been their escape vehicle. Now it would be their trusty ambulance, transporting them to the hospital, and the physical care and salvation they all so sorely required after their taxing apocalyptic ordeal.
With Giles behind the wheel, the bus lumbered off down the long empty expanse of highway, leaving behind forever the t town where they had once lived. They had little more than the clothing on their backs, and even those were tattered and bloody from battle.
The next few hours were numbing and prosaic. Giles pulled the bus up to the emergency room entrance, and a security officer came running out to tell him to move. Once he saw the condition of those on the bus, however, he called for backup, eliciting a flurry of hospital personnel in white. A triage unit was set up. Orderlies and nurses brought gurneys to move the wounded, the worst of which immediately were seen by the available physicians. Others, those less wounded, but still in need of medical help became delegated to the limbo of the waiting room. There they sat, soothing their bruises and cuts with ice packs until they could be seen.
Hours passed. The more seriously wounded were eventually admitted to the hospital. From a quiet vantage off in a corner, Buffy observed her Watcher in action. He flitted to and about, giving support, helping to facilitate the mundane aspects of any necessary administrative work involved. Giles was an expert when it came to paperwork. Buffy thought of it as some anomalous offshoot talent to his research and book skills. She’d seen him do this sort of thing plenty of times before. Unfortunately, he’d been doing it a lot more often lately.
By nightfall everyone had been either admitted, seen or discharged. The latter were loaded on the big yellow bus, and once again they were on their way. A stop at an all night pharmacy slash beach souvenir store, and they were able to rustle together a makeshift wardrobe for everyone. Clean oversized swimsuit cover-ups were put to use as nightclothes for the girls. T-shirts, shorts and flip-flop sandals would be their wardrobe in the coming days. Giles paid for everything using his credit card, including a supply of Tylenol and Advil, and several dozen candy bars as well as sacks of snacks.
Arms full of their colorful treasures, the gang piled back on the bus, still giggling and giddy with excitement from the shopping trip. Amidst all the filling out of forms at the hospital, and checking on how everyone was faring, Giles had found time to make some phone calls, and arrange accommodations for them all. Driving a short distance down the highway, the Brit pulled in at a local motel. Disembarking from the bus once last time, Giles checked them all in, and after a brief discussion, the younger slayers were paired off, keys divvied out, and everyone was sent off to their rooms. Willow and Kennedy chose to bunk together. Buffy was with her sister Dawn. Giles, as the payee, called the privilege of a room to himself, and by default, that left Xander paired with Andrew, at least for a time.
The place was by no means fancy. It was old, and dated in style, but the water in the showers was hot, the towels clean, and the beds surprisingly comfortable and free of lumps. Clean, and full of pain pills, Buffy tucked her younger sister into bed. Trudging toward the other bed, she crawled between the sheets, and gave herself up to the deep exhaustion that had nagged at her body for weeks. Within minutes she was asleep, her brain too tired for dreams.
It was how she and the others would spend their next days, sleeping away the hours and recovering from their pains and travails.