madimpossibledreamer

        “Promise me you won’t hesitate.” Buffy still won’t meet his eyes. “I’m serious, Buff. I don’t want you to end up like Miss Calendar or me. Or Jesse.” It probably won’t do much, and he hates asking this of her. He trusts her to do the right thing, to stop the monster her boyfriend has become if she has to, but she’s still not a monster herself. She’ll probably hesitate, because that’s, y’know, what shows you’re human, with a conscience, and he absolutely hates that that literally is a weakness right now, in terms of strict reaction time.
        “I’ll try not to need the cavalry,” is what she responds instead. Because we both know you can’t come rolling to the rescue with CPR this time, she doesn’t say out loud, and it hurts even unspoken. It’s a realistic promise. He can’t decide if he likes it, because it means she really will probably be trying, or hates that she can’t lie to him any better than he can lie to himself in his own head.

         Xander doesn’t wait to be invited in.  He just barges in.  Cait complains about it, finding it horribly rude, and Tony agrees until Xander’s friends come up.
         And they all do it, and they don’t even seem to realize it’s weird.
         It’s probably the small town thing, Tony reflects.  You trust your neighbors in a small town.  The alternative is vampires, but that explanation is ridiculous so he discards it.

         They say fear is the path to the dark side, but it’s not, really, is it?  No, it’s something simpler.  Obsession.
         If you fear something, enough to act, enough to go aeons out of your way just to destroy the object of your fear, then it’s obsession, not just fear, driving you to desperation.
         If you stare at the enemy long enough, gazing into the creeping darkness, trying to understand, to predict, to fight back, too long, too hard, it begins to control you, to consume you.  The shadowy heart is insidious.  It will creep inside—into your mind, into every pore—if you let it.  Yet constant vigilance, the sound of obsession, isn’t the solution.  If you’re always on the front lines, you’ll burn out.
         It’s important to remind yourself, really remind yourself, why you’re fighting.  If that involves strawberry sundaes or Dungeons & Dragons at the end of the world or taking a second to admire the scenery or even just joking around, so be it.  Because you’re fighting for life.  Life in all of its isolated, glorious, simple, priceless moments.  You can’t stop to evaluate them, for you can’t calculate their value, and obsessing about that won’t do you any good, either.
         The relaxation will do you good, and the line against the darkness will hold.  All you need to stand is that bright spark of hope.

( and also one bizarre conversation )

        “You wanted to see me?”
        Gibbs starts and turns.  There’s the kid with an eyepatch, standing in the doorway to the bathroom.  Blending in.  “Were you covert ops?” he asks incredulously, and the brunet snorts.
        “Just…having trouble dealing.  But I’m not the only one.”  The look is pointed, and Gibbs feels guilty.
        He has a grown-up son.  The loss of his wife and daughter still feels fresh, even though it’s been fifteen years, but he has a grown-up son.  “I’m sorry.”
        The stare is…searching.  Disappointed, maybe.  And then the kid—Alex, he thinks—speaks again.  “I think someone would have something to say about saying sorry, but then, pride is an issue, too.  I’d appreciate it if you don’t let it happen again.”  A short pause, then a laugh.  “And, believe it or not, you’re still better than that bastard Mom married.”
        Gibbs nearly dives on that question, thirsty for answers, despite the pang that feels like a knife, and then notices…Of course.  His son’s hurting.  “Enjoying this, aren’t you?”
        The look instantly turns into confusion, and he elaborates though he wishes he didn’t have to, “Hurting me.”
        It instantly clears up, and that pained chuckle returns.  “That obvious, am I?”  A sigh.  “I try to be the good guy, but sometimes when I’m hurting I just lash out and hurt the people I care about.  And I am.  Hurting.  That doesn’t mean it’s any easier to see you in pain, Dad.”  It’s the first time since he’s woken up and looked at the kid with such confusion in his eyes that Alex has said that word.  “Yeah, I’m getting used to this.  And you will too, because I’m pretty sure I got my stubbornness from somewhere, just like my tendency to verbally attack.  I’m not going anywhere, and you aren’t either, no matter what you think.”
        Gibbs snorts and they both ignore the wetness in each others’ eyes as a matter of common courtesy, and Gibbs realizes as he goes to the refrigerator that the kid was a lot sneakier than he thought because all the alcohol was missing (not something he really enjoys, but as a man who would go to the depths of hell for his family, sacrificing booze to save his son from bad memories is almost no sacrifice at all) and there’s a pot of coffee brewing instead, judging by the smell.  Sitting in comfortable silence, cups in hand, feels almost like a new beginning.

Jotaro has been to his grandfather’s tombstone once.

He’s still not sure why, even with the stupid, elaborated story that the man tells.  After all, it’s not like he couldn’t have had it taken down.  No one’s actually buried there, and the dates are wrong.  Or perhaps he could have repurposed it?

But no, there it still sits in the States, testament to the idiocy (and possibly heroics, but those aren’t quite as annoying and therefore less immediate of a problem) of his family.

Maybe, just to complete the set, he can dig a small grave for his dignity, too.