Chapter Text
"Be brave," Buffy said, looking into Dawn's eyes. In them, she could see the reflection of the portal, a lake of ice and electricity. It crackled with energy, impossible to contain, terrifying even as a tiny reflection in her sister's eyes. But she knew what she had to do. "Live. For me."
And then she ran. She dove. At long last, peace.
-
The peace faded into darkness. Not the infinite darkness she might have imagined, but a familiar darkness hinting at closed eyes. There was breathing, too - her own breath. In, out. As soon as she was aware of the in-and-out of her breath, the pain followed. The pain was everywhere, although she could not quite remember what parts of her existed or what else there might be, apart from this in-and-out and this darkness and this pain.
In and out, time passed. She slowly became aware that she had legs, and arms, and sides, and a head. Still. All of these parts of her filled with an ache that was too dull and throbbing not to be , to be corporeal, to be real. Eyes still closed, the darkness slowly turned red; first a dull red, then brighter, and brighter still. Heat followed. Buffy couldn’t bring herself to wonder where she was just yet. But she was . She existed. Red heat, all around her, and tiny pin pricks all over her skin. Was this hell? It hadn’t been so hot, last time...
Memory, then, was returning. With it, a bone-deep need to know... Where she was, where home was, where Dawn was. Her eyes opened, then closed against the hot, bright, painful sunlight.
Desert.
The world, existing. That had to be good. Even if she was in a desert, just after sunrise - and not in Sunnydale, not on the rough ground underneath the shaky platform where she had jumped. She pulled herself into a sitting position, unable to stifle the grunt of pain that escaped her as her body protested to being jostled. She looked around. The desert was familiar, she thought. A road lay in the distance. Was it the road where she had once seen Giles leaning against his car, waiting for her after her vision quest?
This stretch of sand felt unfamiliar, though. It had felt mystical to her, before, always a shimmering just under her skin, a subtle, subconscious phosphorescence. This third time in the desert felt empty, blank. But she knew it. She thought she recognized the road, and the dune, and the fire pit where Giles had shaken his gourd.
That meant she wasn’t far from Sunnydale. She needed to get home, to get to her friends, to Dawn , and explain that her gift - her gift - had not only been received, but her efforts rewarded.
Pulling herself upright too quickly, she doubled over, hands coming out underneath her as she fell, digging into the hot sand. Redoubling her efforts, she pulled herself first onto all fours, taking deep breaths as pain emanated through her, almost like pleasure in its tingling from limb to torso and back again. Taking a moment, she pushed herself backwards onto her legs, haunches beneath her. The effort and the increasingly hot sun left beads of sweat falling into her eyes, but her next push upward got her - finally - into a standing position.
Stumbling in the sand, Buffy made her way towards the road, somehow managing not to fall back onto her hands and knees. As her feet hit asphalt, walking became easier, no longer fighting against the shifting, sinking sand. She stood on the shoulder of the small street, waiting for a car - any car - to take her home.
Exactly seventy two belaboured in-and-outs later, a brown and white station wagon stopped and Buffy got inside.
The man in the driver’s seat was older, perhaps sixty, and had a stetson on his head, heavy white stubble on his chin, and a weathered, lined face. His flannel shirt showed some wear, particularly around the middle buttons, and hung unflatteringly over his round stomach. A silver, round belt buckle marked the line between torso and legs and well worn, light denim jeans covered his legs. He smelled like cheap cigars and cologne. His face was kind, but unconcerned - decidedly not threatening - particularly to a slayer, albeit an injured one.
“Kind of an odd place to pick up a ride,” he remarked and went silent again for a moment, evidently hoping that she’d fill in some details. When she failed to, he started again: “Any place in particular?”
“Sunnydale.” Her tone was quiet, but victorious. Pain continued to radiate through her, but was dulled considerably inside the air conditioned cabin of the station wagon, no doubt aided by her slayer healing. Now, she could focus. Home. Dawn. Giles. Willow. Xander. Home. Her gift - not just death, but now life .
“And where’s that?” the man asked.
Narrowing her eyes, Buffy thought. She didn’t drive, and paid less attention in cars than those who did - particularly when Giles was driving, always so sure of his route.
“About 30 miles south of here, I think,” Buffy estimated. “There’s a train station. And a beach. Factories. The university.”
His tone was certain. “Honey, I drove a route from Los Angeles to San Jose in my truck for years, and road tripped with the family down the Pacific Coast Highway every summer. I know every coastal town for four hundred miles. Never heard of Sunnydale. Are you sure you’ve got the town’s name right? Not Sunny vale ?”
“No,” Buffy responded. “Sunny dale . It’s two hours north of L.A.. On the coast, about half an hour out from Santa Barbara.”
“I lived in Santa Barbara for ten years, darlin’. I’m out of L.A. now that the kids’ve moved out, but there’s no Sunnydale anywhere near Santa Barbara. I can take you to a train station, get you to Sunnyvale, if you want. I’m headed down south to L.A.”
“You’re wrong. It’s - it’s here - off highway one - exit--” damn, what was it - how long had it been, since she’d been on that highway? “Exit on Canyon Road! What do you mean, it’s not here , where would it be?”
“Canyon Road? Darlin’, there’s nothing out there. No town. Just desert and forest and coastline.”
He must be wrong. Had to be wrong. Evil, maybe - working for Glory - working for the Initiative - for someone who had it out for her. Maybe the Gorches. There was something familiar about his style of dress, even if the sun pouring into the car proved without a doubt that he was not a vampire.
“Who are you?” she asked, voice low.
“My name’s Joe,” he replied, pleasant as can be, no hint of curiosity about her confusion or awareness of the threat in her tone. “Darlin’, we’re going to pass Canyon Road on my way to L.A.. I’ll show you, if you like.”
She let her eyes slip closed, and a word that did not come easily to her passed softly from her lips.
“Please.”
-
Canyon Road did not lead to the “Welcome to Sunnydale” sign that Buffy had grown to know and love, or hate, depending on when she saw it... It led to, well, very little. A gas station. A quick stop. A trucker shower station somehow sharing quarters with a porn shop, which would have horrified her if horror could be summoned for anything less than the complete disappearance of everyone and everything she knew and loved.
After these limited amenities, Canyon Road had ... a dead end. Forest, desert, and coast line, completely unremarkable. Nothing more than a vista off the gas station’s hillside pumps. Her eyes filled, the pain back full force in the summer heat. Joe pumped his station wagon full of gas and didn’t so much as watch her as her heart climbed into her throat, turned to rock, and suffocated her.
He was right.
There was no gaping crater where Sunnydale should have been. Not that she wanted there to be, but at least that would mean that Sunnydale was here - should be here. Instead, there was empty land. She recognized the line of the coast where she had watched her high school’s swim team, transformed into fish monsters, wander into the ocean - where she had barbecued and played ball with Riley and her friends in the sun last summer. She recognized the line of transition from coast into woods, where she had found Angel, savage, naked, and without a hint of recognition for her. She recognized the flatlands where her house, and Willow’s house, and the charred remains of Sunnydale High once stood (never stood). All nature. No crater, no destruction. Never here. Where was she .
“Somewhere else to be, darlin’?”
“Los Angeles will be fine.” Someone had to be there. Angel, her dad -- hell, Cordelia, even. Someone would be there even if there was no Sunnydale.
They climbed back into the station wagon. He drove, and she willed her tears away. Some reward.