Paradise Lost: Chapter 9 – Crushed
A/N: For those of you who are new to this story, stop at the end of this paragraph. This is a continuation of Paradise Lost, and Paradise Lost: Chapter 8, both of which are posted at If you try to read this chapter without having read the others, you will be confused and likely give up on this story. I try my best to write my chapters so they weave in and out with each other. Don't mess with my tapestry. Leave now, because there are spoilers shortly ahead. However, if you've been following this God-awful ginormous story, 1) bless your bleeding eyes and see an optometrist regularly and B) feel free to continue on.
It's been a while, hasn't it? Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated. There's been a lot going on the last few years: graduating, moving, and starting a new job. In an odd twist of fate, some power in the universe decided that everything was unbalanced when Max and Logan were unceremoniously ripped from Seattle. To put everything back in balance, they decided they'd found a suitable, yet inferior, replacement. Me. The moonlight is just hitting the Cascades now as I write this author's note, and I think it's a rather apropos time to post. Many thanks to those of you who have sent me words of encouragement the past few years and welcome to those of you who are just joining us AFTER HAVING READ THE REST OF THE STORY FOR THE FIRST TIME…cough… I hope the wait has been worth it.
Many thanks to Alaidh for betaing, and with helping to straighten out leaning characters. Max and Logan and anything DA belongs to Fox and James Cameron, Buffy and crew and anything BtVS belongs to Joss Wedon and others, and the shleck that's left over is mine. Any further attributions needed will be given with the posting of the last day of this chapter. As for spoilers…considering how much I've totally derailed this universe, anything is fair game at this point. I won't tell you more than that, because I'm not fond of giving obvious clues.
Buckle up, folks. It's gonna be a bumpy ride.
Friday March 23, 2001
Dawn slid into her seat just as the bell rang for study hall. Mrs. Davis had lifted an eyebrow at her rushed entry, but said nothing. She usually didn't. Dawn slid a pen out of her purse, opened a small book, and began to write. There was something that just felt good about keeping a journal again. It had been weeks – ever since she'd set her old journals on fire – and she hadn't realized how much she had missed writing. Today was an important anniversary of sorts and, aside from the usual thoughts about her own life that made their way into her journals, she felt it was worth some note.
Max and Logan have been in Sunnydale for exactly six weeks as of today. One week ago, Logan found out that he and Max…well, Max…couldn't ever leave Sunnydale. Mom and snotbrain and I had a family meeting a few days ago when we found out about it, and decided that, since they've already been staying with us, they should keep staying with us. That way, they don't have to like live in a box under a bridge or something while they get their lives in order. I'm not sure what all they have to do, but I guess Logan's been making a list.
Today, Xander and Logan and Max and Buffy are finishing up Logan's bedroom, and then he'll move out of the living room. Max has already moved to the basement, but she doesn't have much there. A bed, a small dresser, and a curtain that helps divide her from the rest of the basement. I don't get it. If I were her, I'd want walls at least, and paint, and pictures and stuff, but she's never around anymore anyway. She should be around today because she's helping out with the construction stuff, but she'll probably disappear again.
I don't get it. I mean, I get that Max misses her friends and home and stuff, but from what she's told me, it's a wreck in that time anyway, and it's so much nicer here. Max won't have to worry anymore.
Man, this sucks. I wish I were home helping them rather than sitting here at school the rest of the day.
Back at the Summers' household, most of the occupants wished they were anywhere else. The tension level was extraordinarily high in the house, as opposed to just a week or so prior. Xander, having taken time off from his construction job in favor of nontaxable pay, had spent the previous day reworking some ducts so that the garage would have heat and air conditioning with the rest of the house. He also added a few additions to the first floor bathroom to make it more accessible for Logan.
Currently, however, the task at hand was adding some fresh drywall to the garage. Once they finished with that, they could add some of the basic furniture he'd already managed to collect. Logan put down his hammer for a second, reaching for a bottle of water, the faint echo of Bling's voice in his head. A slight wave of sadness rushed over him as he realized the voice wasn't quite as clear as he'd remembered - a fading memory of the future.
He looked over at Max, who was swinging a hammer steadily, and strongly. She was so quiet. Beyond her soft words to him a few days ago, she barely spoke anymore. Not that she was ever around to speak to anyone. He knew that today's rare appearance was more due to Max pulling her own weight, rather than her desire to be among people. His only real worry, voiced only once in a moment of weakness, was that, one of these days, she would decide to leave…and wouldn't come back. He pushed the thought out of his mind, and reached for a few more nails.
The small group finished off the drywall rather quickly, and moved Logan's few things into the room. Anya, who had been watching the "show" while eating some popcorn, was disappointed when Xander put his shirt back on. He turned to Logan, and said, "I'll get some faux flooring in here for you soon, so you won't have to live with the concrete."
Logan shook the man's hand. "I appreciate the quick work, Xander."
"No prob." He quickly whispered in Anya's ear, and the two were off.
Buffy smiled at that pair's quick exit as she dusted the sparse thrift shop furniture in the room. Her smile faded when she saw Logan watch Max, who was looking around the room with a blank expression on her face. Max was completely emotionless. Logan, on the other hand, was…wistful.
Longing.
Before she could comment, although she didn't have a single clue what to say, Max snatched up her jacket that she had carelessly thrown over the mattress set. "Where are you going?" Buffy asked.
Max never slowed down.
Logan and Buffy looked at each other. Buffy faintly heard her mother in the kitchen ask the same question, and then heard the basement door slam. Logan sighed and looked at his hands in his lap. "I really can't blame her. She's lost so much, so many times. It's going to be really hard for her to adjust." He sighed again and looked at Buffy. "She'll get through this. She gets through everything," he said, feigning confidence.
Buffy also sighed. "I sure hope so, or Mom'll need to invest in central heat for the house."
Logan quietly let a sad laugh escape his lips, but it was without humor. He looked around at his new, slightly more permanent home. Four walls, and a closet. A bed, a used dresser and nightstand completed the new look. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Some small, snobbish part left in him couldn't really believe that this was what he had been reduced to, but he knew he was the one who'd chosen this.
Unlike Max.
Max stood in the basement, and regarded her surroundings. The basement really wasn't that bad, but just the thought of it made her skin crawl. Two months…two weeks…two days…two hours. It made no difference what the time span was, it all felt the same, like yesterday.
Like ten years ago.
Like eight years from now.
Logan, I'm right back where I started. And I have to learn how to live again, this time in a perfect world in a perfect house with the perfect family.
She shook her head as the memory flashed. Her thoughts began to churn. What the hell was I even thinking then? How could I even have been so naïve as to believe we could get out of this?
We.
Max exhaled slowly, and sat on her small cot, trying to massage out the permanent headache she had developed. I've done this before, so many times I can barely count. Seattle…Zack was right. It was time to move on. Then maybe I wouldn't have gotten attached to it, the people. Settling here is just the same as any other new place I've gone. If all else fails, I move on again.
It'd just be so much easier if I had Logan's help.
Her stomach turned. I've been civil enough so far. I'm just not sure I can handle being friends again.
She stood up, her mind made up. Screw it. Middle of the day or not, I'm going out.
She walked over to the washing machine, nimbly jumped onto it, and opened the small window above it. She easily slid her slight frame through it and outside.
Screw it. He decided he was going out, even though it was the middle of the day. He missed her, so badly he could feel it in his bones. She's been everywhere but near him, and it was really starting to get annoying. He needed her. She needed him, too, although she didn't likely even realize it yet.
Spike pulled on his long black leather duster and flipped up the collar almost angrily. He would need its protection from the blazing sunlight. His small shrine, a dedication to imperfection, caught his eye and he couldn't help but be drawn over to it. Sketches of her graced the entire surface of the old mirrored bureau, on which he had no reflection to mar the collection. His every vision of her, from every angle, dating back to the first time he met her, late one night.
He picked up the head of a mannequin he had painstakingly assembled to be a feeble image of her. Feeble, but at least tangible. He slowly and gently ran a pale hand capped with black nails down the silky blonde hair.
"Buffy," he whispered into the dank dimness of his tomb. He slammed the head down onto the surface of the bureau and sharply turned away.
She needed him, as much as he needed her. He may very well have to kill her to prove it.
Coming soon, Monday March 26, 2001 – December 17, 2006. ;)