Disclaimer: Not Mine
Feedback: Very welcome, even if it's negative.
Beta: I don't have one. I think it's good as is, but it's possible I'm a little biased, so please let me know if you come across any annoying typos or inconsistencies. I've gone over it a million times, but you know there's always something
Setting: Post BtVS, very Post. Will include Buffy, and a couple other familiar BtVS characters. Also, this fic takes place at a time when Xavier, Logan, Kitty, Ororo, Kurt, Jean and Scott were all X-men. I haven't read the comics, so my info comes from mixing Wikipedia and the movies.
Special thanks to BuffyCharmed for the pic! If anyone else decides to make a pic for this series, I would love to display it! Just send me the link!
Also, this story won for the Best X-Men Crossover category at the Crossing Over Awards! I'm so thrilled people like it so much! Thank you!
Buffy walked. Sometimes she would stop somewhere, if she heard a scream or felt the pull of her inner radar. But she had been ignoring more and more of those pulls. Every time she stopped, someone would want to make friends. Then they would die. They all died.
When she was brought back the last time, brought back to life, she came back changed. It was so long ago. What had Tara said? A cellular sunburn. Well, the resurrection worked permanently, it seemed. She enjoyed staying young, until her friends got old. She even got over all of their deaths, although it took years. Then, she tried making new friends - friends that would live like her, forever. Vampires.
The hitch with vamps was, they were evil. Inherently so. She had been lucky enough to know the two vamps in all of known history that had become souled. The rest would try sometimes. She found one that had stayed 'good' for over twenty years. But then, like the rest, she had had to do her duty.
So she could fall in love (even friendship is love) with a 'mortal' and watch them die, or she could fall in love with an 'immortal' and have to kill them herself. They all died. But would she? Ever?
She hadn't tried - not suicide. She lived dangerously enough that all the ways of being killed had come her way on their own: falling, bullets, fire, drowning, starving, and so much more. She might be able to explode. She hadn't done that yet.
So she walked. Sometimes she thought of them, the originals. The Scoobies. Or about the slayerettes she had trained. She ran out of thoughts about her family long ago. Stopped thinking about Dawn or her Mother. Stopped thinking much at all, actually.
Sometimes she would look down into a puddle and see herself reflected. Dreadlocks of grime and blood fell over her perfect, dirty face. Still beautiful, but too dirty to tell. She reminded herself of the First Slayer. Back to the beginning. Not alone, then. She had the First Slayer with her. In every puddle, in every darkened storefront window.
She was not alone. Not yet.