A/N: Thanks for sticking this out with me, through a horrible update rate, a lot of whining and, comparatively, little plot. I'll see you whenever the next part is finished, which should be soon. ish.
“You look like you’re heading for a migraine,” Buffy supplied as she stepped out of Sam and Dean’s room two hours later to find Victor sitting on the porch steps, head in hand, scowling fiercely at his palms.
“Too late,” he offered as he looked up and waved a hand for her to sit down. She did, and then slumped against the railing, looking like she’d been through the ringer. Twice. There was a spectacular bruise in all colors of the rainbow on the left side of her jaw and cheek, almost up to her eye. Meg, the bitch, had packed one hell of a punch. Ha! Hell.
She chortled a bit at her own stellar wit and then went back to watching Vic as he obviously tried to work through something. “I don’t get it,” he finally said, sounding annoyed.
“Last week, no such thing as monsters. This week, monsters are real, have black eyes and possess people. Possess me. Five days ago zombies are real and not just shit made up by people who want movies about shooting rotting corpses. And today angels? Motherfucking angels
? And Dean is apparently going to Hell and there’s a whole war going on beyond
the usual critters and monsters, one between Heaven and Hell and I just… What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? Why am I even here?”
“You’re here because you’re needed,” Buffy offered after a long silence, her voice gentle. “You’re here because without you, we would have walked right into that trap, never knowing, and it might have – would have – ended with the end of the world. You’re here because you’re one of those people who can’t unknow things. You can’t just walk away from the truth and you do what’s right and that sucks
, but you do it anyway, because you wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror otherwise. And you’re here because I get prophetic dreams and when I dream about the end fight, you’re there. In a more immediate sense, you walked out the door and sat down. Which is actually sort of gross, because have you looked at those steps? My pants are ruined.”
That got a smile out of the tired looking man. “I think the zombie guts probably had something to do with that.”
Mock-frowning, Buffy inspected the legs of her pants, then twisted to look at her rear-end. “You think so?” she asked, contemplatively, like she wasn’t sure.
Victor snorted and then, abruptly, demanded, “Tell me what to do.”
“You’re right,” he elaborated with a shrug. “I’m here because I can’t walk away. And if you’re sure I’m needed, then tell me what to do.”
Buffy smiled, softly and brightly. Proud, even though she knew she didn’t have any right to it. “How do you feel about helping me get Dean out of his deal?”
He nodded, stood, and offered her a hand up. “Sounds good, Flygirl.”
She rolled her eyes. “That one’s going to stick, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he agreed, making a flapping motion with his hands. She hip-checked him and shoved past him toward their not-really-shared room and called dibs on the shower. Zombie guts and all.
Behind her, Victor cursed and laughed. He was going to be just fine, she decided. They all were.