Anya had a knack for entering a place and figuring out the lay of the land: who could be a potential client, who would yield no useful wishes even if bothered to wit’s end, and who just wanted to be left alone. Granted, the vengeance demon powers didn’t hurt; those, combined with her centuries of experience, had made her ridiculously efficient at entering bars and picking out women with bones to pick and wishes to grant. It had become less intuition, and more a logical working practice that maximised time efficiency and capitalised on opportunities if and when possible.
So, when Anya slid into the stool next to a drunken blonde woman seated at the bar, she didn’t give the action much thought. Slumped as she was over several glasses, she seemed the obvious choice. She didn’t look like a hardened drinker, given that it had only taken three drinks to lull her into a stupor, so she must have been drinking for something — the likelihood was that it was a failed romantic conquest. And if reading those cues wasn’t enough, the vengeance vibe she was getting off her was uncannily strong. Anya’d ordered a drink, preparing herself to strike up a conversation with the woman, when the woman beat her to it. Out from the mass of blonde hair turned a face, one that was immediately familiar, and oh god, it was Buffy, and how in the unholy fuck was she going to crawl out of this one unscathed?
“Anya! Aren’t you supposed to be dead? You need to explain yourself right now, Anya. I can’t have dead things being alive right now, it just won’t do,” Buffy immediately launched into the accusations, and Anya couldn’t tell if it was because she was piss-drunk or because she’d jumped straight to the conclusion that she was a vengeance demon again, but for whatever reason she wanted answers.
“Uh,” Anya started, hoping for dear life that Buffy wasn’t clutching the edge of the bar because she was trying to restrain herself from going the full Slayer on her right then and there. “I can explain. If what I’m about to say makes zero sense, it’s probably — definitely — because you’re drunk. Really, really drunk.” If she was lucky, Buffy would buy whatever excuse she threw on her right then in her desperation to not fall off her stool. Clearly extreme alcohol tolerance wasn’t one of the gifts a Slayer inherited with their fate. Maybe she could even turn the situation to her advantage.
“See, I never actually died,” she finally blurted out. “Andrew thought he saw me die, because he was panicking like a little girl and, um, wildly hallucinating, and Xander thought I was dead because he couldn’t find me in the building, but… I got out of Sunnydale before the entire town blew up.” As she finished her explanation, Anya let out a heavy exhale. Maybe, just maybe, in her current state, Buffy would buy it? “So don’t worry, because I— I’m not some manner of creepy-crawly undead demon thing or anything of the kind. I am alive, and a human.”
Really, it was the perfect lie.
Even though she was drunk, what Anya said did make a lot of sense. That Andrew, of course he had just thought he saw her dying. It explained everything, she knew Anya wouldn’t just go and die in a battle like that. She had to live, if not for the money. Buffy had to focus extra hard to see straight, but she knew one thing for certain. Anya liked money. And when she told her not to worry, she didn’t. For all she knew she was in the bar hoping to get someone to buy her a free drink, that did seem like the kind of thing she would do. But whatever the reason that Anya was in this particular bar at the exact same time that she was, it didn’t really matter. Because Anya was alive, and she wasn’t on the vengeance path any more and Buffy just knew she didn’t need to worry. Because Anya had said so.
What really mattered was that she was there. And while Anya wasn’t always the most understanding and she only got like 40% of the pop culture references Buffy made, she felt like Anya was just the person she needed to talk to. She would listen. It occurred to Buffy that she might also laugh at her, but she thought better of it. Why would Anya laugh? She wasn’t that drunk after all. She was just a girl in need of a friendly face to talk to. And Anya’s face was friendly, especially tonight. Anya gave off this sort of vibe she hadn’t really noticed before this particular evening, she just felt like Anya wanted to know all of her problems, that she cared. The drunkenness of course, only enhanced this feeling.
“You know, Anya, it’s a shame you’re not in the vengeance mode as of now.” Buffy began with a slight giggle. She couldn’t really control where the laughter spilled out when she spoke. She knew she was trying to forget her problems, but talking about them was something she felt might make her feel better. Because she never really got to talk about these things. “There isn’t a soul in the world I can talk to about these things, except for you that is, Miss living Anya.”
She found herself regaining the ability to keep herself firmly planted in the chair, which allowed her to remove one of her hands from the metal bar. She noticed a hand shaped dent left behind from where she’d clung for dear life, and again she laughed. She always forgot just how strong she was. Taking her free hand she gave Anya a little shoulder pat, not for any reason in particular. Just to show their buddyship, which was going very strong in Buffy’s eyes. "I just, I have so many things in my life that need avengeance (is avengeance even a word you silly?) and I don’t have any way to fix them! Do you know what that’s like for a me, Anya? I am Buffy! I always know what to do, only no I don’t apparently.“ The words poured out of Buffy’s mouth as she babbled on, hardly giving herself time to breathe, much less allowing Anya to get in a word of her own. But when she finished she looked over to Anya, maybe someone as old as she was would know what to do about all of this. She could only hope.
This Is A Test 