Title: By Design
Author: Beer Good
Fandom/timeline: Buffy, post-"The Gift"
Word Count: 460
Characters: Mr Pointy/Faith's knife
They're both here by accident. They were supposed to be someone else's, they were supposed to be something else. Made to kill, made to protect. And yet here they are, gathering dust at the bottom of a weapons' chest. And what's a weapon once it's clear that it'll never be a weapon again?
You're beauti- Don't. Please don't say that. Never that.
Don't. Please don't say that. Never that.
She remembers being put in the wrong hands... or were they? To date, she's never sure. She just knows that for a few short days, she was one of a pair, the finest gift her owner had ever seen, turned over again and again in private, her blade reflecting eyes that welled up with loyalty. And that now the blood still sticks to her blade, blood she had no choice in drawing, cutting through skin, cutting through bone, cutting the thin thread of life. Then once more, in her new owner's hands, betraying those eyes for all the right (?) reasons. Then put in here, in the dark, a bad memory to be forgotten. But not alone.
You're so shiny. She named you? She actually named you? She shouldn't have. I was just a weapon. That should have been all.
She shouldn't have. I was just a weapon. That should have been all.
He doesn't know how he knows, but he's sure that his former owner reached for him in her last fight only to find him gone. He'd been given willingly, sure, but he knew she still took for granted that he'd be there, as he had been for years. The one sure thing, brown palm and polished wood in perfect symbiosis, two against the world. And vampires, obviously. Like the one that slashed her throat and left her to die alone.
If I'd been there, if I'd kept her alive, yours would never... you would never have had to - You can't know that. And at least you got to keep doing what you were supposed to.
You can't know that. And at least you got to keep doing what you were supposed to.
He had, for a while. Their new owner had adopted him, kept him working, patroling, slaying. But it was never the same, never as easily efficient (dust and move on, dust and move on, why all this quipping and dancing around?), and bit by bit he became a souvenir. A favorite, but semi-retired, perhaps some day to be bronzed and displayed. Except then the count from 730 reached zero, and he got tossed in here with so many other belongings that robots don't need.
I should have done more. And I should have done less. Too late to change that now. So... then what?
And I should have done less. Too late to change that now.
So... then what?
Hard wood and sharp edge might cut or blunt each other – more than they'd like - so they're careful.
We can't do this. Says who? We're weapons. Tools. We don't have to be.
We're weapons. Tools.
We don't have to be.
...But not too careful.