waiting

When she awoke, the first few moments were filled with agony. A searing, ripping sensation filled her lungs with each gasp, as if her entire chest had been torn apart, small bones shattered and piercing soft tissue.

Her eyes widened, her body stiffening, when she remembered that was exactly what had happened.

She clenched her hands tight, tighter, until her nails dug deeply into the flesh of her palms, pressing tiny half-moon impressions into her skin that bloomed red and angry. She didn't care, though. She continued to tighten her fists until her arms shook, her knuckles whitening, small droplets of blood seeping out from between her fingers. It was all she could do to refocus her attention on this new, self-inflicted pain instead of the horrible rattling wheeze that left her open chest every time she breathed. Air shouldn't flow right out of the middle of a person like that. A person shouldn't be able to live with a torso turned inside out.

And then she got it. A person couldn't live like that.

That's when the pain left her, as if something pushing on her body had just lifted itself off, a two-ton weight just abruptly gone in the blink of an eye.

Slowly, tentatively, she propped herself up on her elbows, big eyes darting about furtively, taking in her surroundings. She was on the floor of a small room, an office of some kind. A lumpy, ancient leather couch loomed against one wall, while the back of her head grazed the edge of a battered desk.

As she carefully rose to her feet, brushing dust from her jeans, the door swung open, and she turned her attention to it at the sound of its hinges squeaking.

A young man with deeply black hair and bright, merry eyes, stood before her, a gentle smile playing across his lips.

"Hey, there," he said amiably, his voice heavily accented. "Been a while comin', lass. What took you so long?"

She blinked, not answering him.

He studied her for a moment, then slowly nodded his head sadly. "Ah, still feelin' a bit skittish, are we? To be expected, that is." He flopped down on the couch and stretched his legs out. "Take your time. I know I was all manner of mucked in the head when it first happened."

She swallowed hard, finally finding her voice. "When what happened?" she asked.

He exhaled a slow breath. "Already know, if you think about it," he replied softly. "Don't you?"

Her brows furrowed. "Yes," she said. "At least I think so." She looked around at the dingy office again, taking in plants and water cooler and all sorts of perfectly normal, mundane things. "I suppose I thought hell would be different somehow," she mused. "More brimstone, less Rolodexes and toner cartridges."

He grinned at her and let out a low chuckle. "You think this is hell?" he asked. "What, just 'cause you were a demon once, you think you wouldn't wind up someplace else?"

"Well... yes." She canted her head slightly. "I killed quite a lot of people, you know."

"Also saved a few. Helped out on the side of good more than a couple of times. And you went out in a blaze of glory, small though it might've been."

She waved a hand at him dismissively. "Oh, please."

"'Tis true, innit?"

She gave a little shrug. "I guess so."

"Not all demons, former or otherwise, go to hell," he remarked. "I didn't."

"You're a demon?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Hmm. I used to be able to spot these things."

"'Round these parts, nobody's really a demon anymore, though," he explained. "Nobody's really human anymore, either. Sort of thing don't matter in the end nearly so much."

He was smiling at her again, and she felt safe somehow, happy for advice and comfort, even if it came from a stranger. She crossed the room and sat next to him on the couch. "So, what happens now?" she asked.

He turned from her, his gaze becoming wistful. "Now... we wait."

She groaned. "I knew it. This isn't heaven, is it? It's purgatory."

He laughed. "Not a bit. You see, time is fairly meaningless here. I just figured you'd not want to go on to your next stop 'til... well, 'til it was time for him."

Panic seized her. "He... he doesn't make it? The battle? He..."

The man took her hand from her lap and held it tightly. "No, no... steady now. He gets through it all just fine."

"Well, then, what..."

He stared hard into her eyes. "Like I said, time's meaningless here." His words were measured, heavy, and she had the sense he was pleading with her to understand.

"So, for him, it will have been many, many years..." she said wistfully.

"Aye."

She squared her shoulders and gave his hand a little squeeze. "I'm content to wait, then."

"It won't be long, I promise," he assured her. He squeezed her hand back and gently pulled it free, glancing at his watch. "Will you excuse me for just a moment, though?" He stood, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket and bowing his head somewhat bashfully. "I'll be back in an instant, but..." His face flushed slightly, and he grinned.

"Your waiting is over, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"You must've loved her very much."

"More than I even knew when we were alive."

A sense of peace filled Anya, and she smiled. "Perhaps none of this is such a bad outcome," she said decisively.

"It all works out in the end," Doyle said with a nod as he opened the door. "And if it hasn't worked out, then it's not the end."