TITLE: Irony (1/1)
AUTHOR: K2
EMAIL: methos@medelle.com
SUMMARY: Willow reflects on the concept of Irony.
DISCLAIMER: Joss is God, we are but humble servants
RATING: G (W/G) A for MAJOR Angst.
FEEDBACK: Yes! Oh yes! :-)
DISTRIBUTION: You want, lemme know.
TIMELINE: Probably around the end of season 4. Im not good with timelines.
THANKS: To Life the Universe and Everything.
NOTES: Deals with character death and angst and I was in a really bummed out mood when I wrote it.

She knew from the beginning that this day would come. They all did. That was the risk, the given. It just didn't occur to her that it would come this soon. Which was ironic, considering. Irony.

Oh how he loved to point out the irony of their everyday lives. Hellmouths. Demons. Vampires. All these permeated their existence, consumed their nights and often their days with the necessary research. Yet, somehow in the midst of this literal Hell, they had managed to scratch out a small piece of Heaven: the ordinary.

That was the flip side of what they did. No one said it, no one acknowledge it – at least not consciously, but saving the world on a daily basis took its toll. The ordinary, wherever and whenever they could find it was relished and consumed greedily as if it were the last. For all any of them knew, it might be. So, they laughed, danced, celebrated, sang, argued and cried together. They did all the things a normal family would, except they weren't a normal family. Irony ruled their lives and now it spat in their faces laughing cruelly, taunting them with a last taste of the ordinary.

She remembered the look on his face when she finally told him. Finally got up the nerve to just spit it out and say "Rupert, I love you. Deal with it." The stunned open-mouthed silence followed by his ritual stammering and glasses cleaning, and finally, the jubilant acceptance. That was six months ago. Six months of the ordinary. Arguing, making up, making love. Six months of openness – no longer inventing reasons to spend time together, no more sidelong glances when the other wasn't looking. Six months with the best friend she'd ever had. Six months ended by a freak boating accident on their honeymoon, three thousand miles from the Hellmouth. It was all so goddamned ironic. He would have loved it, that is if it weren't so goddamned ironic.

She sighed and ran her fingers over the etched lettering of the tombstone. "Rupert Giles," it read. "Friend. Lover. Husband. Father."

Father. She touched her slightly bulging stomach. He would never know the daughter they created on that same trip, days before the accident. Out of death, life. Irony. Oh, he would have loved it!

She stood and laid the flowers in her hand on the marble slab at her feet. Because of Jenny she held carnations rather than roses, white rather than red. The bouquet she was supposed to throw but kept instead. The flowers from the start of their new life together now on his grave. It fit, considering.

She tried to laugh, but it came out a choked sob. God, how she hated irony.

END