A/N This is my new fic, We'll Meet Again. Um, not brand-spanking new Buffy writer, but still a little tentative, so I'd appreciate if my reviews were flame-free. I used Microsoft Word so the writing should be correct, but forgive me if there are minor mistakes. I'm not a history expert, so the time period details may be slightly incorrect too.

And finally, I am British. My spelling will be different to you Americans, and also my tone of writing. Please bear that in mind.

We'll Meet Again

Chapter One

London, 1942.

The night was closing in. The rusty sun, behind the wheat-coloured clouds was sinking lower and lower, and was getting harder to see over the wooden fence in Elizabeth's back garden. It was her favourite time of day.

She was lying on her front, on the slightly damp grass in her back garden. It was a small piece of lawn, for a dwelling with a garden any larger would have cost more than the Summers family could afford. Elizabeth knew that this particular past-time was not advised by her mother – Joyce liked her family to stay together at times like these – but it was so relaxing. It was almost enough to make her forget the nightmarish events occurring at this very instant.

Elizabeth took a rather worn piece of paper out of her petticoat pocket and read. It was an old letter now – nearly three years old – but the sentimental message it contained was ageless. Even now, when she had received more letters from the sender, this was her favourite.

Dear Buffy,

It's me, your brother, Billy! I can't believe I'm actually here, in France! I feel so grand – 19 years old and fighting in a war. I know Mama wanted me to stay home, but it would be so dull to hear of the adventures overseas and not be part of them! Liam's here too, and he says hello. I miss you more than the warm of our house, but I have to stay. Somebody's got to win this war!

By the time I come home – and I will, mark my words – you could be a little lady! You could be nineteen years old, think of that! That's as old as I am now. You may even be promised away to a young man, and I won't have had my say. Pick them wisely, little Buffy. Nobody will ever be good enough for you, but you make sure you have the one who comes close.

All my love forever and forever to my little sister,

Billy

xxxx

PS. I've told Mama to say hello to Dawn for me, so you won't have to face "the beast" you so passionately detest.

Elizabeth smiled as she ran a smooth finger over the inked words. Buffy was Billy's pet name for her, and she let nobody but him call her that, no matter how hard Daddy persisted.

Liam was Billy's best friend – they had joined up together. Dawn, or "The Beast" as Buffy tended to call her, was Billy's fiancée. Elizabeth was furious on first acquaintance that anyone besides herself could be close to Billy. It had always just been the two of them – Billy and Buffy. This Dawn couldn't possibly intrude. But, alas, she had, and Billy declared himself irrevocably in love. Billy's happiness was obvious, and Buffy had to surrender. Never had he smiled so much.

But then the dratted Germans had gone and done whatever they had done – Buffy had been a blissfully unaware thirteen-year-old back in 1939, and hadn't paid much attention to the wireless – and Britain had declared war, and suddenly the demand for young men had been overwhelming.

Daddy had been excused, after fighting in the first war; he was too old for another round of endless fighting. And besides, he was a miner, and Britain needed them. Instead, Billy had gone to sign up in his place, despite Joyce's disagreements. Buffy had watched as the soldiers had climbed aboard the trains, waving goodbye. There were tears from most families, but Buffy had stood strong. She had never been the girl for crying.

"It's a long way to Tipperary; it's a long way to go…" Buffy sang, in remembrance of that day. All the boys had been singing it. "It's a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know…"

"Elizabeth!" hissed Joyce, suddenly, and her cry had made Buffy jump. She leap to her feet, and brushed the stray pieces of grass away from her petticoat, hurriedly. "Elizabeth, what have I told you about staying out here at night-time?"

"It's barely dusk, Mama," protested Buffy with a pout, and Joyce looked furious.

"Hush, child, before I box your ears," scolded Joyce. "It's suppertime. Go and drink your cocoa."

Buffy ran into the house, stuffing the piece of paper back into her pocket hastily. She took her mug from the counter, not bothering to wash her hands first. Mama had not been watching, she didn't have to know. She settled down on the settee, and sipped, slowly. All of the streetlights outside were not turning on, despite the fact that the sky outside was slowly turning a deep violet. The blackout was essential for London's safety. It would be ridiculous to have lights on at a time like this – it would like inviting the Germans to drop bombs!

After emptying her mug, Buffy handed it to her mother, who in turn put in by the sink. Joyce pointed to her cheek, which Buffy obediently kissed. "Goodnight, Mama," she said, sadly.

"Goodnight, Elizabeth," replied Joyce, as she began filling the sink to do the washing-up. "Don't forget to wash your face before you put on your nightgown. Daddy will be in to say goodnight when he comes in from work."

"They are still very busy at the mines?" asked Buffy, in surprise. "But I thought the demand had subsided!"

"The demand will not subside until this war is over," said Joyce, sternly. "And you should not concern yourself with such matters, Elizabeth. Go to bed now."

"Yes, Mama."

Buffy traipsed up the stairs, gloomily, brushing her teeth, and washing her face as she had been instructed, before pulling her petticoat over her head – laying Billy's letter on her chest of drawers first, of course - and slipping into her white, lacy nightgown. She turned out the light in the bathroom before entering her bedroom. She looked out of her window to see the young boy from next door staring back at her. Buffy gave him a quick wave – this was all she ever did, she had not once said hello or even asked him his name – before drawing her curtains, and settling down to sleep.