Oh, look! Another thing I do not own and make no money from.
THE KEY scrapes noisily against the sticky lock as Buffy struggles to open her apartment door one-handed.
"Oh, come on," she whines, jiggling the key back and forth with little finesse. "Not tonight."
Just when she's about to give up and break the damn lock, the worn tumblers finally give way with a soft click. Yeah, she definitely needs to get that fixed.
The apartment beyond is quiet and dark. She shifts the grocery bag she's clutching from one arm to the other so she can shrug off her leather jacket, wincing a little at the twinge of pain that shoots through her shoulder. Nothing's broken, but she thinks it must be at least sprained. She's certainly been thrown into enough tombstones to know.
"Happy Birthday!" Buffy mutters to herself sarcastically, because really, this is just par for the course. She kicks off her boots and tosses her stake absently down onto the kitchen counter with her keys and wallet. It clatters and rolls into the sink, leaving a trail of ashy dust behind.
Pale light from the city below flickers and glints at the edges of the floor-to-ceiling windows that Buffy still hasn't bothered hanging curtains over. In fact, she's done very little to the apartment in the six months since she moved in, and it shows. The walls are white and bare. The few books and objects scattered about skew more toward useful than decorative; titles like The Encyclopedia Demonica, Vol. I-IV are piled haphazardly on the couch, there's a battered laptop charging on the coffee table, and an old throwing star is serving double duty as a coaster on the end table. The furniture is new, but it's Ikea.
Bland. Impersonal. Kind of pathetic.
Uncomfortably aware that she's beginning to summarize more than just her furnishings, Buffy pulls a bakery box out of the grocery bag and pops the lid. She'd been considering whiskey before she bought the cupcake, but getting drunk by herself on her birthday just seems…sad in the worst way.
Way sadder than a lonely cupcake.
She bites into it without ceremony, closing her eyes to fully relish in the sweet, sugary goodness, and does not make a wish.
(Old habits die hard.)
(And if she does make a wish, it's in her head and never, ever out loud, and it's not for something as pitiful as to not be alone on her birthday. She doesn't.)
There's a knock on the apartment door.
Buffy's eyes pop open and she swallows her mouthful of cake in surprise. "What the…?" she coughs.
She approaches the door warily. In the entire time she's been living in Boston, she's never had a visitor. Hell, she's never even encountered a nosy neighbor. Her apartment building is the kind of place where people keep to themselves, which is exactly why she chose it. That, and its proximity to three funeral homes. Hey, sometimes she feels nostalgic.
The hall is empty at first glance, but then she looks a little lower and finds a young boy, sharply dressed for his age with a backpack slung over his shoulder, looking up at her expectantly.
"Can I…help you?"
"Are you Buffy Summers?" the boy asks.
"Um, yes," Buffy confirms. "Who are you?"
"My name's Henry," the boy tells her cheerfully. "I'm your son."
He pushes past her into the apartment. Buffy is too shocked to stop him, but recovers herself quickly and chases after him.
"Whoa! Hold your horses, mister! I don't have a son!"
"Ten years ago. Did you give a baby up for adoption?" the kid – Henry – asks matter-of-factly. "That was me."
Buffy falls back, completely staggered. "…Give me a minute," she croaks.
She retreats to the bathroom. "Oh my god," she whispers to her wide-eyed reflection. "Oh my god."
Buffy has spent the better part of a decade pretending her life started in Sunnydale. Ten years feels like a lifetime. Three lifetimes, if she wants to get technical, and she should, shouldn't she? She is currently on the verge of hyperventilating in her bathroom because of one teensy, tiny, miniscule technicality.
Technically…she is someone's mother.
A living, breathing, ten-year-old someone. Not a distant hypothetical what-if that has been carefully pushed aside and locked away with the rest of her post-calling, pre-Sunnydale memories. A real boy, with his father's hair and Buffy's eyes.
Her heart is hammering painfully in her chest and she wonders for a moment if she is actually going to throw up. She might. She breathes hard through her nose and pushes the impulse down.
"Hey, what's this stick for?" Henry calls from the other room. "It kind of looks like a – "
Buffy swoops back into the kitchen and grabs the stake out of his hands. "Here, have a cupcake," she says, and hands him her barely-touched birthday treat instead.
He takes a large bite without question and chews happily. "You know, we should probably get going," he tells her through a mouthful of frosting.
"Going?" Buffy repeats faintly. "Going where?"
"I want you to come home with me," Henry tells her seriously. Just like that. Simplest thing in the world.
Buffy laughs humorlessly. "Okay, kid. I'm calling the cops." She reaches for her phone.
"Then I'll tell them you kidnapped me," Henry counters quickly.
Buffy retracts her had slowly. "And they'll believe you because I'm your birth mom," she concludes.
Henry grins, teeth stained blue from the icing. "Yep."
Buffy narrows her eyes. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
It's a good act, she'll give him that. But Buffy spent the majority of her teenage years lying to authority figures, not to mention she recognizes the kid's expression as the one her sister favors when she's laying the BS on really thick.
"Nope, not buying it," she tells him, shaking her head. Damn it, he even looks kind of like Dawn. She unlocks the screen on her phone.
"Wait!" Henry says quickly. "Please don't call the cops. Please, come home with me."
"Where's home?" she asks, mentally reviewing her options.
This is a bad idea.
"Storybrooke, Maine."
"Storybrooke. Seriously?"
Henry nods, looking hopeful.
A really, really terrible idea.
Buffy sighs. "Alrighty then. Let's get you back to Storybrooke."
As she loads him into the car, she considers calling someone – Giles, Willow, anybody – but ultimately decides against it. She is not ready for the conversation that will inevitably follow.
I'm just taking a little road trip to Maine to return the biological son I had at 16 to his adoptive parents.
She snorts. Yeah, right. Dawn is the only person who even has an inkling that she gave a baby up for adoption once upon a time, and Buffy isn't even sure how much her little sister remembers. She'd only been nine or ten, and it's a topic that wasn't discussed after their parents divorced and they moved to Sunnydale.
"What's wrong?" Henry asks perceptively as he settles into the passenger seat of Buffy's beat up Chrysler.
"Nothing," Buffy says. She starts the ignition and cranks the heat. "You know, I think you should call your parents and let them know you're okay. And, you know…not kidnapped."
"Can we stop somewhere?" Henry changes the subject.
"What? We just left!"
"Yeah, but that cupcake made me thirsty."
"This is not a road trip," Buffy reminds him. She glances at the dashboard. "Fine, we need to fill up anyways. You can get something at the gas station."
"Do you have any money?" Henry asks unapologetically.
Buffy eyes him suspiciously out of the corner of her eye. "How exactly did you get from Maine to Boston without any cash?"
Henry wiggles guiltily in his seat. "I used a credit card," he hedges.
"And you can't use it now because…?
"Because it's not mine?"
"Great, glad to see kleptomania runs in the family," Buffy mutters under her breath as she pulls up next to a free pump.
"What's kleptomania?"
"It means you're a thief," Buffy tells him shortly, cutting the engine. She fishes a ten dollar bill out of her purse. "Here. Go get something to drink."
"Thanks!" Henry takes the money and bolts out of the car.
"Hey, kid!" she calls after him.
"Yeah?"
"…Get me some M&M's?"
The boy flashes a huge megawatt grin.
"You know, I have a name," he reminds her happily. "It's Henry."
As they make their way steadily north, Buffy can't stop herself from glancing sideways at her small passenger every few minutes, just to assure herself that she isn't dreaming. Or having a nightmare; she hasn't decided.
"What's with the book?" she breaks the silence, pushing uncomfortable memories away.
"I'm not sure you're ready," Henry tells her seriously.
Buffy raises her eyebrows, but focuses on the road. "I'm not ready for some fairytales?"
"They're not fairytales," Henry denies. "They're true. Every story in this book actually happened."
"Right."
"They did!" Henry insists. "You could tell I was lying before – this is the truth."
"Just because you believe something doesn't make it true," Buffy tells him, but the words taste false in her mouth.
"That's exactly what makes it true," Henry argues. "You should know more than anyone."
"What?!" Buffy's grip on the wheel tightens. "What are you talking about?"
Is it a book about vampires?
"Because you're in this book."
Crap, it is.
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"Nope. Can't be. Must be some other Buffy."
"How many Buffys do you think there are?" Henry asks her dryly.
"Jeez, it's not that weird a name."
"It kind of is."
"Kid, you've got problems."
"Yep," Henry agrees cheerfully. "And you're going to fix them."
Storybrooke, Maine is pretty much exactly like it sounds. Small, quiet, New England-y. It actually reminds Buffy a lot of Sunnydale, minus the graveyards. The comparison is not reassuring.
"Okay, buddy. How about an address?"
"Forty-four Not Telling You Street," Henry replies promptly. He dozed a bit on the last leg of the drive, but as soon as they passed the town line he's been wide awake and as snarky as ever.
Buffy stops the car a little more abruptly than is strictly necessary. "You are such a little shit," she tells him tiredly, unbuckling her seatbelt. She gets out of the car and rolls her shoulder. "Look. It's been a really long night, and it's almost…8:15?" She stares up at the clock tower in surprise.
"That clock hasn't moved my whole life," Henry tells her. "Time's frozen here."
"You mean the clock is broken?"
"No, the Evil Queen did it with her curse. She sent everyone in the Enchanted Forest here."
Buffy's neck prickles. "You didn't say anything about a curse," she says sharply.
"You believe me?" Henry says hopefully.
"That an Evil Queen froze time and sent a bunch of fairytale characters to Storybrooke, Maine? Debatable." She shakes her head, the queasy feeling in her stomach returning. "You shouldn't joke about curses."
"It's true! Everyone here is trapped," Henry explains. "If they try to leave, bad things happen."
"Henry!" A man walking a Dalmation jogs up to them. "What are you doing here? Is everything alright?"
Buffy sighs. It's going to be a long night.
Regina Mills gives Buffy seriously weird vibes – and not just because she's the Mayor.
Buffy doesn't have a bias against small-town mayors. No, really.
She eyes the woman critically over the rim of her cider glass as she takes a polite sip. The phrase tight-laced springs to mind. Regina is clearly a woman who likes to have everything under control. Her pristine house and slick, professional appearance is testament to that. Buffy, who feels decidedly rumpled after the long car ride, suddenly and irrationally hates her for it.
"And the father?"
Oh. Regina is asking her a question.
"There was one," Buffy says vaguely.
"Do I need to be worried about him?"
"Only if Henry has magical psychic powers."
"Excuse me?!"
"His father doesn't know he exists," Buffy clarifies, a little snappier than she intends to. "I never told anyone who he was. His name isn't on any documentation. The only way Henry could possibly track him down, too, is if he has prophetic dreams or something. Which is a joke. Obviously."
Regina stares at her. "Do I need to be worried about you, Miss Summers?"
Buffy bristles. "I didn't go looking for Henry. He found me. I'm just bringing him home." You're the one who didn't even realize your ten-year-old hopped a bus to Massachusetts, she adds meanly in her head.
It isn't quite the answer Regina is looking for, but the Sherriff chooses that moment to reappear. After he lets himself out, Regina tries to make peace.
"I'm sorry he dragged you out of your life," she says. "I really don't know what's gotten into him."
Buffy shrugs. "He's a kid. Kids act out. I get it."
"You have to understand," Regina continues. "Ever since I became mayor, balancing things has been tricky. You have a job, I assume?"
"I'm a freelance security consultant." It's the standard line, these days. "And a former high school guidance counselor, so when I said I understand what Henry's going through, I meant it," she adds for good measure. Not at all because Regina posed the question like she expected the answer to be "no."
"Ah," Regina says, her smile tightening. "Well, imagine having another job on top of that."
I wonder what that would be like, Buffy thinks dryly.
Regina plows ahead, giving her some spiel about being a single mom and how rules are good, yadda yadda yadds, but Buffy stops listening. She's suddenly eager to get out of the mayor's picture-perfect house and her quaint, rule-abiding town.
"It's a long drive back to Boston," she manages to interject finally. "I should be heading out."
Regina nods. "Of course."
She's shown out. When she reaches the car, she glances back up at the house. Henry's small, pale face peers down at her from one of the second story windows. Buffy looks away. Time to put the past back where it belongs.
Except – Henry is a sneaky little devil, and there was a wolf in the road, and Buffy was never all that great of a driver to begin with.
After she flattens the Leaving Storybrooke sign and her vision starts to blur, she has just enough time to think that Spike would be so proud.
She stays.
She does call Giles eventually.
Well, she calls his secretary and leaves a message about taking a vacation from the city, she'll call back in a couple of weeks, not to worry, blah blah blah. It's admittedly a dick move, but she's still not ready to talk about how she never told any of them how she got pregnant at fifteen and only found out after her Baby Daddy hit the road and her parents committed her to a mental hospital, and then convinced her to give up said baby for adoption.
Giles just has this way of knowing when she's holding something like that back, you know?
It takes her less than a week to figure out that Regina Mills hates her guts; Mr. Gold (Rumpelstiltskin, according to Henry) is a slimy, slithery snake; and that something is very, very off about Storybrooke, Maine.
Oh yeah – and she gets arrested. Again.
So she takes an axe to the mayor's apple tree in lieu of strangling the woman (which would be regicide either way, she amused herself thinking, because even if Henry's Evil Queen theory is bunk, her name's still Regina…get it?), seriously considers sleeping in a crypt for a couple of nights when no one is willing to take her money, moves into Snow White's spare bedroom, nearly delivers Cinderella's baby in a ditch, and maybe-kinda makes a deal with the devil.
This is your life, Buffy Summers, she thinks.
She leans back against the hood of her car and presses her phone to her ear.
"Graham? It's Buffy. I was thinking…Maine's not so bad this time of year. That deputy job still open?"