"Nope," he replied, taking a large gulp of his coffee, which had been lightened with cream. Sugar sloshed at the bottom: he was never patient enough to stir. "Buffy, can you ever find anything? Maybe if you clean the God damned place," he jibed, and she made a face at him.
"I've been really busy," she countered, sliding her feet into last resort tennis shoes. "Are we late yet?" They were due to play a round of tennis at Xander's at seven.
"Not yet, but you're getting there." Angel took a seat at the kitchen table, and watched his wife rush around. She picked things up, and threw them back down. She touched up her lip gloss. "Ready?"
"I think so," she admitted sheepishly, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Kiss me." Angel dipped his head down, and pressed his lips against hers. She really was beautiful: golden hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail; hazel eyes; a slim, lithe body that had more energy and charisma than he'd ever imagined was possible in a woman, and he loved her, more than anything. They'd planned their lives together: by the time they were settled, he'd be a high powered stock broker on Wall Street, she'd be a big time writer at ABC. They had decided two years ago, when they married, that there was no room in their lives for children. Their wallets were considerably large already, and the only thing they had room for, was bigger wallets, more power, and indefinitely more money.
"We're late," he muttered as he pulled away. Buffy smiled.
"Fuck tennis," she whispered, pulling Angel into the bedroom.
---
Angel trailed several lazy kisses across his wife's collarbone. His saliva mixed with her sweet scent, and she smiled as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Angel," she whispered.
"Hm?"
"You're my destiny," she said, laying her head on his chest and closing her eyes.
"Yeah," he confirmed, falling to sleep with the affirmation.
---
Buffy hurried up the stairs; she was thirty minutes late for the writers' meeting on All My Children. The twelve of them were going to decide this week whether or not Susan Lucci's character would survive a horrible car accident which had happened on Friday's show. She bustled through the doors, breathing an apology as she slid into her usual chair, then looked up to beam into Riley Finn, the producer's face. But Riley wasn't there. "Good morning, Miss..."
"Buffy," she said, blushing furiously. Who was this man?
"Buffy. I'm William Robinson." He spoke in clipped English, and handed her a sheet of paper. "This is your briefing. You and Harold will be writing about Ms. Kane's demise." She nodded, her cheeks still rosy from embarrassment. "You'll be done promptly tomorrow, at noon. And I do mean prompt."
He must have read her file. She was never prompt, but did superb work. "Yes sir," she muttered, straightening the papers.
"Please," he said, smiling. "Call me Spike."
---
Rumors were flying fast around the office. "Spike" Robinson had once worked on his own show, "Vivian Bay," until he moved from California to New York. He sold the show to the rival soap, Days, and they merged the two. He'd come into All My Children as executive producer, and even got the corner office Buffy had been lusting after for three years. The writers and actors were saying he used to be a drug dealer; he'd dated Sienna Miller in the UK; he was going to fire three writers by the end of the month.
Buffy's desk phone lit up. Line one was on hold, line two was Faith fussing about not being able to make it in to shoot today, and line three's caller ID read, "William Robinson." "Shit, Faith, hold on. The new exec is on three…Buffy speaking."
"Buffy."
"Uh huh," she chirped, tapping her pen on the ink blotter under her keyboard.
"It's Spike."
"Uh huh," she intoned deeper, more serious. She straightened. "Yeah, I mean, yes, um, can I do something for you, sir--er, Spike?"
"Come to my office. We have some things to discuss."
"Should I, uh, bring anything?" What she was really thinking was, 'should I clean out my desk?'
"Just a pen. You'll be signing some papers."
"Okay," she said, then whimpered and she clicked back to Faith. "Sorry, Faith…Exec wants me in his office." Line one was dead, and she killed two. She straightened her desk, then made her way through the maze of offices, stopping short in front of the nameplate that read William Robinson.
"Sir, you wanted to see me?"
"Oh, Buffy. Come in, sit down." She sat on the edge of the chair across from him. "How are you? Coffee?"
She thought of Angel's cream and sugar slush that morning. "No, thanks," she answered, nervously clicking the pen. She was running job options through her mind. Her mom's New York gallery needed a receptionist. General Hospital just lost one of their writers to the new Day's setup. McDonalds was always hiring. How much did it cost to run a kiosk in China Town?
"Buffy, I've been looking at all the writer's files, and I'm sure you've heard three of the twelve writers will no longer be needed." Her heart was thumping in her throat. "I'm sure you know it does take work for me to decide which of you guys to let go. You are all decidedly decent writers, with decent tenure. I see you've been with us for three, almost four years." She nodded, tears welling up behind her eyes. Her throat was tight. "You don't seem too dedicated, Miss…Summers? You're consistently late, you miss deadlines, you always ask for an extension, not once in almost four years have you been on time."
"I'm sorry," she managed to squeak, her eyebrows knitting together. "I just…"
"No excuses are allowed here. You're just not suited for the writer's job. Which is why we're moving you to plot supervision script editor. You'll move from the writer's wing down the hall, to the office next door. You'll be given a producer's salary, as well as a bonus for your sign on." He set some papers in front of her. "That is, of course, if you'll take the job."
"I, I, but, McDonalds," she whimpered. She had already resigned herself to the hat and maroon polo.
"McDonalds? Is he a writer?"
"No, I, um, nothing," she said hurriedly, scribbling her name across the papers. She leaned back to glimpse into her new office. "When do I move in?"