One for your dreams
Just a short note. I don't own the characters, but I sure as hell wish I did. The song is the title track to "You only live twice" - I think it's sung by Nancy Sinatra, but I wouldn't swear to it. All the places mentioned in the story are real, and the route Buffy takes is possible. It is a long way, I admit - but then again, she is the Slayer, so it shouldn't be that big a deal. Also, I have absolutely no idea who the Berri Bar is owned by - M. Guillaume is probably not the owner's name! They do, however, serve very good wine, and their omelettes are exquisite. Mmm, yummy. But yes, there really is a Ben and Jerry's kiosk on the Champs- Elysées - or was, when I was last there. And yes, the cinemas on the Champs- Elysées show films in the original language with subtitles. Right, on with the show!
*** *** *** ***
'You only live twice Or so it seems; One life for yourself, And one for your dreams.'
Buffy felt the song nagging at the back of her mind as she stepped out of the cinema onto the Champs-Elysées, wondering for the thousandth time why Giles had decided a holiday in Paris would be good for her. And what had suddenly been so important in London to prevent him from joining her? "You go," he'd said. "You'll like Paris, and it'll do you good. It's a good place to clear your mind, get things straight." She knew he'd been referring to what had happened with Spike. When she'd phoned him in floods of tears after Spike had been gone two months without getting in contact, he'd been surprisingly supportive and understanding. The first thing he'd done was to invite her and Dawn to stay with him in England for the summer. "You'll be able to see Willow, too." Dawn, however, had gone to LA with their father, but she'd jumped at the chance. "All you need to pay for are the plane tickets." Although, she'd wheedled her father into that one. Then Giles' offer of taking her to Paris, to get herself sorted out after Spike.
Everything came back to Spike. The song, that had reminded her of Spike, too. She'd seen the film many times before, but it had never had much resonance with her. The film itself still didn't, though she quite liked Bond films. But the song - that was different.
She bought an ice cream from the Ben and Jerry's kiosk and sat down on one of the benches, watching the Parisians, and pondering the words of the song. What had caught her attention? 'You only live twice.' Well, she'd died. Twice, actually, but she didn't really count the first time - it wasn't dead-and-buried dead, more like a major blackout. 'One for yourself, and one for your dreams.' Did that mean she'd had her own life already, and this one was for all her dreams? If so, dreams or nightmares?
She refused to think about it, and jumped up, intending to find some proper food. She wandered aimlessly around some of the sidestreets, until she found a little bar, the "Berri Bar", which looked reasonably priced. She went in, cautiously.
Like many of the bistros and brasseries she'd seen, it was fairly dark inside, and a little smoky. As it was early evening, however, there were few diners. A waiter came up to her.
"Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Vous êtes seule?"
She tried to remember her best French. "Uh, oui, monsieur."
"Ah, vous êtes américaine!"
"Oui, c'est ça."
He smiled and showed her to a small table, placing a basket of fresh bread and a jug of water on the table, and offering her a menu. To her relief, it was translated into English.
It was a different waiter who took her order. "I speak a little English," he explained apologetically. "Maybe we both find it easier this way, yes?"
She nodded gratefully, and ordered her omelette and salad. She gazed about her, nibbling at the bread. Strangely, she didn't feel awkward; there were various other single people, obviously tourists, dining there.
The waiter came back, placing a glass of wine on the table with a flourish. "Compliments of Monsieur Guillaume!"
She frowned. "Monsieur Guillaume?"
"He is - how you say? - propriétaire."
"Oh!"
He smiled, delighted at having made himself understood. "Yes, he tell me, 'give the pretty little blonde a glass of wine on the house, from me.' Now, M. Guillaume, his word is law!"
She smiled. "Please give my thanks to M. Guillaume."
He nodded and smiled. "Of course, of course!"
"Pierre!" came a voice from the kitchen.
"Excusez-moi!" he said, with a funny bow.
Buffy smiled to herself. She'd have liked to have found out more about M. Guillaume the propriétaire whose word was law, and who gave very good wine to pretty blondes on the house, but the waiter was too busy - people were beginning to flood the restaurant. She ate her omelette, and asked for the bill. With a flash of inspiration, she painstakingly printed out a short note. 'M. Guillaume: merci beaucoup pour le vin. Buffy Summers.' She paid and left. It may be noted that M. Guillaume smiled when he read the note.
As she wandered round the streets of Paris in the evening sunlight, she found her mind turning again to the song.
'You drift through the years And life seems tame; Till one dream appears, And love is its name.'
Well, her life wasn't exactly tame, was it? Or was it? She frowned. Monotonous, maybe. 'Oh, there's a demon, let's slay' seemed to be order of the day pretty much every day of the week. Her love affairs were anything but tame, though, the song had that right. Especially the last one.
Spike. It all came back to Spike, eventually. She sighed, and wandered down the Champs-Elysées to the jardins des Tuileries, barely noticing the long walk. She sat there for a little while, enjoying the evening air. Eventually, she moved off again, feeling rather restless and dissatisfied.
She wandered along the rue de Rivoli, looking longingly into the souvenir shops, trying to resist the temptation to buy anything. In the end, she crossed over the road, walking alongside the Louvre.
She ambled across one of the courtyards and down to the river, sitting on a bench on the pont des Arts, looking towards the cathedral. It was dark now, but many of the buildings were floodlit, and there was a jovial atmosphere on the bridge. A little Andean band were playing, more for fun than money, inviting the onlookers to join in. The sound of panpipes made her feel suddenly homesick. She sat apart from them, lost in thought.
'And love is a stranger, Who'll beckon you on; Don't think of the danger, Or the stranger is gone.'
Spike. The stranger who beckoned her on. She had thought of the danger - 'hell, sleeping with a vampire, who wouldn't? Bloody silly not to,' she thought, not noticing she was beginning to use the same expletives as he did. 'Maybe that's what screwed it up? Thinking too much about the danger, not enough about everything else? Yes, that would make sense. By doing that, I drove him away - and now he's gone.'
Her analysis of her thoughts didn't really lighten her mood much. Neither did the mournful tune the band was playing. She chewed at her lip, gazing out across the water, caught by the reflected lights. She decided she liked Paris. It was charming, vibrant, friendly. There was plenty to do. And the people were so nice - like M. Guillaume, who'd given her a glass of wine because she was a pretty blonde. Nice people, who loved their city and wanted to share it with everyone.
She watched as an open-topped river cruiseboat went under the bridge, all lit up, with the tourists waving and laughing. 'That should be me,' she thought, a little sadly. 'But somehow, it seems so - melancholy.' Not a word she often used, but it seemed to be the only one that really fitted. Maybe if she just got her head round the whole Spike thing?
'This dream is for you, So pay the price; Make one dream come true, You only live twice.'
The last verse puzzled her. It was as if someone was trying to tell her to do something, but she wasn't sure what. Which dream had to come true? One of hers? One of his? And did it mean that this was her last chance - she only had this life left to make the dream come true, whatever it was? And what price did she have to pay? Rejection by her friends? Uncertainty? Giving up something dear to her?
She shivered. It was getting chilly, so she decided to head back to her hotel, a cute little place in the Latin Quarter. As she wound her way through the little, cobbled lanes, she thought of the song. Of Spike. Of herself.
"Mam'selle Summers?" said a soft voice from the shadows. She spun round, but could see no one.
"Who is it? Who's there?"
"Monsieur Guillaume." Did the voice have a lilt of laughter in it, puckish and charming? She frowned. The voice seemed, somehow, so familiar.
"I can't see you," she faltered.
"You never could, love," replied the voice softly.
She trembled, her pulse racing. "Guillaume - William - I should have guessed." Suddenly, it was clear why Giles had insisted. And the wine - an apology?
"Why should you?" he said, coming out of the shadows. "How were you to know I'm the owner of a restaurant? Not the likeliest of scenarios, after all."
"Uh - great wine," she stuttered inanely. "Really. And, the omelette was just perfect, and,"
"I'll tell the chef," he said dryly.
She felt like kicking herself for saying something so stupid. "Uh - how long, um -?"
"I've owned it for about three years," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off her.
"You - you've changed."
"Finally, she notices!" he said to the sky. "I've been trying to tell you that for months."
"No, I mean - I wasn't aware of your presence."
"Probably the soul," he said lightly.
"Soul? You have a soul? Like Angel?"
"Not like Angel. No happy clause," he said firmly.
"Oh." She wasn't sure what else to say. His expression was almost unreadable, but she could just about see the hope in his eyes. Suddenly, she understood the last verse. His dream, to be with her. That was the dream for her, the dream that had to come true. But what was the price to pay?
Then instinctively, she knew that, too. "I'm sorry, she whispered humbly, swallowing her pride. "I never saw you truly. You have changed, I see it now. Please, can - can we try again? Properly this time?"
Finally he smiled, eyes shining as blue as the stars that twinkled above them. He held his hand out to her, and she laced her fingers in his, the single gesture saying more than any words ever could - apologising for and forgiving all the wrongs between them.
"Yes, love," he murmured softly.
Just a short note. I don't own the characters, but I sure as hell wish I did. The song is the title track to "You only live twice" - I think it's sung by Nancy Sinatra, but I wouldn't swear to it. All the places mentioned in the story are real, and the route Buffy takes is possible. It is a long way, I admit - but then again, she is the Slayer, so it shouldn't be that big a deal. Also, I have absolutely no idea who the Berri Bar is owned by - M. Guillaume is probably not the owner's name! They do, however, serve very good wine, and their omelettes are exquisite. Mmm, yummy. But yes, there really is a Ben and Jerry's kiosk on the Champs- Elysées - or was, when I was last there. And yes, the cinemas on the Champs- Elysées show films in the original language with subtitles. Right, on with the show!
*** *** *** ***
'You only live twice Or so it seems; One life for yourself, And one for your dreams.'
Buffy felt the song nagging at the back of her mind as she stepped out of the cinema onto the Champs-Elysées, wondering for the thousandth time why Giles had decided a holiday in Paris would be good for her. And what had suddenly been so important in London to prevent him from joining her? "You go," he'd said. "You'll like Paris, and it'll do you good. It's a good place to clear your mind, get things straight." She knew he'd been referring to what had happened with Spike. When she'd phoned him in floods of tears after Spike had been gone two months without getting in contact, he'd been surprisingly supportive and understanding. The first thing he'd done was to invite her and Dawn to stay with him in England for the summer. "You'll be able to see Willow, too." Dawn, however, had gone to LA with their father, but she'd jumped at the chance. "All you need to pay for are the plane tickets." Although, she'd wheedled her father into that one. Then Giles' offer of taking her to Paris, to get herself sorted out after Spike.
Everything came back to Spike. The song, that had reminded her of Spike, too. She'd seen the film many times before, but it had never had much resonance with her. The film itself still didn't, though she quite liked Bond films. But the song - that was different.
She bought an ice cream from the Ben and Jerry's kiosk and sat down on one of the benches, watching the Parisians, and pondering the words of the song. What had caught her attention? 'You only live twice.' Well, she'd died. Twice, actually, but she didn't really count the first time - it wasn't dead-and-buried dead, more like a major blackout. 'One for yourself, and one for your dreams.' Did that mean she'd had her own life already, and this one was for all her dreams? If so, dreams or nightmares?
She refused to think about it, and jumped up, intending to find some proper food. She wandered aimlessly around some of the sidestreets, until she found a little bar, the "Berri Bar", which looked reasonably priced. She went in, cautiously.
Like many of the bistros and brasseries she'd seen, it was fairly dark inside, and a little smoky. As it was early evening, however, there were few diners. A waiter came up to her.
"Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Vous êtes seule?"
She tried to remember her best French. "Uh, oui, monsieur."
"Ah, vous êtes américaine!"
"Oui, c'est ça."
He smiled and showed her to a small table, placing a basket of fresh bread and a jug of water on the table, and offering her a menu. To her relief, it was translated into English.
It was a different waiter who took her order. "I speak a little English," he explained apologetically. "Maybe we both find it easier this way, yes?"
She nodded gratefully, and ordered her omelette and salad. She gazed about her, nibbling at the bread. Strangely, she didn't feel awkward; there were various other single people, obviously tourists, dining there.
The waiter came back, placing a glass of wine on the table with a flourish. "Compliments of Monsieur Guillaume!"
She frowned. "Monsieur Guillaume?"
"He is - how you say? - propriétaire."
"Oh!"
He smiled, delighted at having made himself understood. "Yes, he tell me, 'give the pretty little blonde a glass of wine on the house, from me.' Now, M. Guillaume, his word is law!"
She smiled. "Please give my thanks to M. Guillaume."
He nodded and smiled. "Of course, of course!"
"Pierre!" came a voice from the kitchen.
"Excusez-moi!" he said, with a funny bow.
Buffy smiled to herself. She'd have liked to have found out more about M. Guillaume the propriétaire whose word was law, and who gave very good wine to pretty blondes on the house, but the waiter was too busy - people were beginning to flood the restaurant. She ate her omelette, and asked for the bill. With a flash of inspiration, she painstakingly printed out a short note. 'M. Guillaume: merci beaucoup pour le vin. Buffy Summers.' She paid and left. It may be noted that M. Guillaume smiled when he read the note.
As she wandered round the streets of Paris in the evening sunlight, she found her mind turning again to the song.
'You drift through the years And life seems tame; Till one dream appears, And love is its name.'
Well, her life wasn't exactly tame, was it? Or was it? She frowned. Monotonous, maybe. 'Oh, there's a demon, let's slay' seemed to be order of the day pretty much every day of the week. Her love affairs were anything but tame, though, the song had that right. Especially the last one.
Spike. It all came back to Spike, eventually. She sighed, and wandered down the Champs-Elysées to the jardins des Tuileries, barely noticing the long walk. She sat there for a little while, enjoying the evening air. Eventually, she moved off again, feeling rather restless and dissatisfied.
She wandered along the rue de Rivoli, looking longingly into the souvenir shops, trying to resist the temptation to buy anything. In the end, she crossed over the road, walking alongside the Louvre.
She ambled across one of the courtyards and down to the river, sitting on a bench on the pont des Arts, looking towards the cathedral. It was dark now, but many of the buildings were floodlit, and there was a jovial atmosphere on the bridge. A little Andean band were playing, more for fun than money, inviting the onlookers to join in. The sound of panpipes made her feel suddenly homesick. She sat apart from them, lost in thought.
'And love is a stranger, Who'll beckon you on; Don't think of the danger, Or the stranger is gone.'
Spike. The stranger who beckoned her on. She had thought of the danger - 'hell, sleeping with a vampire, who wouldn't? Bloody silly not to,' she thought, not noticing she was beginning to use the same expletives as he did. 'Maybe that's what screwed it up? Thinking too much about the danger, not enough about everything else? Yes, that would make sense. By doing that, I drove him away - and now he's gone.'
Her analysis of her thoughts didn't really lighten her mood much. Neither did the mournful tune the band was playing. She chewed at her lip, gazing out across the water, caught by the reflected lights. She decided she liked Paris. It was charming, vibrant, friendly. There was plenty to do. And the people were so nice - like M. Guillaume, who'd given her a glass of wine because she was a pretty blonde. Nice people, who loved their city and wanted to share it with everyone.
She watched as an open-topped river cruiseboat went under the bridge, all lit up, with the tourists waving and laughing. 'That should be me,' she thought, a little sadly. 'But somehow, it seems so - melancholy.' Not a word she often used, but it seemed to be the only one that really fitted. Maybe if she just got her head round the whole Spike thing?
'This dream is for you, So pay the price; Make one dream come true, You only live twice.'
The last verse puzzled her. It was as if someone was trying to tell her to do something, but she wasn't sure what. Which dream had to come true? One of hers? One of his? And did it mean that this was her last chance - she only had this life left to make the dream come true, whatever it was? And what price did she have to pay? Rejection by her friends? Uncertainty? Giving up something dear to her?
She shivered. It was getting chilly, so she decided to head back to her hotel, a cute little place in the Latin Quarter. As she wound her way through the little, cobbled lanes, she thought of the song. Of Spike. Of herself.
"Mam'selle Summers?" said a soft voice from the shadows. She spun round, but could see no one.
"Who is it? Who's there?"
"Monsieur Guillaume." Did the voice have a lilt of laughter in it, puckish and charming? She frowned. The voice seemed, somehow, so familiar.
"I can't see you," she faltered.
"You never could, love," replied the voice softly.
She trembled, her pulse racing. "Guillaume - William - I should have guessed." Suddenly, it was clear why Giles had insisted. And the wine - an apology?
"Why should you?" he said, coming out of the shadows. "How were you to know I'm the owner of a restaurant? Not the likeliest of scenarios, after all."
"Uh - great wine," she stuttered inanely. "Really. And, the omelette was just perfect, and,"
"I'll tell the chef," he said dryly.
She felt like kicking herself for saying something so stupid. "Uh - how long, um -?"
"I've owned it for about three years," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off her.
"You - you've changed."
"Finally, she notices!" he said to the sky. "I've been trying to tell you that for months."
"No, I mean - I wasn't aware of your presence."
"Probably the soul," he said lightly.
"Soul? You have a soul? Like Angel?"
"Not like Angel. No happy clause," he said firmly.
"Oh." She wasn't sure what else to say. His expression was almost unreadable, but she could just about see the hope in his eyes. Suddenly, she understood the last verse. His dream, to be with her. That was the dream for her, the dream that had to come true. But what was the price to pay?
Then instinctively, she knew that, too. "I'm sorry, she whispered humbly, swallowing her pride. "I never saw you truly. You have changed, I see it now. Please, can - can we try again? Properly this time?"
Finally he smiled, eyes shining as blue as the stars that twinkled above them. He held his hand out to her, and she laced her fingers in his, the single gesture saying more than any words ever could - apologising for and forgiving all the wrongs between them.
"Yes, love," he murmured softly.