AUTHOR'S NOTE- This is my first story, and it's all finished. I wanted to
see Buffy and Spike really talking about what happened in Seeing Red. And,
yeah, I'm Spuffy, but I thought a B/A relationship was a much more
realistic option after Season 6. And I know nothing about Central America,
so please excuse any geographical errors.
DISCLAIMER- I own many lovely shoes and handbags, but I don't own anyone in
this story.
Chapter One
The two barmaids were talking about Buffy. Loudly and disparagingly. With total disregard for her location; they didn't seem to care she was only ten metres away, within easy hearing distance when the music volume was so low. "Doesn't quite live up to hype, does she? I mean, who'd a thought she was the cause of so much bloody angst?". It was a familiar accent, but feminine rather than masculine, obviously coming from the British girl.
"Well, all we know is that he doesn't want to see her under any circumstances. Doesn't necessarily make her the Great Cause of Undisclosed Pain. She could just be a boring, banal, stuck-up, scantily clad ditz. Seems more likely at this point.". From the other girl, the American. A pure wannabe Vintage Cordelia. Cordy before she went all quiet and strange. Back when she used to look at Buffy. Even if it was only to find fault with the textural relationship between Buffy's bag and shoes.
I am not, Buffy's interior monologue seethed, scantily clad. She didn't even need to look down and do a quick check to make sure. She'd just been to a funeral, so she was wearing her standard issue mourning outfit. Black dress pants. Black high necked top. A slay- free social event, so she was able to pull out the clean, shiny and pointy black boots, with the square heel to facilitate easy walking through cemeteries. She'd been to a few funerals now. She knew the dress code.
Buffy wondered briefly whether she should have worn anything special for Riley. Brown sweater, maybe. She'd been wearing that when he'd chosen her over the Initiative. Such a nice thing for such a nice boy to do. Certainly not one of those pashmina type things she'd taken to wearing in her freshman college year, when they were first dating. Or maybe yes; they were part of the girl Riley had thought he was falling in love with. Soft, vulnerable. Er, a natural fibre. Buffy's inner monologue sighed. She lacked the talent for turning an accessory into a metaphor for Riley's dream girl Buffy.
She'd never have thought that she'd have the head space for lamenting her lack of mental agility on the day of Riley's funeral. She'd cried at the burial, remembering the way he used to try and make her love him. Depend on him. The way he'd looked at her, with such precision and care. She'd sobbed after speaking with Sam, at the wake in the army mess, because Sam was so lost,and trying to say she was alright, and not to worry, and nothing was as frustrating as watching someone behave like you've behaved, and knowing it ends badly and not being able to stop it. But now she'd left the intense funeral atmosphere, the crying had ended, and Buffy felt, although she was loathe to name it, relief. Because Riley hadn't died on Buffy's watch. Because even if she'd never brought some text books crashing down on his head in the campus book store, there was still a good chance he would have been in this Central American jungle, met that last demon, and hit the jungle floor, throat slashed but still clutching the demon's disembodied head. He'd known the bad stuff was out there before he known Buffy. And the life that had killed him, as a martyr to the anti- demon cause, had been separate to Buffy's life. He hadn't been killed on Buffy's hellmouth. Not like Jenny. Not like Tara.
The drink she'd asked for about 15 minutes earlier was splashed with an ordinary girl's full force onto the table. The English barmaid stared at her for such a length of time that Buffy was about to assure her that yes, she did realise that the barmaid's stare was trying to convey contempt. "I suppose you don't really expect to pay, being the boss's girlfriend and all.". Head tilt, with sneer, as she waited for Buffy's reply. She'd learnt that gesture of somebody. It was enough to incense Buffy. "Free room. Free drinks. Input into staffing decisions. Some of the perks of sleeping with the owner.". Sweet smile, evil undertone, toss of the golden hair. However occasionally, Buffy had attended high school once. Enough to be really well equipped in the in the odd bitch rally. Ok, so the barmaid obviously recognised an empty, thinly veiled threat when she heard one, from the way she offered an "I am so not intimidated" eye roll, before sauntering back to the Bar of Bitching. Buffy's boyfriend wouldn't fire the girl. He wouldn't leave a foreign girl jobless in this remote, demon-y part of the world. He'd spent decades forcing his fangs into arteries, relishing the wet snap a well broken bone can make, but now he was just too caring to fire the bitch girl. He was a champion, after all.
Buffy sipped her drink, screwed up her mouth, then forced herself to swallow. California girls have certain standards for their orange juice, and this thin-as-water but then mysteriously thick and lumpy concoction wasn't up there. It had probably been sabotaged by her fan club behind the bar.
She distracted herself by looking around the room. Buffy hadn't traveled much in her apocalypse heavy existence, but this crowd reminded her of something. She and Willow. Road tripping it in a girly way [oh, she still shuddered at the memory of singing along with the car's CD player as it repeated Eternal Flame over and over again] to San Francisco. Wandering into a smoky coffee shop, because Willow had said it would be a more authentic experience than the clean, welcoming Starbucks next door. The crowd in this bar was the same as at the not-Starbucks place. Young. White. Dreadlocks/pigtails. Polar fleece and tie dye, sometimes all in one garment. A menagerie of accents. German. Irish. Australian. Canadian. The floor littered with padlocked knapsacks. At least three paperback copies of On the Road in plain view.
Backpackers. Backpackers? Why on Earth would backpackers be hanging out in this bar?
She gave up on the orange juice. She gave up on trying to explain the phenomenon surrounding her. She'd buried Riley today. She was going home tomorrow. She was going to bed now.
Chapter One
The two barmaids were talking about Buffy. Loudly and disparagingly. With total disregard for her location; they didn't seem to care she was only ten metres away, within easy hearing distance when the music volume was so low. "Doesn't quite live up to hype, does she? I mean, who'd a thought she was the cause of so much bloody angst?". It was a familiar accent, but feminine rather than masculine, obviously coming from the British girl.
"Well, all we know is that he doesn't want to see her under any circumstances. Doesn't necessarily make her the Great Cause of Undisclosed Pain. She could just be a boring, banal, stuck-up, scantily clad ditz. Seems more likely at this point.". From the other girl, the American. A pure wannabe Vintage Cordelia. Cordy before she went all quiet and strange. Back when she used to look at Buffy. Even if it was only to find fault with the textural relationship between Buffy's bag and shoes.
I am not, Buffy's interior monologue seethed, scantily clad. She didn't even need to look down and do a quick check to make sure. She'd just been to a funeral, so she was wearing her standard issue mourning outfit. Black dress pants. Black high necked top. A slay- free social event, so she was able to pull out the clean, shiny and pointy black boots, with the square heel to facilitate easy walking through cemeteries. She'd been to a few funerals now. She knew the dress code.
Buffy wondered briefly whether she should have worn anything special for Riley. Brown sweater, maybe. She'd been wearing that when he'd chosen her over the Initiative. Such a nice thing for such a nice boy to do. Certainly not one of those pashmina type things she'd taken to wearing in her freshman college year, when they were first dating. Or maybe yes; they were part of the girl Riley had thought he was falling in love with. Soft, vulnerable. Er, a natural fibre. Buffy's inner monologue sighed. She lacked the talent for turning an accessory into a metaphor for Riley's dream girl Buffy.
She'd never have thought that she'd have the head space for lamenting her lack of mental agility on the day of Riley's funeral. She'd cried at the burial, remembering the way he used to try and make her love him. Depend on him. The way he'd looked at her, with such precision and care. She'd sobbed after speaking with Sam, at the wake in the army mess, because Sam was so lost,and trying to say she was alright, and not to worry, and nothing was as frustrating as watching someone behave like you've behaved, and knowing it ends badly and not being able to stop it. But now she'd left the intense funeral atmosphere, the crying had ended, and Buffy felt, although she was loathe to name it, relief. Because Riley hadn't died on Buffy's watch. Because even if she'd never brought some text books crashing down on his head in the campus book store, there was still a good chance he would have been in this Central American jungle, met that last demon, and hit the jungle floor, throat slashed but still clutching the demon's disembodied head. He'd known the bad stuff was out there before he known Buffy. And the life that had killed him, as a martyr to the anti- demon cause, had been separate to Buffy's life. He hadn't been killed on Buffy's hellmouth. Not like Jenny. Not like Tara.
The drink she'd asked for about 15 minutes earlier was splashed with an ordinary girl's full force onto the table. The English barmaid stared at her for such a length of time that Buffy was about to assure her that yes, she did realise that the barmaid's stare was trying to convey contempt. "I suppose you don't really expect to pay, being the boss's girlfriend and all.". Head tilt, with sneer, as she waited for Buffy's reply. She'd learnt that gesture of somebody. It was enough to incense Buffy. "Free room. Free drinks. Input into staffing decisions. Some of the perks of sleeping with the owner.". Sweet smile, evil undertone, toss of the golden hair. However occasionally, Buffy had attended high school once. Enough to be really well equipped in the in the odd bitch rally. Ok, so the barmaid obviously recognised an empty, thinly veiled threat when she heard one, from the way she offered an "I am so not intimidated" eye roll, before sauntering back to the Bar of Bitching. Buffy's boyfriend wouldn't fire the girl. He wouldn't leave a foreign girl jobless in this remote, demon-y part of the world. He'd spent decades forcing his fangs into arteries, relishing the wet snap a well broken bone can make, but now he was just too caring to fire the bitch girl. He was a champion, after all.
Buffy sipped her drink, screwed up her mouth, then forced herself to swallow. California girls have certain standards for their orange juice, and this thin-as-water but then mysteriously thick and lumpy concoction wasn't up there. It had probably been sabotaged by her fan club behind the bar.
She distracted herself by looking around the room. Buffy hadn't traveled much in her apocalypse heavy existence, but this crowd reminded her of something. She and Willow. Road tripping it in a girly way [oh, she still shuddered at the memory of singing along with the car's CD player as it repeated Eternal Flame over and over again] to San Francisco. Wandering into a smoky coffee shop, because Willow had said it would be a more authentic experience than the clean, welcoming Starbucks next door. The crowd in this bar was the same as at the not-Starbucks place. Young. White. Dreadlocks/pigtails. Polar fleece and tie dye, sometimes all in one garment. A menagerie of accents. German. Irish. Australian. Canadian. The floor littered with padlocked knapsacks. At least three paperback copies of On the Road in plain view.
Backpackers. Backpackers? Why on Earth would backpackers be hanging out in this bar?
She gave up on the orange juice. She gave up on trying to explain the phenomenon surrounding her. She'd buried Riley today. She was going home tomorrow. She was going to bed now.