A/N: Hello and Welcome! As just as short note, this is a Next Gen-type story and will focus a lot on that whole "next generation" part. It is a Spuffy fic at its core though, so if that's an issue...well, it was nice meeting you!
It was sufficient to say that Elizabeth felt uneasy about her family's relocation. While there was no doubt a sense of uncertainty of what Bellevue—nestled alongside Lake Washington and just a short drive from Seattle—could offer her, she couldn't find it in herself to escalate her unease into anything akin to panic. She was, after all, nothing if not rational. Besides, at this point, she didn't think she could do any worse than she had in Scotland.
"Now, your mum said she'll finish up by the end of next week," her dad said while keeping an eye on the highway's exit signs. Her mother would once in a while reminisce about her father's old driving skills—something or another about knocking over a welcome sign, she couldn't really remember—and how exceptionally dangerous it once was ("Rebellious," her father would then cut in. "I just didn't care for the rules. I was dead, pet. S'not like I worried about being ticketed"). But watching her father driving now, several car lengths back from the vehicle in front of them and abiding to the speed limit, she could hardly believe a word her mother said. If she was being honest, and she was, she would say that her mother's stories of the "good 'ole days" (as her Uncle Xander fondly yet incorrectly remembered them) heavily contradicted who her father was now, to the point where Elizabeth had to wonder if it was all made up for her amusement.
"Beth?" Her father's voice cut through her musings and she jerked her attention away from the car window to look at her father. Despite his advanced age (much more advanced than anyone could ever possibly guess), he still kept about him a youthful appearance. She attributed it to his odd desire to keep his hair that glowing white-blonde color he was so fond of, hiding any and all possible hints of grey. Her mother would say it had something to do with his boyish smile (ewwww was the only thing Beth could say in response to that).
"You say something?" she asked, lazy blue eyes blinking slowly.
"I was talking 'bout your mum," he told her, fingers thrumming against the steering wheel to an old rock song belting out of the radio, a tune he'd probably heard live, the old geezer.
"About her needing to finish business?" she asked for clarification.
"She called last night—"
"Wow geez, isn't it like night there now?" she interrupted rudely. "Aren't they a handful of hours ahead of us?"
"I never said she called at a reasonable time. Now, she said she should be finishing up soon and she's sorry she won't be here to see you off to school on your first day."
Ah yes, school. The very reason Beth and her father were driving along the highway: back-to-school shopping. It wasn't as if she'd never done it before, per say, though God only knew the nearest Walmart would have laughed if she had come in asking for supplies when they had lived in Scotland. Something also told her that The Nesting and Feeding Habits of Vampyres was not to be found at Barnes & Nobles. Dickens, on the other hand, was.
"You're just sorry that you have to do the shopping with me," she teased. He knew it and she knew it. Her father's wardrobe didn't amount to more than a few black t-shirts and those button-ups he was so fond of. It was only on occasion that her mother could persuade him to buy something else. Beth already knew he wouldn't be much help with deciding what to wear her first day.
"S'got uniforms," was her father's blunt reply.
Her teasing expression molded into one of great sourness. Oh, how could she forget? Khaki slacks and starched blouses were her first-day attire. At least she wouldn't be the only one.
"No need to look so glum, pet. Now you don't have to worry about having some bloody fashion contest with the other girls," he soothed.
"I feel so much better now. Thanks." She practically oozed false sentiment.
"No need to get all snippy with me. Leave the sarcasm up to your mum," her father admonished.
"I'm temping. She's not here, so I'm temporarily covering her 'be-sarcastic-to-Spike' shift," she replied with a grin. "Don't worry; I'll stop as soon as she comes back."
"Well, as your Da, I tell you bloody well quit it."
"Do you think we could just skip the shopping and go get ice cream?" she asked, almost begging. She picked up her school's supply list from up off the floor. "I mean, Hamlet? Do I really have to?"
"Shakespeare's an artist!" he argued. "You got to respect the bloke."
"But like everyone dies. And sexual innuendos. How is that school appropriate?" she pointed out.
"Shakespearian English. You lot don't understand it," he explained.
She slumped down in the passenger seat. "Well, I do. There's a lot better literature out there than eons old plays written by a dead white guy."
"What, like Harry Potter?"
She made a face at his snide response, turning away to look out the car window again. "I think our turning is coming up," she informed him, pointing towards an exit sign. "You said 114B, right?"
"That I did," he said, turning in his blinker and easing over. Her mother's words reverberated in her head again and Beth resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Maybe tonight the little piece of vampire that stayed behind after the Shanshu would rear its fangy head; or maybe they'd just order pizza.
"Heard it's a nice place to shop," her father began.
"Who told you that? The modern wonders of technology?"
"The neighbors, actually. Nice couple. Bit young to be married, though."
She snorted. "Compared to you, everyone's too young."
Her father headed down the off-ramp, moving his car into traffic. "I'd say a few got me beat."
"Whatever. I can see the Target," she told him, pointing out the red symbol located on the right side of the road. "My offer to let you buy me ice cream instead still stands." The only response she got was a disbelieving snort.
Once parked, she knew shopping was now inevitable. She briefly contemplated the idea of simply refusing to leave the car, but that form of protest was quickly discarded when she remembered her father's strength. Making a break for it was dismissed for similar reasons.
"Alright now, don't be stubborn. Get out," her father ordered in what could only be described as a tone of a parent dealing with a petulant teenage daughter. Fourteen, to be exact.
"My seatbelt's stuck," she responded, pulling weakly on the strap. He didn't even reach over to un-click it himself, he just shot her an exasperated look.
"Fine, fine, I'm getting out," she grumbled. Getting out of the car, she squinted at the shopping center. Well, at least it looked clean. Of course, at that moment the wind took an opportunity to kick it up a notch and throw her hair straight into her face, giving her a mouthful of unkempt blonde hair. She took that as a sign that she wasn't going to enjoy their shopping excursion.
Beth did her best to drag her feet, but her father's swaggering gait didn't leave much room for tarrying. Every time she fell too far behind for his liking, he'd shoot her a pointed look and she'd quicken her steps, sure that if she didn't, he wouldn't have any qualms with dragging her into the store like some unruly child (which she was, but she wasn't three after all). Beth couldn't be sure, but it seemed like he had some sort of sixth sense about it.
In the store, she gave up trying to be difficult. The fluorescent lights overhead shined cheerily in deep contrast with her darkening mood and the cheery pop music did nothing to soothe her. She groaned lightly under her breath, but took the lead easily, making a beeline for the clothing section.
"Uniforms over there," her father said, gesturing to their right. She could see the peter pan collared shirts and sweater vests. Her frown deepened.
"I don't see why I have to go to this fancy school," she protested, fingering a red coat the next rack over as she let her father browse through her school clothes, looking for her size.
"S'not like I had a say in it," her father told her. "You don't like it? Take it up with your mum."
"It's an all-girl's school too," she grumbled. "I thought Mum was all with the concern for my lack of a love life."
"You're fourteen!" he exclaimed, looking up from the shirts. "No boyfriend for you! 'Sides, the boy's school is right next door. You'll see more of the opposite sex than I'd like."
She rolled her eyes. "I just don't see why we had to move. It wasn't like the Council was forcing Mum to relocate. She's the senior of Senior Slayers! They liked having her around."
"'Bout time we settled down and made ourselves a little home," her dad explained. He paused a beat before adding, "'Sides, you need to make some friends."
She frowned. "I had Jackie."
"Jackie only visited in the summer."
"And I had Mr. Wells for the other ten months," she added.
"Andrew is thirty years older than you," her father reminded her. "You need friends your age. Girls."
"But who will watch Star Trek and make fun of William Shatner's over-acting now?" she whined.
Her father shot her an irritated look, only having so much patience for her incessant whining. "Anyone else, I don't bloody care. We're not going back to Scotland anytime soon anyway so quit your whining."
"I don't see why we need uniforms anyway," she muttered. "I mean, I went to the Slayer Academy for God's sake. I didn't wear a uniform then."
"Girls had to learn to fight in nearly anything. As it turns out, the Pythagorean theory doesn't require much physical exertion. Here, is this your size?"
She glanced over to see her father holding up a navy-blue pleated skirt. Her eyes widened. "Oh no. You're joking right? A skirt? Pants I will tolerate, but that skirt is a sure quick way to make me say 'hell no.'"
"Is this your size?" he repeated.
She held her ground for a moment, eye narrowed, before leaning over to grab the tag. "Unfortunately, yeah, it is."
He took the skirt back and grabbed two more like it.
"I mean, what about winter?" she asked.
"The handbook said something about wool stockings and long underwear."
Beth moved away from the racks, happy to know her father could pick out her uniform without her getting involved. For once, her father's fashion didn't matter when it came to clothes shopping. He stood there dressed in black from his head to his Doc Martens, save the red button-up—unbuttoned, of course—sorting through the shirts and blazers. She didn't really have much to criticize though, she realized, looking down at similar, but smaller boots (like father like daughter, after all, right?), her father's commandeered Ramones t-shirt, and a pair of jeans that had surely seen better days. People often said she took far too much after her father, her hair slightly curled like his naturally was and the bright blue eyes highlighted by her sharp features, but she knew she took after her mother where it counted. Or at least, where it counted in all places but one.
Perusing the other clothes, the not-so-uniformed clothes, she pulled out a red blouse and held it up. "What do you think?" she asked her father. "Pretty?"
He leveled her with a blank stare. "Right, I'll just go try this on," she murmured. He nodded and she walked off towards the changing rooms.
She did her best not to take too much time critiquing the shirt in the mirror as she wore it, knowing her father lacked any form of patience. One would think that having lived for over 150 years would make someone a bit calmer, but that was not the case for Beth's father. Ever since he'd died and lived again (first time over), he'd been a walking contradiction.
Once she was fully satisfied that the blouse complemented her, she walked back over to him, hanger swinging from her finger.
"You done now?" he asked when she walked over. She could see the pile of clothes draped over his arm, signifying that he was done.
"Yeah," she told him, adding the red blouse to the pile. "We can go now."
"Books next? Or pencils?" he asked.
"Whatever order will make this end quicker," she responded with false blithe.
"Pencils it is then." Yes, unease it would be. Panic seemed a bit too presumptuous.
-.-
Later that night, over her pizza dinner, Beth wondered what she would be doing right now if she was still in Scotland. Judging from the time on the clock and guestimating time difference, she would be asleep. She looked down at her plate. So maybe Bellevue wasn't all that bad.
The house was still littered with unpacked boxes, though their apartment at the academy had been rather small compared to their house now. And while she knew why she was procrastinating at unpacking, she didn't know what her dad's excuse was, or even if he had one. They had been there for nearly a week and the rooms looked no closer to being done than when they had first moved in.
It wasn't a bad house, she had to admit. The living room had a nice bay window with a built-in seat and she liked all the shelves built into the wall. The red hardwood floors with the soft beige walls gave the house and nice warm feel, something it would desperately need in the winter. Her father had yet to hang the drapes and the only thing set up in the living room was the couch and television. It was not as if Spike could miss his midday soaps anyway.
Through the archway was the dining hall where Beth sat. She had moved the boxes of china to the floor so she could eat her pizza without bumping her elbows. The chandelier above gave the room a nice elegant touch and she was sure that when her mother came home she would spend hours making it homey. Homes were very important to her mother. After the tragic loss of all her things in Sunnydale, Buffy liked to make the best of every living space.
Across the foyer was the guest room and lounge. She didn't question the necessity of another room for couches. She figured it was an American thing, maybe even more specifically a west coast thing, though her experience with worldly houses was severely limited. The lounge also featured more built-in shelves and bay window with a seat, and it also currently held all the boxes for the living room. Her father said they had gotten in the way of his watching on the grand "telly." The lounge even featured a small fireplace for those cold days.
The kitchen, connected to the dining room through a swinging door, was in better shape than the other rooms thankfully. Being the cook of the family, Beth spent the most time in the kitchen and despite having yet to make one single meal, she still had everything placed in its cabinet and cupboard. She would begrudgingly admit she liked the kitchen; with its glass top stove, granite countertops, and stainless-steel appliances, the room was a modern sight that made her smile, even if just a little. Besides, from the windows, she had a nice view of the grassy backyard and the large oak she would eventually attempt to climb.
From the basement door under the stairs, her father rejoined her in the dining room, taking a slice of pizza out of the box and swallowing in a fashion she had only seen her father do. She wondered if he had eaten food like that before or if it was simply an "I'm human again now" thing.
"I think I'll go out a patrol tonight," he announced.
Beth perked up at that. While it was true her mother never liked her tagging along when her dad patrolled, her mother wasn't here now.
"Can I come with you?" she asked, trying to tone down the hope in her voice. No point is sounding desperate.
For her father's credit, he did look like he was actually considering turning her down for a slight moment. It was the briefest of emotions, a simply flicker in his eyes most would miss.
"'Course you can," he replied with a wide grin. Already she could see the glint in his eyes. She finished off her pizza and hopped out of her chair.
"Just lemme grab my coat and then we can go," she said, already halfway up the stairs.
"Hurry it up then. The dark waits for no one."
She rolled her eyes at such a ridiculously ominous phrase. "So like, I can totally drive the getaway car right?"
-.-
Beth drummed her fingers on the steering wheel of the car, murmuring the lyrics of a song under her breath. She surveyed the surrounding trees, trying to remember what bush it was she had last seen her father's leather duster disappear behind. The coat was an old thing, something from the 1970s she was told and nothing more, and something he always wore during his patrols. Buffy always said it had something to do with him fulfilling his character, essentially becoming the "Big Bad" he once had been. Beth only ever saw a shadow of the old vampire, usually on patrol of course. It was always interesting to watch her father lose a little bit of control.
"And they were dancing and singing and moving to the grooving," she sang under her breath. She wasn't quite sure when or where her father had gotten the tip-off about demon activity in the woods. Maybe he could sense it, like her mother could. Or maybe years of experience taught him the three most likely place to catch a demon: graveyards, abandoned factories, and the woods. And since Bellevue wasn't brimming with the first two, the third one was his best possibility of ending the night with a kill count.
It frustrated her to no end that her father would not let her join in on the hunt. Despite the rigorous "defense" training both her parents had put her through, they never let her test her skills out on the field. It was maddening. After all, if her once dorky Aunt Willow and lame Uncle Xander had in Sunnydale, why couldn't she? That was a question no one really had a good answer for. Besides, Beth was stronger than the average fourteen-year-old girl. In fact, she was stronger than the average man. For her, it was simply hypocritical.
A small crashing noise to her right piqued her interest and she turned the keys to start the car. Knowing her father, he was likely to come at the car sprinting.
She wasn't wrong. Spike nearly shot out of the tree line, hurtling himself towards the car and nearly yanking the car door open before sliding inside. She put the car into drive and stepped on the gas, making the tires squeal something terribly, all before he even shut the door.
"What was it?" She asked, sounding just a bit breathless from excitement. She always enjoyed this "Father-Daughter bonding time."
Before he had a chance to answer, a vampire jumped out of the woods, landing on the hood on the car. Instinctually, she slammed on the brakes, causing the monster to hurl over the hood and land on the asphalt behind the bumper. In the back of her mind, she acknowledged the thump as Spike's head hit the dashboard from the sudden stop and lack of wearing a seatbelt, but now was action time. She floored the gas again and the car sped off down the road, headlights casting shadows off the trees.
"Huge nest of vampires," her father finally replied, clutching his hand to his forehead. "Nasty buggers, the whole lot of them. I trailed two only to be met with nearly thirty. Got out of there with just the skin of my teeth."
She cringed at the picture. Spike versus thirty sets of fangs and supernatural strength spelled inevitable disaster.
"'M surprised they've gone this long without a Slayer. Thought the council would have sent one or the mayor would have begged for one," he thought aloud.
"Maybe the general populace was wary of slayers," she offered. Once they breached the trees and settled back into suburbia, she eased down on the gas. She glanced at the rearview mirror; nothing seemed to be tracking them.
Her father snorted. "Be bloody crazy of them. Can only imagine how many other nests there are and of what size."
Yes, that was surely not a pleasant thought. A nest of vampires living out in the woods didn't scream "King of Bellevue." It was most likely that they pushed to the outskirts by a stronger vampire, maybe even a Master Vampire. And God only knew what was in Seattle. Large city with lots of disused buildings and dark alleys? It practically screamed "eat me." Demons, especially vampires, were urban creatures after all. Despite having no active Hellmouth, Seattle and its surrounding suburbs were perfect for creatures of the night, doubly so considering the—until recent—lack of a slayer. But if Beth knew her mom, the Legendary Buffy Summers, it wouldn't be long until the demons went running.
"Are you calling it quits for tonight?" she asked.
She noted the disgruntled look on Spike's face. "One got a good go at my arm. 'M not a slayer, so it's only going to heal at a normal rate." Out of all the things a vampire had, that insta-healing was something he missed terribly. She guessed he just always felt like the odd one out between her and Buffy. His cuts and bruises stuck around.
"Well, tomorrow night will it be fine?" she asked. A cooped-up Spike would only lead to trouble, and not the fun kind. And between the two of them, it was only a question of how many things they would break.
"Hopefully."
"So," she began with a sly smile, trying to lighten her dad's mood, "Did you get any good hits in?"
It worked like a charm. A roguish smirk spread across his lips and he looked nearly arrogant. "'Course I did, love. Never miss a shot." With that, he launched into a well-detailed story of his fight, the patting-myself-on-the-back tone evident in his voice. He only got quiet again when she pulled up onto their street, reminding him of his other life with its jobs and responsibilities. Namely, not telling gruesome tales of dismembering and staking to his young daughter. She really hated that responsibility.
She parked the car on the driveway, wondering if any neighbors saw the headlights at 2 am. Once inside, she got a better look at her father's battle wounds. Besides the growing bump on his forehead, she couldn't really see anything else. She knew his sleeve was hiding something a little gory, since the wound had put her father out of commission that night.
"Where's the first aid?" she asked him, not sure if he had unpacked it yet or not. She really hoped he did.
"Kitchen. Where else?" he replied, slowing removing his duster and rolling up his right sleeve. Beth let out a hiss of air through her teeth. Maybe it was just all the blood, but the cut didn't look good.
She quickly retrieved the first aid, settling her father down on the dining table and went to work cleaning and disinfecting the cut. Luckily, the cut wasn't too deep and had simply bled in moderate amounts since he got it, leaving his arm covered in copious amounts. The injury itself probably hurt more than the damage it would cause. She wrapped it, sitting back to admire her handiwork. Yes, she was getting good at playing Nurse Elizabeth.
"So, will I live, Doctor?" he asked jokingly.
"Hard to say," she replied, trying to sound as mature as she could. "Let's just cross our fingers and hope you survive the night."
"Speaking of night, I think it's past you bed time," he noted.
She groaned. "Oh come on, it's only like what? Two? That like late morning in Scotland."
He hopped up off the table, giving her a stern look. "It's time for you to brush your teeth and be tucked up away it your bed. 'M not going to repeat myself so move along." He lightly pushed her into the living room and towards the stairs.
"Alright, alright. I have two functional feet. I can walk on my own," she grumbled. She dragged her feet upstairs, all while listening to her father clean up the dining room and put away the first aid kit.
Upstairs, Beth couldn't help but think how weird it was that the hallway was bare. Back in Scotland, the hallway to her bedroom in the apartment had been stuffed with photos. Her favorite had undoubtedly been her parents' wedding photo. They both looked so happy, Buffy's grin nearly taking up her entire face and Spike's loving eyes locked on his blushing bride in such a manner that one could only say he really loved her. It made her wonder if she would ever meet someone that loved her the way her father loved her mother. Even she, three years old at the time, looked giddy in the photo and God knew she hadn't known what was going on. She was just happy to have had that chance to wear a pretty dress.
She walked into her room and shut the door quietly behind her. Besides the clothes in her closet and the sheets on the bed, everything else remained boxed up against the wall by the window. It was such a silent form of protest, no doubt one that would go completely unnoticed. She really didn't have a reason to want to go back to Scotland; it wasn't as if she had actually been happy there.
She threw herself down on her bed with a deep sigh and kicked off her boots, slipping her feet over the hardwood floor. Her Persian rug was still rolled up and currently unavailable for use. Spike had said she could paint the walls of her room once she decided on a color. She favored a nice, rich Burgundy color, but figured that would work against her protest.
Instead of taking a shower, she slipped out of her clothes and into her pajama top and bottom. She spent a quick moment brushing her teeth before burrowing under her covers. A few minutes later, she heard the creak of the stairs followed by a door shutting quietly. Even Spike was calling it a night.
-.-
"So out of all the rooms in the house, and all the things you could unpack, you chose the library?" Beth stood at the doorframe, watching as her father shelved large tombs on the book cases that made up the walls of the room. The only light came from the one large window in the room and brightened the otherwise dark interior. It also made Spike's head look like it was glowing, a rather funny side effect of bleached hair
"S'got important things," he protested
"Like what?" she asked, sauntering into the room. She picked up a book at random. "The Art of Jujitsu? It's just a bunch of Watcher-type books. It's not like any of us are a watcher or even have one.
"You going to continue to sass me or are you going to help?" he finally asked, sounding exasperated
She considered her two choices before putting the book up on the shelf. "Help," she replied
The two spent the next hour or so unpacking boxes in the library. She didn't recognize most of the books so she assumed they weren't all her parents' private collection. Though imagining Giles handing over his precious demonology tombs brought a smile to her face. There were also many trinkets in the boxes, most completely useless save looking nice on the shelves. They had probably been picked up during her parents' travels, especially when Buffy went on missions. Beth had shelves full of things her mother had brought back for her
Once the last pencil was tucked away in the desk drawer, Spike mentioned something about sandwiches. A funny thing to mention, considering the barrenness of their fridge
"Guess that means I've got to go grocery shopping," he sighed. "Would you like to join me?
"Nah, I think I'll just stick around here," she answered
"And do some unpacking of your own?" he asked, eyebrows raised. Ah, so he had seen.
"Maybe," she replied enigmatically.
"I say you should. You got school in three days. Soon you'll have studying and friends. Doesn't leave a lot of time for unpacking, pet."
Being the voice of reason might have helped her father if she actually believed she would have a budding social life. Sure, studying was a given. She was a star at studying. When one doesn't have friends, one spends a lot of time with books. But having friends? Nothing in her past suggested that was something even remotely possible for her. None of the girls at the Slayer academy had paid her any mind, except the few who made it their goal to torment her.
But instead of saying all that, she simply said. "I guess you're right. I should do some unpacking before school in Monday. Have fun at the grocery store."
She stayed in her room until she heard the car easing out of the driveway. A deafening quiet settled over the house, something she wasn't used to. The Academy had always been filled with noise; it was the payment made when one housed over 300 girls in one building. Granted, it was a large castle, but girls ages twelve to eighteen tended to challenge the sound barrier.
Instead of unpacking like she had said she would, she headed out to the backyard to inspect the large tree. There was a large, overhanging branch that she thought would make for a nice bar for a swing and would have to mention it to her Uncle Xander when he finally came to visit. She milled about on the patio, running her hands along the rough wood of the rails. The yard was a deep, vibrant green, bordered in by red mulch. The bushes lining the fence were healthy and full, though no doubt a danger. She was pretty sure they could conceal the body of a grown man in them no problem.
Finally abandoning her position on the patio—big enough that she hoped with her mother's help that they could convince her father to get a hot tub—she slowly made her way over to the tree. It had a wide full base, an old tree that had seen so much and understood even more. She wondered what it had looked like when her father had been born, or even if it had been around all that time ago. She could reach the lowest branch if she stood up on her tip toes and she yet again hoped she wasn't done growing. Unfortunately, her parents weren't exactly the tallest people around. It was unlikely she'd ever grow taller than her mother. She did a little jump and gripped the bark of the branch best she could and lifted herself up. She ignored the wood chips digging into her palms and focused on the slight burning in her arms as she pulled herself up. Finally, she was laid out over the branch, with just a fleeting sense of victory passing over her. She maneuvered herself so she was no longer on her stomach but rather sitting precariously on the branch. Once she was situated, she stood up and began to ascend the tree. It was easier now, since the branches were closer together. She climbed as high as she could, finally stopping when the branch above her bent under her sturdy pull. Done, she sat down on the branch, swinging her legs and peering through leaves to observe the neighborhood. She couldn't see much over the rooftops, but behind her house and across the road was a small strip of trees with what looked like a petrol station on the other side. How convenient, she thought.
She didn't have a watch, so she didn't know how long she had been up there, but she guessed at least an hour when she heard the car pull into the driveway. She hoped her dad wouldn't need help with groceries. She liked her tree spot anyway.
"Beth?" she heard her father's muffled call from inside the house. She debated on answering back, wondering if that would mean having to help. She finally decided not to worry him by making him think she had gone a'wandering and answered back.
"Outside, Dad," she called back.
She heard the backdoor open and shut though she couldn't see it through the thick foliage.
"An' where outside exactly?" he asked, sounding a tad bit amused.
"The tree," she responded.
She looked down to see her father walk under the tree to peer up at her.
"Well, look at you little monkey," he said with a smile. She smiled back at the name. She always had had a knack for climbing.
"I wanted to see how far I could go," she told him. "This is also a great look-out space. You think a small deck could be built up here? I mean, how cool would that be?"
"You'd have to ask your uncle for that," he replied. "Got nothin' in here about woodwork." He pointed at his head. "Now, come on down for lunch."
She nodded, slipping off the branch and landing in a crouch beside her father. She stood up straight and grinned at him. He hid his accompanying smile with a shake of his head. He'd only pretend he wasn't impressed, but Beth knew. Spike liked the resilience of his daughter. It made him proud.
"You said something about sandwiches?"
The race to have the tallest sandwich came in at a tie, since neither Beth nor Spike could stack their sandwich fillings any higher and still fit it in their mouths. The calm atmosphere between them comforted her. She and her father had always been close, to the point where he was not only a parental figure, but a friend and confidant. There was very little she kept from her father. Unless, of course, she was afraid of making him worry too much.
"You unpack at all or did you just climb a tree?" he asked through a mouthful of food.
She shook her head and finished chewing before responding. She, at least, had some manners. It seemed the years had taken its toll of her father's original Victorian etiquette. "Climbed a tree," she told him.
She avoided her father's inquisitive gaze. She had, after all, agreed earlier that he had the right idea about unpacking now rather than later.
"Are you going to finish up the basement anytime soon for training?" she asked, switching topics. Spike had plans to remodel the basement into a training room for him and her mother, and it was also a great place to store all her mother's numerous weapons. Beth planned on sneaking down there as often as she could without getting caught.
"Not really enough lighting," he told her. "S'unfortunate. Might cave and call someone to install more lights. S'no fun to train in the dark."
She nodded, thinking of the well-lit gymnasiums of the Slayer Academy. The size of the basement couldn't be helped, but the lighting could.
"Well, it's not as if you work when they do. Shouldn't be hard to get someone in here," she noted. "You have the most convenient hours for them."
"I do. Now, are you going to start unpacking? We've been here for nearly a week."
She winced. Oh, what she wouldn't do for him to have a one-track mind. "I have the whole weekend, don't I?" she reasoned. "I don't have anything else to do tomorrow or Sunday. And what about you? Have you unpacked?"
"All but your mum's stuff. Said she wanted to do that," he told her.
"She thinks you'll put it in the wrong place."
"Exactly."
-.-
When Beth told her father she had the whole weekend to unpack, she had simply been stating a fact. She did have the whole weekend with no other obligations or duties. Now, whether or not she would actually do it was another matter entirely. Beth didn't lie—well, not when it really didn't matter— she simply knew how to word things well.
So, come Sunday, her room was still as boxy as it had been when she moved in a week ago. Her best plan of action though would be to keep her door shut so her dad couldn't see. Spike never liked it when she used loopholes.
"You ready for school tomorrow?" he asked over dinner. Chinese takeout tonight. He had seen a cute little restaurant near the grocery store and had found out they delivered. One of the many modern conventions he enjoyed. That and a blooming onion.
She shrugged. "I guess so. I can't wait for algebra and history. Do you know I'll probably be the only kid who doesn't know any of the presidents? Aren't the states really big on presidents?"
It was his turn to shrug. "Wouldn't know. Last time I was in school, they had maybe twenty? 'S four-year gig, yeah?"
She blinked. "God, I have no idea. Circe, you think I would have picked something up. Wasn't like a fifth of the potentials from the US?"
"Rounded up, yeah. But you never liked those girls much," he remembered none too fondly. "Wasn't there one in particular that was real nasty?"
"You mean Margaret. Margie," she sneered. "God, even her name is dumb." It was an insult grasping for straws, but when a bitch like Margaret got to be pretty, social, and top of her class, Beth would take what she could get.
"Yeah, 'member her. Never liked her," he said with a frown.
"Wished the other girls would have agreed with you," she muttered, picking at her lo Mein.
"Well, s'not like you'll have to worry 'bout her here," he informed her cheerfully. "S'got other girls who aren't slayers or potentials."
"Yeah, they're blessedly normal," she grumbled, slumping in her chair.
The silence that followed that statement was palpable and Beth instantly regretted having said them. The conversation that was sure to come was something she wished to avoid at all costs. Ever since her huge breakdown three years ago, she wanted to avoid the topic like one avoided racists: with the widest berth possible.
"Normal's overrated," was her father's response and she didn't know whether to laugh out in relief or tense up in anticipation. Was he skirting the subject, something unprecedented by him? He always went straight for the heart in everything, verbal or physical. Playing it cool was Beth's thing. Spike was a killer, regardless of his now human status. Even her mother, Buffy, never went at it like Spike could.
"That's what they keep telling me," she sighed.
Dinner finished up in relative peace and he didn't try and breech the subject again. It just hung between them like a foul stench. She eventually excused herself up to her bedroom saying she had to prepare herself for school tomorrow. He nodded and took the takeout boxes to dump them in the trash.
She sat at the seat in her window, leaning her cheek against the window pane. Her only hope was that tomorrow wouldn't be too breezy.
"See you didn't unpack."
She jerked away from the window and turned her head to see her father walking into her room. Damn, she had forgotten to close her door. She watched as he sat down on her bed, taking a look around the room.
"Nice size. Larger than the one at the apartment?" he asked.
"Yeah. Two-by-three feet larger," she told him. She had measured in last Tuesday out of curiosity.
"More room for things, yeah? Sure your mum will want to go shopping when she gets her. She's excited about this whole house. She's missed having one."
She ducked her head. Sure her mother was. Buffy would hide behind excitement and energy to try and make Beth feel less awkward about moving here.
"You're not even the least bit happy 'bout all this, are you?" he asked her softly.
And give the man a prize, he hit the nail right on the head. She cringed. "I wouldn't say I'm unhappy, per say."
Don't ask how I feel, don't ask how I feel, don't ask—
"I 'magine moving's a bit weird for you, yeah? New place, new people. You saw the same old, pompous faces for fourteen years and now we've gone an' uprooted you," he began with an understanding, open look on his face.
She shrugged. "I'll miss some of them, sure. I mean, Mr. Wells was pretty cool when he wasn't playing your Biggest Fan and Aunt Willow was a lot of fun when she wasn't playing mother hen. Giles was okay, but he was really British."
He smiled. "Git never did learn how to ease up, not even after years with your mum. 'M more concerned with you transitioning here, though."
"Like how I will assimilate myself into the image of the stereotypical American youth? I was thinking of maybe taking up vaping, or hell, even getting pregnant. Maybe get a reality TV show."
He frowned, looking disappointed. "Leave your jokes behind, 'm being serious here an' I'd like you to do the same."
She wilted under that. "Sorry, I'm just—ugh, what makes you think anything's going to change? I'm still me, you know. Moving thousands of miles didn't change my genes."
"You think we moved here because of that?" he asked with a tilt of his head.
"Are you trying to tell me I wasn't listed as one of the reasons for why we moved?" she questioned with skepticism. Her father's lack of response was answer enough for her. "It's not like I don't know how concerned both you and Mum are about me. I get it; it's not normal for all my friends to be several years older than me. It's not normal for me to never go out with friends and do things with girls my age. It's not normal for me to prefer to spend time with you rather than another fourteen-year-old. But I'm not normal. You know that. 'Normal's overrated,' right? I'm not normal. And I won't ever be normal. That isn't going to change."
"It's different here," he defended.
"Yeah, they're a lot more ignorant about what goes bump in the night. But they fear it because they don't get it. I read all the same books the other potentials did. I know all about vampires and their habits. I understand the whole 'demon soul' thing that inhabits the corpse and reanimates the body, leaving behind a complex, new creature that is capable of human emotions and relationships, but is essentially a sociopath and lacks a greater understanding of others' emotions and empathy. I know all that. The potentials knew all that. These people here? A vampire kills your family and friends. You don't go and befriend it. And if the potentials couldn't stand what I am, then what makes you think anyone here will?"
He regarded her silently as she ended her rant, breathing heavily and blinking away tears. It felt good to say that. Catharsis and all that jazz, she supposed.
"Come'ere," her father spoke softly. She didn't need to be told twice. She acted big, sure, but the safest place for her and her emotions was in her father's arms. He gave good hugs after all.
"'m sorry sweetheart," he murmured into her hair, rocking her gently.
"Not your fault," she mumbled, tears soaking into his shirt. "Stupid prophets' fault."
He laughed at her tone. She sounded so much like her mother when she talked like that. "Yeah, blame the ole' git. S'gonna be alright though. It always is. I know it don't feel right now, but it will. Give Bellevue a chance. You just might like'em."
She wanted to believe him; she really did. Once upon a time, she would have, back when her father never lied and his word was law. Back when she didn't flinch when she looked in the mirror. Back before she tried to carve the badness out of her, like it was a piece she could remove. It wasn't a disease; it didn't have a cure. Back before she thought of herself as a "Thing." But even things wanted to be accepted.
"Okay," she whispered. If she couldn't soothe herself, the least she could do was soothe him.
Spike, if possible, hugged her even tighter. "'M Little Lizzie, so strong. Like your mum, you are. The blows keep coming and you keep on fightin'."
"'Til my last breath, right?" she asked. She felt so little and protected in his arms. Not even hell itself could make her feel threatened here.
"'Course. Why would a Summers girl like you stop before?"
That night, Beth pulled out her jewelry box and placed it on her dresser. It was a small move, but it was a start.