January 1998
The bars of her cage were always slick with blood. Old blood, new blood. Hers, from when she'd cut her hands trying to shake the restraints loose. Theirs, from when she'd gotten lucky shots in when they entered the cage to feed or wash her. Not that Buffy got lucky shots in often, proven by the bruises on her wrists and ankles where they'd held her down and the constant ache between her legs where he'd rubbed her raw.
Kakistos.
Buffy's heart hammered in her chest when the familiar clicking of the door echoed through the room. Kakistos was coming for her. Like he'd done every night since he'd killed Wesley and forced her to watch. Since he'd taken Buffy home to be his pet.
And there he was, in front of her cage. Lackeys already opening the door, holding her down as Kakistos walked up to her. He smiled coldly and said, "Honey, wake up."
Buffy thrashed against the vampires who held her down as Kakistos continued to leer. But as she watched, his face distorted and spread, a halo of light surrounding him. If she squinted, she could make out new shapes in the light. Ones she felt she hadn't seen in months. Buffy's eyes snapped open.
"Mom?"
"Sweetie, were you having a bad dream?"
Her room. Sunlight. Not in a cage, in her bed. Sunlight filling her small white bedroom, bouncing off her vanity mirror, her Fiesta Queen trophy, and her mom's worried face.
Buffy forced a smile. "I'm fine, mom."
"Well, good, because I can't have my little girl unhappy on her birthday. Come out to the kitchen and I'll make you some waffles." Joyce smoothed Buffy's hair and headed out.
Rolling over, Buffy buried her face in her pillow, suppressing a shudder as she tried to blot out the awful, lingering images of the nightmare.
***
"I see," Wesley said, frowning. "And do you believe this was a prophetic dream?"
Buffy shrugged. "I can't tell. I dream about vampires a lot. Sometimes I dream about armies of them coming at me. But...this was really specific and really real. And they usually aren't."
"Oh my. Well, we'll just have to be careful," he said. Wesley smiled and reached across the diner's formica table, covering Buffy's hand with his. The Cheyenne, with its shiny red booths, Wild West decor, and atrocious food, was inexplicably Buffy's favorite restaurant. She often dragged him uptown after patrol for a cup of decaf and a plate of burnt fries. So when she'd called him earlier that evening sounding distraught, he immediately thought to have her meet him there. In the past almost-year, he'd heard Buffy sound annoyed, upset, angry, happy.... But never scared.
And she had good reason to be.
If this was a prophetic dream.... But surely inevitable events didn't warrant prophetic dreams. It would be useless, showing Slayers tragedies they couldn't stop, given time. There was no reason to think anything was set in stone. That Buffy would be captured and Wesley killed. They would simply have to be careful.
And in the meantime, Wesley withdrew a slim black box from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table, shyly sliding it across to her.
"What's this?" Buffy asked, grinning.
"I, ah, your mother mentioned your birthday over Christmas dinner...."
"And you remembered!"
Wesley ducked his head and blushed as Buffy picked the box up and snapped the lid back.
"Oh my god," she murmured.
"Do you like it?"
"Wesley, it's beautiful," she said, tracing the small gilt cross with her fingertip.
"Here." Wesley slid out of the booth and went to Buffy, lifting the cross out of the box. Buffy swept her hair aside and Wesley looped the chain around her neck. His fingers shook only slightly as they grazed the soft skin of her neck while he fumbled with the clasp. When it was finally shut, he sat back down in his side of the booth.
"Well," Buffy asked, extending her neck to best show off his present.
"Lovely," Wesley smiled.
This time, it was Buffy who blushed. When Wesley had been updating his journal earlier that day, it occurred to him that Buffy would be eighteen in a year. When he was assigned to be her Watcher, deep inside Wesley knew it was because no one expected her to live for more than a few months. Which was fine, of course. Wesley had only wanted to do his best and impress Mr. Travers, in hopes of eventually receiving a more long-term assignment.
Buffy turned out to be surprisingly resourceful under her flippant exterior. One month had become two, three, four, and Wesley found himself doing his best to guide this vibrant young woman. Guide her, but not grow attached.
Wesley clearly remembered his first day in the Watcher's Academy. An older Watcher walked in, placed his books on the desk, and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, let me begin by telling you: Slayers die."
Slayers die. The message came through, loud and clear. Do not get attached.
But that approach really only ever works in theory.
Should a Slayer live to see eighteen, she must to undergo a test of strength, the Cruciamentum. Wesley studied the Cruciamentum in his second year at the Academy -- only a fourth of the Slayers survive. And a year from now, Wesley would be asked to betray Buffy, drug her and leave her to possibly die at the hands of a vampire or demon.
It made so much sense, in theory. The world would be better off for activating a new Slayer than continuing on with a weak one who had not developed the proper survival skills in at least a year of training and performing active Slayer duties. Even if Wesley wholeheartedly believed Buffy would survive to her eighteenth birthday and survive the Cruciamentum, for the very first time in his life, he was left with the feeling that maybe the Council was not always doing right by the Slayers.
More than anything, Wesley wished he could talk to another Watcher. One who'd had an active Slayer, had gone through what he was going through. But no one from London had rang in nearly two months. It was surprising, actually -- there was only one active Slayer at a time, one would think the organization founded purely to train, assist, and supervise her would, frankly, show a little more interest. Yes, the Council also had a hand in controlling the magical community, and tracking down and identifying demons, and many other important functions. Still, Wesley couldn't help feeling slightly detached from the Council.
The Council who had told him not to get attached to the only person he'd had any sort of contact with for months, the girl who had carried him to the hospital when he was injured and remembered his birthday when his own father hadn't.
"Wes? Whatcha thinking about?" Buffy said, taking a sip of her soda and staring at him.
"Oh, um, I was just thinking, the Ice Capades will be in town this weekend. Would you like me to pick up some tickets? You mentioned once--"
"Oh my god," she giggled, reaching across the table to throw her arms around his neck. "You're, like, the best Watcher ever!"
Wesley hugged her back, tangling his hands in her hair and sighing. No, the best Watcher ever would have remembered to stay detached.
At least he had another year to think of something that would either make Buffy's, his, or the Council's lives easier.
Up next: Chapter Nine - Extermination