Author: mahaliem
E-mail: mahaliem@yahoo.com
Feedback: Feedback is appreciated. If done by e-mail, I usually respond.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An hourly description of one day in Sunnydale - Takes place during Season 2 after "What's My Line, part 2"
Disclaimer: BtVS is the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy
Thank you so much to my wonderful beta readers – treacle-anters and Flippykitten.
Ten Minutes Past the Hour
12:10
Where the hell was Pete, Allen thought as he once more scanned the gas pumps and parking lot outside the window, hoping to see headlights. The old guy had better show or else he was just locking up and leaving. Pete was already ten minutes late, ten minutes that Allen wasn't going to get paid for. Damn, he hated this job. But his Dad had told him he had to pay for the damages to the car when he'd taken it out with his buddies and crashed it into a fence. With football practice every afternoon, this was the best work he could find.
The door chimed as a woman walked in, startling him because he hadn't heard a car. He studied her. Kind of beautiful, but with that long flowy get-up, a bit freaky. He adjusted that assessment to a lot freaky when she started humming and swaying. Despite her weird behavior, he decided against calling the police. He was a football player and even if she was a bit mental, she was still just a skinny female.
Interrupting her song impatiently, he asked if he could help and her expression changed as she sashayed towards him, smiling seductively all the while. Working late hours might not be so bad after all, he decided as he leaned over the counter. It was only when her soft hands tightened on his shirt collar and hauled him across the barrier, knocking assorted candies onto the floor that casual horniness turned into panic. But by then it was too late; her fangs had descended into his throat.
1:10
He'd been such a delicious boy, that she'd turned him. Not like that dusty old man who'd tried to fend her off before she'd eaten him behind those foul-smelling dustbins. Drusilla's favorite part was the taste of their lives ending, letting the sensations of hope, youth, and innocence swirl along her tongue. As she finished and the soul fled from her onslaught, there was always such a lovely flicker in the eyes.
Ever since Prague, she'd been limited to the times she'd felt that thrill. Her Spike didn't like her making new friends to play with, and she'd been too weak to hunt alone. He was so viciously jealous of her attention. But now Spike was hurt and she'd vowed to take care of him. Otherwise, she wouldn't be bothering to drag home the struggling, still screaming female who'd driven into the station as Drusilla was leaving. It would be so much easier if she broke the woman's neck, but Spike always liked his meals nice and warm.
Striding through the factory past their minions and Dalton, who was trying to escape her notice without actually hiding, she headed towards Spike's bed. He lay there, naked under a sheet, his burned face turned to the pillow. With one hand, she gently tilted it away from the softness and with a sharp fingertip traced the lovely pattern the fire had etched across his skin. She could read his devotion and love for her in those scars, but sadly they would soon fade away.
Tossing the female across his prone form, she smiled as she watched him roughly grasp her and greedily latch onto her throat. He sucked hungrily, not spilling a drop. She hadn't brought him anything the night before, having become lost in all the erotic chaos she'd created after surprising two lovers parked by the side of the road. In her pleasure, she'd forgotten him, and now she chided herself.
She was a very naughty Mummy.
2:10
Detective Sheldon was looking at the second victim of the night, and shook his head in pity. The first, Peter Sanders, aged sixty-three, had been found behind the gas station and mini-mart. He must have just left his car to relieve Allen, when the unknown assailant had attacked him. A stick, the wooden kind you used for playing the drums, was found several feet away. It had been sharpened to a point but, on closer inspection, it was determined not to be the murder weapon.
Afterwards, the killer must have come around to the front of the store and murdered the clerk working his shift. Young Mitchell was now sprawled along the counter as the crime photographer took pictures. The only difference between this body and the one found in the back lot, was the smear of blood around the lips of the victim. Outside was an abandoned car belonging to a Miss Heather Talbot, aged twenty-four. She was single and worked as a waitress at the all-night diner next to the interstate. And, looking at the vehicle, Sheldon would have bet his last dime that her body would be discovered in a similar condition.
This murder hit Detective Sheldon a bit harder than most. He had a son who was just a year younger than Allen. They played on the high school football team together. What were the parents thinking, allowing him to keep such late hours? He'd seen too much death to allow his own children out after dark, unless they promised to stay in a group or he accompanied them. He didn't care what the Mayor said, what the Chief of Police said, and what the newspaper reporters wrote. All the strange deaths in Sunnydale weren't being caused by gangs on PCP. Turning his back on the dead boy, he fingered the cross hanging around his neck.
3:10
Angel smelled the blood long before he heard the voices or saw the flashing of police lights illuminating the gas station. The scent whirled inside of him, teasing and taunting his demon, reminding it of what it was, what he could never allow it to be again. In frustration, it roared and bellowed at his soul.
Struggling for control, he tracked down the enticing aroma. Underlying it was the smell of Drusilla, and a human. As it led him towards the warehouse, a trace of the human's fear still lingered in the air and his demon growled in response. He stopped half a block away and stared at the structure. It would be so simple to end everything now, he thought as he watched the lights inside flicker through the few windows that existed. With Spike out of action, he doubted sentries had been posted. He could call Buffy and Giles and they would come with Xander and Willow, all armed with stakes. With a gallon of gasoline and a match, the place would be engulfed with flames within minutes and the Slayer would quickly dispatch any vampires that escaped the flames.
But his creations were inside, exquisite Drusilla and William. The others could easily destroy them, watch impassively as they became dust and floated away, but these two were a part of him. They were more than his past, more than his family. They'd been his masterpieces, carefully formed, lovingly molded into what they now were. He both hated them, and loved them intensely.
Taking several steps backwards, he turned and walked away, soon fading into the shadows.
4:10
Oz pulled to a stop when he saw the yellow police tape roping off the gas station.
Bummer, he thought.
He was returning from a gig in L.A. Sunday wasn't the best night to perform but hey, they weren't the best band either. On mornings like this, when it was too late to go to bed but too early for anyone else to be up and about, he'd stop in and chat with Pete. Pete was pretty cool. Back in the sixties he'd been a back-up drummer for an incredible number of bands. Some of the stories the guy told were wild.
He wondered if all those drugs had eaten away at his friend's brain, though, because one night Pete had handed him a drumstick. When Oz had noted that it was unusable, with one end whittled away to a point, Pete had just winked and told him that in Sunnydale, a sharp drumstick was the best kind. Oz was still trying to work that comment out in his head.
Looking at the darkened station festooned with the "Do Not Cross" tape, he wished he knew what was up with this town. Sunnydale had more places decorated with those yellow ribbons than most towns had blinking lights at Christmas time. As for Pete, he figured the guy had gone to play with a band of angels. Either that or hell had just gotten a whole lot hotter.
5:10
It was too close to sunrise for him to be out doing this, he thought. But with Spike no longer in charge and needing his specialized knowledge, Dalton was the low man on the totem pole.
Earlier, he'd gone to a bookshop on Maple Street that catered to demons and their hours. Afterwards he'd fed. He didn't want it to get out to the others, but he'd found this place where humans would actually pay to have vampires bite them. The girls were always the most in demand, then the handsome boys. But an American Literature professor from UC Sunnydale had been there tonight, and they'd enjoyed discussing the merits of Faulkner together.
When he'd returned, the drained girl had been thrust into his arms and he'd been ordered to dispose of her body. He'd considered protesting but when Drusilla glanced at him, he'd shut his mouth and left. She scared him far more than Spike, more than anyone he'd ever met before. It was probably because with most people and vampires he could understand their motives, the way they thought, if he tried. But she was crazy. There was no logic in her behavior; no pattern to her ruthlessness and that frightened him.
Even as a vampire, he still wasn't all that strong as he carried the woman through Sunnydale. It was a good thing she was skinny, and not having any blood left in her body lightened her up a bit, too. He'd been ordered to dump her somewhere away from the factory. But instead of finding an alleyway or dumpster, he'd brought her here, to the Du Lac mausoleum that he'd raided just a short time ago. It was a lovely peaceful place, where he thought she'd be able to rest comfortably. He opened the lid of a sarcophagus and gently laid her inside. It was funny how people never thought to look for dead bodies in a cemetery.
6:10
Driving to the city morgue to pick up a body, the funeral director felt frustrated. He'd tried to convince the family to cremate their loved one but, unfortunately, he'd been unable to sway them. They wanted the body in a coffin with an open casket. Already they'd picked out a lovely plot and ordered an elaborate headstone, but he still felt that they'd made a mistake. In this town, cremation was the way to go.
In the first place, it was cheap – dirt-cheap. It was an unspoken rule among the town's morticians that cremation was to be encouraged so they all priced it as close to cost as possible. Cremation eliminated the need of sometimes explaining to the family that the body of the dearly departed was missing. Bodies weren't supposed to get up and walk away. It also eliminated the cost of maintaining graves that were periodically disturbed.
Secondly, every single mortician had experienced the horror of the final check before the funeral only to find nothing in the casket but a handful of dust. On more than one occasion he'd personally sealed the coffin then apologized profusely to the family about the horrible mistake that had occurred. If the bodies were going to cremate themselves what could one do?
7:10
The students entered the music room and immediately checked the schedule posted next to the door. Choir practice had to be held early, before school started, because they usually had performances scheduled in various churches and funeral homes during the afternoons. Most weekends were booked, too. They had quite a repertoire: from classics like "Amazing Grace" to new favorites such as "My Heart Will Go" by Celine Dion. If the bereaved family had a special request, they could usually accommodate them.
Each week they sung at several services for the deceased. In fact, the morbid joke was that if you sang for the Sunnydale High Choir you didn't have a life, but no one you sang for had one either.
8:10
Xander looked at the empty seat in front of him as the teacher finished calling role. It was now 8:10. There'd been more than time enough for even the slowest kids to sift through their lockers, trudge down the hallways, and plop into their seats. He knew because he'd just sat down himself two minutes ago.
While the teacher turned out the lights and put the day's work on the overhead, he slipped his hand into his backpack and pulled out the little notebook that Giles made them all carry now. He opened it up, put down the day's date, the class, and the missing student's name. Underneath he wrote a quick description of the student for easy identification if it became necessary.
Suddenly the door opened and one of the girls sitting near it let out a short squeal of surprise, followed by a giggle at her foolishness as Valerie Greene bounced into the room. She crossed to the teacher's desk, passing through the light thrown from the overhead, giving her an eerie appearance.
"Sorry, I'm late," she said handing Mrs. Simmons a note. "My alarm didn't go off and I missed the bus."
As Valerie settled herself at the desk in front of him, Xander quietly tore the page from the notebook and crumpled it into a ball. She wasn't dead so they no longer needed his description of her short blonde hair, long tanned legs, and his best estimation of her measurements.
9:10
Mr. Wright, the Senior English teacher, looked at the list of absent students in front of him. This had been his prep period for nineteen years now and he'd gotten used to the routine. Each morning the office staff created a list of absentee students and sent it to all the teachers. Most schools did that. It was a way to keep the skipping of classes under control.
Most schools, however, did not consult e-mails sent to them from the local Police Department and then mark names with a double asterisk to indicate that the student would not be returning.
Logging onto his computer, he opened his student records and moved the student's name and grades from his current roster to a separate folder. At one time he'd just deleted the data but once, after the office had inadvertently marked the wrong name, he learned it was better to be safe than sorry. When he'd first started working at the school he'd been taught to put the grades on index cards so that a name could be easily removed. Computers made everything so much simpler though, he thought as he pasted the deceased's information under the other three entries already there.
10:10
Snyder was fuming. He'd run into Summers and her little gang of troublemakers in the hall a few minutes earlier. Just because there was time between classes, they seemed to feel it was a viable excuse for them to be talking in the hallway. He knew she was probably planning some mischief; he had a keen sense about that sort of thing. All he had to do was catch her at it, and she'd be gone.
He looked at the note his secretary had left on his desk. Damn! Another student dead and he'd been a football player, too. No wonder they never won any championships. Now in his afternoon intercom address to the school, he'd have to talk about their fallen comrade, how they all had to struggle on without him.
He opened up his standard speech and hit the Edit key. The last student that had died had been Henry Clayton who'd been on the basketball team. He hit the replace key and typed in for it to find each "Henry" and replace it with "Allen". He then did the same with basketball and football. Printing the speech out he placed it with the other announcements about SAT testing and keeping the school grounds clean. He hated a messy campus.
11:10
Mrs. Henderson was not happy in her job. When she'd worked as a secretary to Principal Flutie, life had been easier. Perhaps too easy. If she hadn't taken a few minutes that terrible afternoon to get a cup of coffee and help herself to a jelly doughnut, she might have heard his screams when those horrible students had… No, she couldn't finish that thought, just like she would never be able to eat another raspberry-filled doughnut again.
Now she had Principal Snyder as her boss. No matter what he said, she was not going to spy on students. If she happened to see them doing something wrong, that was a different story. In the meantime, she let him think she was doing his dirty work when instead she was just happy to get out of her cubicle and wander around.
Walking into the Library, she saw Mr. Giles consulting one of his books. He glanced her way and that handsome face of his lit up with a friendly smile. Once in a while, if she felt she could sneak away long enough, she'd have a cup of his nice British tea with him. But Snyder was on the warpath today, so she simply handed him the copy of the Sunnydale Police report that she'd received like she did every morning. To her, checking the list against the roster of absent students was simply part of her job. She didn't know why he wanted it and she'd never asked. Maybe he was busy working on an exciting novel, a detective story, perhaps. She'd caught him scribbling into a little notebook on more than one occasion.
12:10
As she entered the Library, Giles handed Willow the weekend Police Report with no comment. It was lunchtime, but she would eat her sandwich at the computer as she hacked her way into the coroner's reports. Mondays were always busy, what with all the weekend homicides, accidents, and disappearances.
Munching on her peanut butter and jelly, she flipped through the medical reports looking for key phrases; puncture wounds, neck wounds, blood loss, etc. She located six, but only one looked promising. She listed all six and noted the mortuaries the coroner had sent them to, but only Allen Mitchell had unexplained bloodstains at his mouth.
Wait…Allen Mitchell? He'd lived down the street from her, before his father had made a bit of money and they'd moved into Cordelia's neighborhood. He was older, and most of the time he'd ignored her. But once he'd stopped some bullies from picking on her when she was in sixth grade and, for the next several weeks, he'd been her hero. It'd been one of the few times when she'd written poetry about someone other than Xander. Of course he'd ruined it by laughing at her when she'd tripped and fallen while she was following him around.
She glanced at Giles, who was too busy with all of his musty books to pay attention to her. If she'd wanted to, she could pretend that she'd never seen the information. She could leave Allen's name off the list, and he'd be safe.
But he wasn't safe, she realized. It wasn't him anymore. That briefly shining knight of her's had been replaced by a demon, a demon that Buffy had to destroy. Sadly, feeling a bit more of her childhood innocence disappear, she added his name and details to the list. Then, with care and deliberate slowness, drew a little star next to it.
1:10
Jonathan glanced around the lockers towards the voices. He always tried to be the last one changed and out on the gym floor. He didn't mind running around the track or making a fool of himself on the basketball court. He didn't even mind the fact that when the boys joined up with the girls to create teams, he was still the last one picked. What he hated about gym, hated with a passion, was running the obstacle course of the locker room.
By being tardy, which he'd managed to do almost every day this year, it enabled him to avoid the bulk of the jocks. If for some reason he was forced to be there when everyone else was, he tried to hang around Xander or one of the science nerds.
Unfortunately, today his luck wasn't good. Everyone was still in the locker room. He slowly eased his way to the rear of the group that surrounded the P.E. teacher and spied Xander nearby.
"What's going on?" he whispered.
"Allen Mitchell died last night," replied Xander.
"Oh."
Allen Mitchell was a jock, and as a rule, Jonathan hated jocks, but Allen had been okay. He hadn't teased or bullied, not because they were friends or anything. It was more that Allen didn't pay any attention to him. Jonathan was too far beneath his notice to even bother with, and that was just fine with Jonathan.
Some of the guys were cursing, banging on the walls, while others where quiet, letting the news of another death soak into their systems.
2:10
Cordelia, bored to tears, barely listened as Snyder's irritating voice slowly read through the announcements. But she came to attention when she heard the words, "And now for some sad news." Those words always preceded Snyder's infamous 'fallen comrade speech'. Some one had died. Again.
She glanced over to where Xander, Buffy, and Willow sat together near the back of the classroom. Willow looked a bit weepy, while Buffy had a determined expression on her face, but they didn't appear too surprised at the news. Xander glanced her way and for a moment they stared at each other, both remembering those stolen kisses. No…she wasn't going to keep thinking about that. He was Xander, the fashion disaster, and the biggest mistake she could ever make.
Under lowered lashes, she studied him. If she could get him to dress better, he'd be presentable. After all, his face and body were quite yummy. His biggest problem was that he was just too darn nice. If he didn't care about everything and everyone so much, if he could learn to insult the losers and walk away, he'd rule this school. They'd rule the school together.
But for some reason, it was actually his niceness that attracted her to him. She felt that she could trust him, that he'd never hurt her.
Several of the girls in the class were now crying, tears being dabbed away by hastily found Kleenexes. Harmony, sitting next to her, was doing her best to look sad without actually letting tears fall and ruin her artfully applied makeup. Cordelia leaned over towards her and whispered.
"I wasn't listening. Who died?"
3:10
Coach Stevens felt like sticking his head in a vat of Gatorade and drowning. It was the only way he would ever get soaked by that substance, because any possibility of victory was now down the toilet. He didn't mean to be hard-hearted or anything but if he was going to lose a player why did it have to be Mitchell, a starter?
Eons ago, the school had abandoned any notion of fielding both a varsity and junior varsity team. Too many players dropped off the rosters. To make matters worse, several students he'd counted on returning this season had died in a bizarre attack at the student center right before the Spring Fling. In some positions, he was reduced to starting a wimpy little freshman.
He would deny it if anyone ever asked, but some of the girls on the Field Hockey team were looking awfully good to him. And watching the way they attacked the opposing teams with their sticks, made him sure that they had the right amount of aggression necessary.
In the meantime, he'd have to keep emphasizing strength-training, reflex skills, and building up speed. He kept hoping that if he trained them in these things long enough and hard enough, they might actually survive until the season was over.
4:10
Larry knew the Coach and the rest of the guys were out on the field, practicing like they did every afternoon this time of year. They were sucking it up, taking it in stride, while he sat here on a bench in the locker room and cried like a baby.
When Larry had learned about Allen in P.E. class, his first reaction had been to slam his fist into a row of lockers and roar with fury. Now, hours later, it was just sinking in. Allen, his friend, his buddy, was dead. He kept hoping that it was wrong, that everyone was wrong; it was a mistake…had to be. Allen was too full of energy and life to be gone.
It must have been some really big bastard to jump Allen. The guy had been strong. He remembered this past summer when they'd taken a couple of girls to the lake one night and decided to skinny dip. He'd watched as Allen stripped down, the muscles in his arms, back, and thighs flexing as he moved. The night had been hot and the girls hotter. After they'd dropped the girls off, they'd gone back to Allen's house and crashed on his bed.
Now he was gone in what everyone said was a stupid little robbery. Larry only hoped that when he died, he would go out in a blaze of glory, fighting for all he was worth.
5:10
"That's where the old guy bought the farm," the ten-year-old whispered to his friends.
His companions looked at the cracked asphalt behind the mini-mart in silent reverence. All of them were wearing jeans, the uniform of their age, and straddling their bikes as they stared at the spot. There was a dark little smear nearby that might have been something gruesome, but was more likely a stain from long ago.
"My dad told me that even though the guy's neck was slashed, there wasn't much blood."
The boy quickly glanced around, scanning the area to see if any adults were spying on them, before lowing his voice even more.
"They think somebody drank it."
He got the desired result from his audience – a chorus of "ewws" and "yucks". He still had the biggest bombshell of all to drop.
"And the guy inside…he had blood on his mouth."
Again the "ewws" filled the air. Then one of younger children asked the question that the speaker really didn't want to talk about. Talking about it might make it true.
"But if the guy inside murdered and drank the old man, who killed him?"
He hesitated for a moment, and then answered, his voice slightly quivering.
"My dad said that there was a woman. She's missing. Maybe she was thirsty, too. They still haven't found her. They don't know where she is. She could be out there, right now, waiting for someone to come close enough to grab."
The boys looked at one another. Suddenly, this place wasn't fun anymore. Most of them agreed that if they didn't get home for supper, their mothers were going to kill them.
6:10
Joyce watched as Buffy toyed with her food, smashing down the already mashed potatoes again and again with her fork. Her assistant had bustled in this morning with the coffee, newspaper, and information about the latest tragedy. Usually Joyce tried to ignore things that weren't pleasant, but when she learned that the victim had gone to Buffy's school, she'd paid attention.
She watched as Buffy now stabbed the breast of chicken on her plate repeatedly. Joyce knew that something was definitely wrong tonight. Baked chicken wasn't Buffy's favorite food but she didn't usually attack it before eating.
"Honey, is there something I can do? Carol told me about the boy who died. Was he your friend?"
"No."
That hadn't gone over too well, Joyce decided. It was times like these that she wished Hank were here. Not they he knew how to handle Buffy any better, but at least it would be someone else with whom she could share some of the responsibility of their daughter's welfare. And who could share some of the blame, as well.
When Buffy was younger, life had been so much easier. She hadn't been the perfect child, of course. She hadn't applied herself to her schoolwork, much preferring to devote her time to shopping, boys, and frivolous activities. Dinnertime had often been spent listening to Buffy prattle about the day's events, all conversations with her friends were earth shaking with life threatening consequences. Then things had changed. She'd become quiet. They'd been unable to get her to talk, to open up and tell them what was wrong. Although she knew Buffy was healthy, she'd acquired a fragile look, like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. The problems that followed had piled upon her family, hitting Buffy harder than anyone else. When she and Hank had told Buffy that they were divorcing, she thought that her child might shatter before her eyes.
Once more, she wished fervently that she could find out what went on in her beautiful daughter's head. It was heartbreaking to want to help so badly, but to have all her overtures greeted with blank eyes and a shrug of the shoulders. So she continued on, brushing her lips across Buffy's smooth forehead, savoring an occasional cuddle on the couch, and hoping that if she could just keep Buffy close to her then maybe, one day, her little girl who happily babbled her nonsense would return.
7:10
After an hour studying her closet, Harmony concluded that she had nothing to wear to Allen's funeral. Why was everyone expected to wear black, anyway? She looked much prettier in pink and she wanted to look as beautiful as possible. Everyone was going to be there. Maybe she could wear her pink blouse and skirt with her black sweater and black high-heeled shoes. That would probably be close enough to satisfy all the old fuddy-duddies that worried about traditions. She just wondered if she would look appropriately sad.
And she was sad. Last year she'd thought about going to Homecoming with him, and she would have if he'd asked her. This summer she's seen him at the Bronze with some of his friends and he'd said "hi" to her. They obviously were extremely close, and she doubted if anyone could understand the pain she felt now that he was dead.
8:10
Jenny stared at the back of Giles' head as he once more pored over his books. By bringing him some dinner and interrupting his study, she'd briefly brought him back to the reality of the library. For a short time he'd smiled at her, and they'd talked of things other than demons and the Hellmouth. Now, as she swept the rubbish into the trashcan, she gazed at his slumped shoulders and bent back.
He took much too much upon himself. It wasn't enough that he was part of a secret society working with the Slayer to kill vampires. He'd also brought the Slayer and her friends into his life, into his heart. Many times she would enter the library to find Xander or Willow hovering near Giles, watching him as he espoused his adult wisdom, basking in his attention. Practically abandoned by their own parents, they clung to Giles as children to a father. Why was a man who young people so sought out, without children of his own? Thinking for a moment, she realized exactly how much his devotion to his duty had cost him.
As she watched, Giles removed his glasses and put thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. Then he stretched, in an effort to eliminate the knotted muscles that he'd accumulated. Sighing, Jenny went to him and lightly began to massage his back through the striped buttoned down shirt he wore. At first he stiffened, then relaxed under her gentle hands. Rubbing the nape of his neck, across to the shoulders, then working her way downward, she could feel the tension seep out of him. She couldn't slay vampires or fight his demons, but she could do this for him.
The doors of the library opened and Buffy strode into the room. Trying to act casual, Jenny let her hands slide down to her sides and took a few steps away from Giles. Buffy didn't notice, too intent on her own path to notice anything else. Turning, Jenny picked up her coat and put it on, then said good-bye. As she left Giles gave her a distracted wave, too focused on Buffy to do more much than acknowledge her departure.
9:10
A wave of fear came over Spike, as he listened to Drusilla's footsteps fade as she left to go hunting. He knew she'd turned another one last night, he could always tell by the way she'd sing and dance about afterwards. The thought that his princess might make herself another knight made him want to hunt the git down and tear his head off. He'd do anything to keep her with him and worried that someone else might come along, steal Dru, as he lay useless in bed.
Staring down at his legs, he willed for them to heal. Oh, he knew they would in time, but if he wasn't fed then it was a good possibility that he would be driven mad with hunger first. Maybe that was her plan all along. They'd be a matched set of loonies.
Would she remember to bring him anything to eat tonight? His mind flashed back to the endless number of birds and pets that had died over the last century from her neglect. Or what if the Slayer got to his goddess - he wouldn't be there to help her, to watch her back. Then what would happen to him?
If she did get dusted, the minions outside would not only refuse to help him but could be a danger as well. He hadn't gotten to be in a position of power by playing nice with all the blokes. Dalton, now there was someone he might still be able to intimidate into bringing him an occasional snack; that is until he realized that Spike couldn't chase him and skedaddled off to the nearest sewer.
Drusilla had left him propped up against the headboard, and he was beginning to tire. He thought about calling out to Dalton now, getting his help to ease back into a prone position, but the humiliation would be too much. It wasn't just that he needed assistance. It was the fact that Dru had arranged Miss Edith and the rest of her dolls around him, like they were at some hellish tea party with himself as the guest of honor. If he moved them so much as an inch, Drusilla would have his head when she returned. So he had to be satisfied with cursing each of the dolls at length and telling them what he would do to their makers if he ever got better.
10:10
Giles watched as the library doors swung back and forth in Buffy's wake. He'd given her the information that Willow had pried from that electronic contraption, and she would now be making the rounds in her entirely inappropriate attire. Thankfully, she hadn't known the student who died, so perhaps when she staked him, she wouldn't feel too much pain.
For a moment he considered following her, joining her as she patrolled through the assorted mortuaries and cemeteries. There was a grim sense of achievement each time a vampire exploded. The dust was proof that they were making a difference in the world, that evil was not winning. But that role was not his to play. He was reduced to watching her kill, and, if necessary, watching her be killed.
Last spring still haunted him. That damned prophecy of her death. Her face when she'd overhead him discussing it with Angel. After it was all over, after she'd gone to Los Angeles, breathing once again and safe in her father's car, he ripped that page from his text. Although mistreating an ancient tome was blasphemy to him, he'd taken that torn page, cursed it, shredded it, and then watched as it burned to ashes. He never wanted to be that helpless again.
But that helpless feeling was once more beginning to creep up on him. He knew that something big was coming. He'd read the signs, seen the portents, but still hadn't the foggiest notion of what it could be. He only knew that at some point in the coming year, Buffy would again be called upon to avert an apocalypse. Perhaps he could consult with Angel, he thought. The next time they were together they could discuss the different possibilities. Sighing, he opened a book, and resumed his research on the various ways they might all perish.
11:10
He'd thought he'd been so clever, asking for two dollars more an hour than the going rate, but the boss had been happy to pay it. Now Steve sat behind the gas station counter and stared at a hairline crack in the glass counter-top that had been caused by a body being slammed on top of it.
The beam from a car's headlights spun throughout the store as it pulled to a stop next to a pump. Suspiciously he eyed the vehicle until a small, gray-haired lady stepped out and hobbled towards the entrance. After making change and setting the pump for twelve dollars worth, he sat back and watched her as she got her gas, then slowly pulled away.
Steve was just beginning to relax, to think that this was no big deal when he heard a thump from the back door. Reaching under the register, he grabbed the shotgun he'd stored there and released the safety. The thump sounded again, then the screech of tearing metal filled the air as the lock was twisted apart, followed by the banging of the door being slammed open.
Lifting the shotgun to his shoulder, he eyed the door to the back room as it slowly opened. When Allen walked in, he breathed a sigh of relief and lowered the gun.
"Hey man, you scared the crap out of me. What are you doing here?"
As Allen smiled at him without answering the question, he recalled that this couldn't be Allen. Allen was dead. Quickly Steve pointed the gun at the intruder and pulled off several rounds. Only after hearing the chamber click emptily did it register that the bullets weren't doing any good.
12:10
Buffy really hated it when vamps didn't rise when they were supposed to. Sometimes one of her friends or Giles would come with her, so she had someone to talk with if the vampire was slow crawling out of its grave. Most of the time, though, she'd sit on a tombstone and sing a song or two while she waited. One night, when she was feeling musical-y and the vamp had been super slow, she'd sung the complete scores from "The Sound of Music", "The King and I", and "Oliver".
But tonight was worse. This one had risen early. The tracking was slow because she had to stop and kill other evil things that crossed her path. So far she'd dusted two vampires and slain one demon, but she still hadn't caught up with the thing that was now wandering around town in Allen Mitchell's body.
Buffy had told people that she hadn't known him, but it was a lie. One night while her friends had gone to the movies and she was supposed to be patrolling, she'd taken a short break. Well, it had been less than an hour, anyway. She'd gone into the Bronze for a soda, because slaying could be thirsty work – all that dust and everything. That was when she'd met Allen. He'd been nice, paying for her drink, dancing with her a couple of times before asking if he could take her home. She still had more patrolling to do so she'd said "no" and he must have thought she'd just shot him down because he never approached her again.
Angel was the love of her life, but for a moment she'd felt like a normal girl with a normal boy. His hands, unlike Angel's, had been warm against her skin. When he'd flirted with her and touched one of the cross earring she wore with a fingertip, his skin hadn't hissed or smoked.
Now she watched as what remained of that boy stumbled out of the rear entrance of the mini-mart wiping the blood from his mouth. He had one moment to feel surprise when he saw her before she slammed a stake into his heart and he dissipated into dust. As she walked away from the still settling remains, Buffy wished with all her heart that she could experience a normal day in Sunnydale.
The End