3007, the next evening
"Where are we going again?"
"To see an old friend of ours. . . mine," I remind Spike.
We've been walking outside the entire day because we don't have the proper identity markers to allow us to take public transportation. Although the cities vast buildings blocked a view of the sunset and much of the light, I am more comfortable under cloak of darkness. Nighttime in the city smells and sounds different than nighttime in my own little forest habitat, and I find myself missing the heady smell and the quiet rustle of the trees. Now hover vehicles race past overhead, and transport booths are used. Fewer people journey on foot anywhere, making traveling the streets more dangerous.
"How much further is it?" he wonders, casting me a glance.
I can tell his feet are beginning to ache like mine because of they way he's trudging along beside me. Even after three years being human again, one thousand years of being a vampire makes the transition to being more easily fatigued is not smooth. Of course, Spike doesn't remember this.
"Isn't any of this beginning to look familiar?" My tone is hopeful.
He frowns slightly. "Not really."
Abruptly, I stop in front of what looks like a large metal door that has to open manually. "We're here. Now remember that we've known this woman for a while. She's helped us in a pinch before."
My arm brushes Spike's as I lean across him to signal our arrival by touching the computer pad to the left of the door. He doesn't flinch away, and I'm grateful.
He eyes the entrance nervously. "Where are we again?"
I open my mouth to remind him what we're doing when I'm interrupted by the ancient sound of a creaking hinge. From behind a curtain of long, reddish-brown hair, a young-appearing woman peers at us uncertainly in the dark. She's actually well into her sixties, but she's considered young because most people live around two hundred years.
"Yes? What do you need?"
"Aimée, it's us, Buffy and Spike," I attempt to sound casual.
Recognition washes over Aimée's face, and a fair hand goes to her mouth. "Oh my g. . ., I thought you were dead for five years now! The Watcher's Council. . ."
I fill in the blanks, "Sent us into the sun, yes, but now something's happened, and we're back."
"And you're not vampires," she observes.
"No, but we need your help."
"Need me to fix you up, huh?" She stares at Spike. "What's up with you? You practicing up for the role of the strong, silent type?"
"No, I, um. . .," Spike trails off and looks at me for assistance.
"Another part of the story," I explain, reaching for Spike's hand. His large hand engulfs mine, and I squeeze his fingers in reassurance. "Spike doesn't remember who he is. Can we come in?"
She backs up as if she suddenly realizes that we're standing in the night. "Come in, please."
We follow Aimée into the cozy depths of her large home. The outward antiquity of the building is unrepresentative of the warmth and technologically equipped arrangement of the inside. Soon, we're sipping warm tea, and she's giving us the once over.
She surveys me first, so Spike settles into a cushioned chair in her workroom. "Hair needs a more functional cut. Way too long and not the latest trend. Clothes need changing, too." She fingers the computer on my wrist. "What manner of computer is this? I've never seen anything like it."
"And you won't. I received it as a gift where I was before."
Aimée knows better than to ask too many questions. "What about the wardrobe programmed in? What does it have?"
I activate the computer, finding the clothing area. "Not much of anything, I'm afraid. I was hoping you could give Spike and I a leg up on the latest trends."
"Sure, I'll see what I have." Across the room, she rummages through a file drawer full of clothing wardrobes. She produces two tiny processors. "One for you. One for Spike."
In minutes, Spike and I are clean and freshly clothed. I'm wearing a dark green filmy top that's off my shoulders with matching long pants and synthetic boots. Aimée has cut my hair until locks only reach my shoulder blades. A jeweled green barrette holds the hair out of my face. Spike is dressed more simply in navy and grey, and his unruly curls have been cut and tamed with Aimée's equipment.
His eyes shine at me. "You look beautiful."
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I blush for the first time in a millennium. "Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself."
"Now for your identities." Aimée goes to her work desk and begins preparing identification packages to allow us to travel more easily. "Are you married?"
"What do you mean?" I am a bit befuddled. "Married?"
"The rings, pet; she's talking about the rings." Spike takes my left ring finger between his thumb and forefinger.
"Oh!" My stomach jolts with the realization that Spike is touching me and using a pet name with me.
Aimée is focusing on the machinery before her. "I'm putting that in. You're definitely married. And your names will be Scott and Devi Norton. I've got a couple of nondescript histories here as well. You won't be stopped or questioned."
"Thanks."
"You're very welcome, Buffy. You ready for the brain inserts?"
I nod, and Spike pales at Aimée's words. "B-brain inserts?"
"You've had them before, Spike. Trust me, they're quick and painless," I enlighten him.
By the time Aimée is satisfied with her work, a few hours have passed. She leads us to the door, and I reach over to hug her tightly.
"Thanks for everything, sweetie."
She returns the embrace and pulls away with last minute instructions. "Now, there's a transport station a couple of blocks east of here, and I've arranged for you a room to sleep at the public hotel. You each have job interviews in the morning, and a couple of living areas to go visit. Details are in your wrist computers. Are you sure you don't want to stay with me for the night?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
Placing her hand over the door handle, she gives me a pointed look. "Now, we're having coffee and catching up on things once you get settled in, right?"
I nod. "It's a promise."
Aimée swings open the door with a loud squeal. The night is dark, but I can barely make out a familiar pale face in the shadows.
"Hello, my Spike."
My heart skips a beat when the familiar voice reaches my ears. . . Drusilla.
TBC. . . Thanks for all the wonderful reviews!!! Helps me keep writing the story! Glad you're enjoying the sequel!
What the heck is Drusilla doing here? Didn't Vanessa, the rogue slayer, kill her in "Confronting the Sun?" Stay tuned. . . . :o) Sandy
"Where are we going again?"
"To see an old friend of ours. . . mine," I remind Spike.
We've been walking outside the entire day because we don't have the proper identity markers to allow us to take public transportation. Although the cities vast buildings blocked a view of the sunset and much of the light, I am more comfortable under cloak of darkness. Nighttime in the city smells and sounds different than nighttime in my own little forest habitat, and I find myself missing the heady smell and the quiet rustle of the trees. Now hover vehicles race past overhead, and transport booths are used. Fewer people journey on foot anywhere, making traveling the streets more dangerous.
"How much further is it?" he wonders, casting me a glance.
I can tell his feet are beginning to ache like mine because of they way he's trudging along beside me. Even after three years being human again, one thousand years of being a vampire makes the transition to being more easily fatigued is not smooth. Of course, Spike doesn't remember this.
"Isn't any of this beginning to look familiar?" My tone is hopeful.
He frowns slightly. "Not really."
Abruptly, I stop in front of what looks like a large metal door that has to open manually. "We're here. Now remember that we've known this woman for a while. She's helped us in a pinch before."
My arm brushes Spike's as I lean across him to signal our arrival by touching the computer pad to the left of the door. He doesn't flinch away, and I'm grateful.
He eyes the entrance nervously. "Where are we again?"
I open my mouth to remind him what we're doing when I'm interrupted by the ancient sound of a creaking hinge. From behind a curtain of long, reddish-brown hair, a young-appearing woman peers at us uncertainly in the dark. She's actually well into her sixties, but she's considered young because most people live around two hundred years.
"Yes? What do you need?"
"Aimée, it's us, Buffy and Spike," I attempt to sound casual.
Recognition washes over Aimée's face, and a fair hand goes to her mouth. "Oh my g. . ., I thought you were dead for five years now! The Watcher's Council. . ."
I fill in the blanks, "Sent us into the sun, yes, but now something's happened, and we're back."
"And you're not vampires," she observes.
"No, but we need your help."
"Need me to fix you up, huh?" She stares at Spike. "What's up with you? You practicing up for the role of the strong, silent type?"
"No, I, um. . .," Spike trails off and looks at me for assistance.
"Another part of the story," I explain, reaching for Spike's hand. His large hand engulfs mine, and I squeeze his fingers in reassurance. "Spike doesn't remember who he is. Can we come in?"
She backs up as if she suddenly realizes that we're standing in the night. "Come in, please."
We follow Aimée into the cozy depths of her large home. The outward antiquity of the building is unrepresentative of the warmth and technologically equipped arrangement of the inside. Soon, we're sipping warm tea, and she's giving us the once over.
She surveys me first, so Spike settles into a cushioned chair in her workroom. "Hair needs a more functional cut. Way too long and not the latest trend. Clothes need changing, too." She fingers the computer on my wrist. "What manner of computer is this? I've never seen anything like it."
"And you won't. I received it as a gift where I was before."
Aimée knows better than to ask too many questions. "What about the wardrobe programmed in? What does it have?"
I activate the computer, finding the clothing area. "Not much of anything, I'm afraid. I was hoping you could give Spike and I a leg up on the latest trends."
"Sure, I'll see what I have." Across the room, she rummages through a file drawer full of clothing wardrobes. She produces two tiny processors. "One for you. One for Spike."
In minutes, Spike and I are clean and freshly clothed. I'm wearing a dark green filmy top that's off my shoulders with matching long pants and synthetic boots. Aimée has cut my hair until locks only reach my shoulder blades. A jeweled green barrette holds the hair out of my face. Spike is dressed more simply in navy and grey, and his unruly curls have been cut and tamed with Aimée's equipment.
His eyes shine at me. "You look beautiful."
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I blush for the first time in a millennium. "Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself."
"Now for your identities." Aimée goes to her work desk and begins preparing identification packages to allow us to travel more easily. "Are you married?"
"What do you mean?" I am a bit befuddled. "Married?"
"The rings, pet; she's talking about the rings." Spike takes my left ring finger between his thumb and forefinger.
"Oh!" My stomach jolts with the realization that Spike is touching me and using a pet name with me.
Aimée is focusing on the machinery before her. "I'm putting that in. You're definitely married. And your names will be Scott and Devi Norton. I've got a couple of nondescript histories here as well. You won't be stopped or questioned."
"Thanks."
"You're very welcome, Buffy. You ready for the brain inserts?"
I nod, and Spike pales at Aimée's words. "B-brain inserts?"
"You've had them before, Spike. Trust me, they're quick and painless," I enlighten him.
By the time Aimée is satisfied with her work, a few hours have passed. She leads us to the door, and I reach over to hug her tightly.
"Thanks for everything, sweetie."
She returns the embrace and pulls away with last minute instructions. "Now, there's a transport station a couple of blocks east of here, and I've arranged for you a room to sleep at the public hotel. You each have job interviews in the morning, and a couple of living areas to go visit. Details are in your wrist computers. Are you sure you don't want to stay with me for the night?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
Placing her hand over the door handle, she gives me a pointed look. "Now, we're having coffee and catching up on things once you get settled in, right?"
I nod. "It's a promise."
Aimée swings open the door with a loud squeal. The night is dark, but I can barely make out a familiar pale face in the shadows.
"Hello, my Spike."
My heart skips a beat when the familiar voice reaches my ears. . . Drusilla.
TBC. . . Thanks for all the wonderful reviews!!! Helps me keep writing the story! Glad you're enjoying the sequel!
What the heck is Drusilla doing here? Didn't Vanessa, the rogue slayer, kill her in "Confronting the Sun?" Stay tuned. . . . :o) Sandy