It happened that James was in fact able to operate his car. Buffy admired
his resiliency; that shoulder wound could easily have taken down a lesser
mortal, and yet James was perfectly hardy despite being free of the
extraordinary touch of the supernatural. Buffy's power came from a place
beyond earthly control, and not even she was sure that she would ever
completely understand it, but James was fully human and acquired his
strength and expertise, undoubtedly, through rigorous lessons and guidance.
The key difference between them was that Buffy had been born a Slayer, born
a hunter. She was never "normal." It seemed likely to her that James had
been, at one point, and that all of this hot air about spies and high-tech
weaponry had been programmed into his brain over a great many years. Buffy
wondered briefly what it must be like to be in that line of work, but
quickly decided that she would never want to have to do it herself; at
least she was able to maintain her personality when she began her training
as the Slayer.
The wounded spy parked the BMW in front of Buffy's home. The two of them climbed out onto the street and Buffy strode up the walk to her front porch without waiting for James, pulling her keys out of her pocket and opening the door quietly, in case she might be in danger of waking either her sister or her mother.
James watched her slip into the house, and sighed lightly. From the backseat he removed two suitcases which he had retrieved from the hotel outside of town, and with the push of a button located on his key ring, his car was equipped with an electric security shield. He doubted very much, though, that the vampires in the area were actively engaged in auto theft. He followed Buffy into the house and closed the door softly behind him. Instinctively, he locked it.
He saw a shadow milling about the darkened living room--Buffy, tossing her coat onto a chair. He cleared his throat hoping that the girl would acknowledge him, for he felt rather idle standing at the door. But at that moment both of them became aware of a light on in the kitchen.
"Mom?" said Buffy, walking past James and towards the light.
"Oh, honey! I'm glad you're home."
James, always a gracious guest, uselessly stood waiting for a word from his hostess. He could hear Buffy and her mother chatting two rooms away.
"Were you out patrolling?" Joyce asked.
"Uh-huh."
"How did it go? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. And it was all right. Not very productive, but I took down a vamp or three."
James expressed supreme surprise. Not only did Buffy's mother know about her daughter's lifestyle, and not only did she seem to approve of it, but they discussed it as they would a date.
"Speaking of which, Mom, there's somebody I'd like you to meet."
Even before Buffy said his name, James took that comment as his cue to enter the kitchen. She had hardly pronounced the "B" in Bond when he suddenly appeared beside her.
Buffy frowned. She didn't know why.
"James, this is my mother... Mom, this is James."
"I.... oh!" said Joyce. She gave her daughter a wide-eyed look. "Please tell me this isn't a boyfriend so I can ward off the aneurysm."
"It's a delight, Mrs. Summers," James said cordially, with a grin and a shallow bow of his head. Joyce smiled.
//This can't be a boyfriend of Buffy's,// she thought with relief. //He's wearing a suit.//
"Well, it's very nice to meet you too!" she said, enthralled by this swarthy, cultured man. "You're aware, of course, of the shoulder, and the bleeding."
"Ah, yes. It's quite all right, though; you needn't worry." But Joyce was already examining the severity of the injury at a closer distance.
"It looks like Buffy's gotten you into trouble with her slaying," she said pleasantly, in a 'what am I going to do with her' tone. But all of a sudden she gasped as a hand flew to her mouth, and she glanced over at Buffy, who laughed lightly.
"It's all right, Mom. He knows."
"Oh! Good," Joyce said, letting out a relieved sigh. "I know how secretive you are about... that kind of thing."
"Yes, I'm very much aware that your daughter is of a rather special nature," James said. The hint of a smirk that played on his lips made it difficult for Buffy to tell whether or not he meant that as a compliment.
"You have *no* idea. Now... may I ask how you and Buffy came to know each other? Are you a friend of Mr. Giles?"
"Um, no, Mom," Buffy interjected. "If we could all sit down in the living room, I can explain everything."
"Well, now, wait a minute, Buffy! I'm sure James here could use a minute or two to catch his breath. I say we get some bandages on his shoulder and then maybe a hot cup of coffee."
"Why, yes," James said with a grin. "That would be delightful."
"Why don't you come upstairs, James."
They were already making small talk by the time they began climbing the staircase, and Buffy was left alone there in the kitchen, the makings of a scowl beginning to wrench at her mouth. But she took a deep, calm breath and commenced fixing a pot of coffee, so that it would be ready when Joyce and James came back downstairs. Suddenly, her mother's laugh rang out like wind chimes. Buffy, startled, looked up towards the ceiling. It was then that all kinds of horrible thoughts started to pervade her sometimes overly active imagination. With seriously wide eyes she stood back and watched the coffee brew. Each drop of liquid into the pot below punctuated her musings as her mind ran rampant.
She imagined that the friendly conversation taking place upstairs in the bathroom was just the beginning. Joyce would soon fall prey to James' wily charms and they would be dating before Buffy could think to protest. *Drip.* What if he moved to Sunnydale after this case was solved? He would see Joyce all the time... they'd fall in love... oh, God, what if they fell in love? *Drip.* Then got married in some spectacular ceremony that garnered countywide attention? James looked like he had the money finance it. *Drip.* He would have to move into their house. He would be there every day. He would never LEAVE. *Drip. Drip.* He would take Buffy's friends and sister out for spins in his car every weekend, and they would go slaying together, and he would let them use his gun, and they would all say, 'Hey, this guy's a lot cooler than Buffy!' and Dawn would say, 'Yeah! Buffy never let me handle dangerous firearms!'
*Drip. Drip. Drip.*
//Oh, for the love of God,// Buffy thought with panicked revulsion. //This is not happening!//
"Buffy?"
"No!" she cried, whirling around. Joyce and James stood in the kitchen doorway, regarding her with curiosity. Where she could once see blood and torn skin through the holes ripped into the tattered fabric of James' shirt, she could now see only bright white gauze.
"I'm sorry, is Buffy not your name anymore?" Joyce asked her with a somewhat bemused grin, as she ambled over to the cupboard to retrieve three ceramic mugs, which she set down on the counter. "Is everything all right?"
"What? Yes! Yes, everything is... fine. I put the coffee on! See? The coffee is... it's on."
"I noticed!"
"So... um... what did you guys talk about?"
"Oh, James was just telling me the funniest story about his job. Honestly," Joyce said, putting the cream and sugar out on the counter, "if *those* are the kinds of people you have to put up with, I don't think I could ever be an accountant."
Buffy glanced at James. She tilted her head to the side inquisitively. He regarded her innocently, and with that smirk that seemed permanently affixed to his face. So, they had something else in common; both were obligated to keep their true identities top secret and to live their lives from excuse to excuse, protected by a savvy shield of clever cover stories.
Well, not under this roof. Not when the people Buffy cared about most were in danger.
"Mom, James is a secret agent."
James shot her a sharp, indignant glare as Joyce turned from the coffee mugs she was casually filling at the counter. "Hmm?" she said.
"Sorry, Jim," said Buffy, "but I can't have any secrets around here. Not now. Things are pretty precarious what with the diamond missing, and I want my mom and my sister to know that they can go to you if trouble comes calling."
"I'm sorry, what?" Joyce said firmly, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back against the counter. "What's going on *now*?"
Buffy braved multiple interjections from James as she explained the latest peril come to Sunnydale to her mother. She also told her where James himself factored into all of it, and how the situation would be far less complicated if he were able to stay in their house.
"So what do you think?" Buffy said.
"Well!" huffed Joyce, placing a hand over her heart. "That's a lot of information to get in ten minutes."
"Not that I'm dying to have him around, but it would really help the cause."
"Now, Buffy, if you don't have anything nice to say--"
"I'm not sure I do. But I really think that he could help out in a way that some of the others may not be able to. I need him here."
"I see. In that case," Joyce said, "I don't see why we can't show him how hospitable Americans can be. He can even sleep in my room. I don't mind the sofa."
"Oh! No, no, please!" James said, taking a step forward, holding his hands up in protest. "I simply won't have it. I can't deprive you of your own bed."
"Of course you can! You're our guest, and it's a sacrifice I insist on making."
"But--"
"I don't want to hear another word! Now, Buffy, would you like to take James's suitcases up to my room?"
Buffy gave James a mildly reproachful stare, and then looked with a softened expression at her mother.
"Gosh, I'd sure love to," she said with a mirthless smile.
"Oh, really, I don't think that will be necessary," James said, leaning down to pick up his bags. But Buffy was far too quick. She plunged down, yanked them up off the floor, spun around, and stomped up the stairs. At the threshold of the bedroom she propelled the door open with her foot. She drew her arms back and flung both the bags clear across the room at Joyce's bed. Of course she had once again underestimated her own strength; the cases skittered across the blanket's smooth surface, over the edge of the bed, finally thudding onto the hardwood floor.
"Dammit," muttered Buffy in frustration. She walked to the other side of the bed and found that the briefcase had fallen open upon striking the floor.
//Huh,// she thought. //You'd think a big mysterious secret agent guy could get his people to update the security features on this stuff.//
She bent to retrieve the loose sheets that had fluttered out of the case, and then her curiosity overthrew her usually commanding sense of better judgment. With the sheets sifted in an organized pile, she began to read into the details of James's mission.
"Agent Zero-Zero-Seven," she said aloud, enjoying herself somewhat. "Hey, he comes with a number. Wonder if he's part of a set."
Further reading proved that James *was* in town to search for and recover the missing Karlotte family diamond, not that Buffy had doubted the man's icy, business-like, no-nonsense demeanor in the first place.
"Hmm. Bored now," she announced to the empty room. The documents were extremely dense and revealed nothing beyond what she knew already. She stuffed the papers back into the briefcase. She was about to close it when the light from the bedside lamp caused a glossy, black-and-white, eight-by- ten photograph to flicker inside.
"Ooh! Please be interesting."
She plucked the picture from the case, and the reaction was immediate. Her heart dropped straight into her feet.
"Oh my God," she gasped.
She flipped the picture over with quivering hands. When she read the words scrawled on the back in the careless, haphazard handwriting of a man in a hurry, her chest tightened as if all the air were being sucked out of her lungs by a vacuum:
"Alexander LaVelle Harris, age 18."
The wounded spy parked the BMW in front of Buffy's home. The two of them climbed out onto the street and Buffy strode up the walk to her front porch without waiting for James, pulling her keys out of her pocket and opening the door quietly, in case she might be in danger of waking either her sister or her mother.
James watched her slip into the house, and sighed lightly. From the backseat he removed two suitcases which he had retrieved from the hotel outside of town, and with the push of a button located on his key ring, his car was equipped with an electric security shield. He doubted very much, though, that the vampires in the area were actively engaged in auto theft. He followed Buffy into the house and closed the door softly behind him. Instinctively, he locked it.
He saw a shadow milling about the darkened living room--Buffy, tossing her coat onto a chair. He cleared his throat hoping that the girl would acknowledge him, for he felt rather idle standing at the door. But at that moment both of them became aware of a light on in the kitchen.
"Mom?" said Buffy, walking past James and towards the light.
"Oh, honey! I'm glad you're home."
James, always a gracious guest, uselessly stood waiting for a word from his hostess. He could hear Buffy and her mother chatting two rooms away.
"Were you out patrolling?" Joyce asked.
"Uh-huh."
"How did it go? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. And it was all right. Not very productive, but I took down a vamp or three."
James expressed supreme surprise. Not only did Buffy's mother know about her daughter's lifestyle, and not only did she seem to approve of it, but they discussed it as they would a date.
"Speaking of which, Mom, there's somebody I'd like you to meet."
Even before Buffy said his name, James took that comment as his cue to enter the kitchen. She had hardly pronounced the "B" in Bond when he suddenly appeared beside her.
Buffy frowned. She didn't know why.
"James, this is my mother... Mom, this is James."
"I.... oh!" said Joyce. She gave her daughter a wide-eyed look. "Please tell me this isn't a boyfriend so I can ward off the aneurysm."
"It's a delight, Mrs. Summers," James said cordially, with a grin and a shallow bow of his head. Joyce smiled.
//This can't be a boyfriend of Buffy's,// she thought with relief. //He's wearing a suit.//
"Well, it's very nice to meet you too!" she said, enthralled by this swarthy, cultured man. "You're aware, of course, of the shoulder, and the bleeding."
"Ah, yes. It's quite all right, though; you needn't worry." But Joyce was already examining the severity of the injury at a closer distance.
"It looks like Buffy's gotten you into trouble with her slaying," she said pleasantly, in a 'what am I going to do with her' tone. But all of a sudden she gasped as a hand flew to her mouth, and she glanced over at Buffy, who laughed lightly.
"It's all right, Mom. He knows."
"Oh! Good," Joyce said, letting out a relieved sigh. "I know how secretive you are about... that kind of thing."
"Yes, I'm very much aware that your daughter is of a rather special nature," James said. The hint of a smirk that played on his lips made it difficult for Buffy to tell whether or not he meant that as a compliment.
"You have *no* idea. Now... may I ask how you and Buffy came to know each other? Are you a friend of Mr. Giles?"
"Um, no, Mom," Buffy interjected. "If we could all sit down in the living room, I can explain everything."
"Well, now, wait a minute, Buffy! I'm sure James here could use a minute or two to catch his breath. I say we get some bandages on his shoulder and then maybe a hot cup of coffee."
"Why, yes," James said with a grin. "That would be delightful."
"Why don't you come upstairs, James."
They were already making small talk by the time they began climbing the staircase, and Buffy was left alone there in the kitchen, the makings of a scowl beginning to wrench at her mouth. But she took a deep, calm breath and commenced fixing a pot of coffee, so that it would be ready when Joyce and James came back downstairs. Suddenly, her mother's laugh rang out like wind chimes. Buffy, startled, looked up towards the ceiling. It was then that all kinds of horrible thoughts started to pervade her sometimes overly active imagination. With seriously wide eyes she stood back and watched the coffee brew. Each drop of liquid into the pot below punctuated her musings as her mind ran rampant.
She imagined that the friendly conversation taking place upstairs in the bathroom was just the beginning. Joyce would soon fall prey to James' wily charms and they would be dating before Buffy could think to protest. *Drip.* What if he moved to Sunnydale after this case was solved? He would see Joyce all the time... they'd fall in love... oh, God, what if they fell in love? *Drip.* Then got married in some spectacular ceremony that garnered countywide attention? James looked like he had the money finance it. *Drip.* He would have to move into their house. He would be there every day. He would never LEAVE. *Drip. Drip.* He would take Buffy's friends and sister out for spins in his car every weekend, and they would go slaying together, and he would let them use his gun, and they would all say, 'Hey, this guy's a lot cooler than Buffy!' and Dawn would say, 'Yeah! Buffy never let me handle dangerous firearms!'
*Drip. Drip. Drip.*
//Oh, for the love of God,// Buffy thought with panicked revulsion. //This is not happening!//
"Buffy?"
"No!" she cried, whirling around. Joyce and James stood in the kitchen doorway, regarding her with curiosity. Where she could once see blood and torn skin through the holes ripped into the tattered fabric of James' shirt, she could now see only bright white gauze.
"I'm sorry, is Buffy not your name anymore?" Joyce asked her with a somewhat bemused grin, as she ambled over to the cupboard to retrieve three ceramic mugs, which she set down on the counter. "Is everything all right?"
"What? Yes! Yes, everything is... fine. I put the coffee on! See? The coffee is... it's on."
"I noticed!"
"So... um... what did you guys talk about?"
"Oh, James was just telling me the funniest story about his job. Honestly," Joyce said, putting the cream and sugar out on the counter, "if *those* are the kinds of people you have to put up with, I don't think I could ever be an accountant."
Buffy glanced at James. She tilted her head to the side inquisitively. He regarded her innocently, and with that smirk that seemed permanently affixed to his face. So, they had something else in common; both were obligated to keep their true identities top secret and to live their lives from excuse to excuse, protected by a savvy shield of clever cover stories.
Well, not under this roof. Not when the people Buffy cared about most were in danger.
"Mom, James is a secret agent."
James shot her a sharp, indignant glare as Joyce turned from the coffee mugs she was casually filling at the counter. "Hmm?" she said.
"Sorry, Jim," said Buffy, "but I can't have any secrets around here. Not now. Things are pretty precarious what with the diamond missing, and I want my mom and my sister to know that they can go to you if trouble comes calling."
"I'm sorry, what?" Joyce said firmly, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back against the counter. "What's going on *now*?"
Buffy braved multiple interjections from James as she explained the latest peril come to Sunnydale to her mother. She also told her where James himself factored into all of it, and how the situation would be far less complicated if he were able to stay in their house.
"So what do you think?" Buffy said.
"Well!" huffed Joyce, placing a hand over her heart. "That's a lot of information to get in ten minutes."
"Not that I'm dying to have him around, but it would really help the cause."
"Now, Buffy, if you don't have anything nice to say--"
"I'm not sure I do. But I really think that he could help out in a way that some of the others may not be able to. I need him here."
"I see. In that case," Joyce said, "I don't see why we can't show him how hospitable Americans can be. He can even sleep in my room. I don't mind the sofa."
"Oh! No, no, please!" James said, taking a step forward, holding his hands up in protest. "I simply won't have it. I can't deprive you of your own bed."
"Of course you can! You're our guest, and it's a sacrifice I insist on making."
"But--"
"I don't want to hear another word! Now, Buffy, would you like to take James's suitcases up to my room?"
Buffy gave James a mildly reproachful stare, and then looked with a softened expression at her mother.
"Gosh, I'd sure love to," she said with a mirthless smile.
"Oh, really, I don't think that will be necessary," James said, leaning down to pick up his bags. But Buffy was far too quick. She plunged down, yanked them up off the floor, spun around, and stomped up the stairs. At the threshold of the bedroom she propelled the door open with her foot. She drew her arms back and flung both the bags clear across the room at Joyce's bed. Of course she had once again underestimated her own strength; the cases skittered across the blanket's smooth surface, over the edge of the bed, finally thudding onto the hardwood floor.
"Dammit," muttered Buffy in frustration. She walked to the other side of the bed and found that the briefcase had fallen open upon striking the floor.
//Huh,// she thought. //You'd think a big mysterious secret agent guy could get his people to update the security features on this stuff.//
She bent to retrieve the loose sheets that had fluttered out of the case, and then her curiosity overthrew her usually commanding sense of better judgment. With the sheets sifted in an organized pile, she began to read into the details of James's mission.
"Agent Zero-Zero-Seven," she said aloud, enjoying herself somewhat. "Hey, he comes with a number. Wonder if he's part of a set."
Further reading proved that James *was* in town to search for and recover the missing Karlotte family diamond, not that Buffy had doubted the man's icy, business-like, no-nonsense demeanor in the first place.
"Hmm. Bored now," she announced to the empty room. The documents were extremely dense and revealed nothing beyond what she knew already. She stuffed the papers back into the briefcase. She was about to close it when the light from the bedside lamp caused a glossy, black-and-white, eight-by- ten photograph to flicker inside.
"Ooh! Please be interesting."
She plucked the picture from the case, and the reaction was immediate. Her heart dropped straight into her feet.
"Oh my God," she gasped.
She flipped the picture over with quivering hands. When she read the words scrawled on the back in the careless, haphazard handwriting of a man in a hurry, her chest tightened as if all the air were being sucked out of her lungs by a vacuum:
"Alexander LaVelle Harris, age 18."