Two months later...
"I'm so glad you decided to move closer," Willow smiled at her friend. "And this apartment... Wow! It's perfect!"
Buffy had to agree. She had been searching for something small and furnished. Something that was comfortable and clean. And something she could afford. It was near to the old bookstore she was leasing.
"There's something so familiar about this place," Willow said absently, her eyes scanning the room.
It wasn't her eyes that honed in on what it was, though. It was her soul. She felt it tugging at her, but she couldn't place this new and not unpleasant sensation. She shrugged it off and continued to help Buffy with the few boxes she'd decided to bring.
"I can't believe this is all you have," Willow blurted out.
"I, uh.." Buffy was trying to find the words. "Too hard..."
"I'm sorry," Willow gasped, turned to pull Buffy into her embrace. "I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry."
"It's alright," Buffy mumbled into her shoulder before reluctantly pulling away. She couldn't remember the last time she had let someone hug her.
"Sure you don't want me to stay a little longer?" Willow tried, before leaving.
"Nah," Buffy shrugged. "I'm good. I just want to curl up with a good book and a glass of Port."
"Okay," Willow smiled, giving her hand a squeeze before she left.
Buffy sighed and looked around the living room. The apartment was small, dark and cozy. She had fallen in love with the carved oak furniture and had nearly fallen over when she encountered the overflowing bookshelf that covered an entire wall from floor to ceiling and from end to end. She went to the kitchen and rifled around until she found a stemmed glass. She tried to remember where she had put the Port. She glanced around the kitchen and her eyes came to rest on a small wine rack that was still stocked by the previous owner.
There were several good Merlots, a Beaujolais and two Ruby Ports. She smiled at her good fortune and wondered what had happened to the person who had lived here before her. The leasing agent had only told her that he had been a mousy man who had mostly kept to himself. He had owned a small business down on Main Street. He'd always paid his rent on time and she rarely heard from him otherwise.
She poured herself a healthy glass of the Port and than wandered over to the expansive book collection. Sins of the Father. She raised and eyebrow and selected it, recognizing it as a rather risqué book for it's time. She took it back to the tufted leather sofa and settled in to read. She was a few chapters into the book when she felt someone looking at her.
She looked up into a pair of piercing blue eyes.
"Oh my God," she gasped, frozen in place. "Take what you want. J-just don't... Don't hurt me."
The man tilted his head to the side and glared at her like she was crazy.
"Bloody right, I'll take what I want. It's my house," he informed her haughtily. "And that's my '77 Port! I've been saving that for a special occasion!"
Finding some semblance of courage, Buffy guzzled down the wine and turned the empty glass on the man in front of her.
"You come one step closer and jail is going to become your special occasion, Bub!" Buffy threatened nervously.
William studied her, not sure what she intended to do with the glass, but not wanting to see a piece of his finest crystal broken. He put his hands up in front of him and stepped back.
"Put the glass down," he said softly.
She watched to see what he was going to do before making up her mind.
"Please," he begged. "That's Waterford, you dozy bint."
She took a closer look at it. Indeed, it was. Slowly, she placed it on the table, never looking away from William.
"How did you get in my apartment?" She wanted to know.
"I live here, Pet," he told her.
"You so do not!" she childishly responded, hands on hips.
"Love," he tried again, noticing little items in his home that he hadn't put there himself. "This is my apartment. Thirty-two ought one Becker Street. I've lived here for nearly seven years. I own the little book shop on Main - Buy the Book."
Her eyes went wide and she was visibly trembling.
"You so do not!" She whispered.
"Something's amiss here, Pet," he told her, his eyes darting wildly around his apartment.
He walked to his bedroom and took in the view of lingerie hanging from doorknobs and frilly new linens on his bed. When had she gotten in here to do all of this?
He walked back out into the living room and she was standing with a butcher knife in one hand and a cordless phone in the other.
"What are you doing?" He cried out, rushing toward her without thinking.
She lunged at him with the knife on pure instinct and screamed when it passed right through him as if he weren't there. She looked from his stomach back up to his eyes and lunged again. This time he didn't move. Instead, he watched, fascinated, as she made pass after pass through his incorporeal flesh.
"Well! Fancy that, Love!" He said, astounded. "I'm like the Cap'n of the Black Pearl. Sticks an' stones may break my bones, but swords can never hurt me."
The butcher knife dropped to the floor with a clamor and the phone was quick to follow. Buffy's hand flew to her mouth.
"You're... You're a..."
She reached her hand out and it passed right through him. She snatched it back and stared at her tingling hand, wiggling her fingers around before meeting his gaze.
"You're dead," she whispered.
"Bollocks," he said dismissively. "Breathing. See?"
He took in a few demonstrative puffs of air.
"And talking. Dead men can't talk," he pointed out.
She approached him with frightened fascination. He looked so real. He looked... solid. She took in every bit of William. His hair looked touchable, like it needed to be tousled. His glasses had slid to the bottom of his nose. She wanted to push them back up with her finger. His cheekbones longed to be traced. His lips were full and looked warm and inviting. His chest was heaving, evidence that he was breathing. He wore a grey weathered henley tucked into faded Levi's. Maroon Converse All-Stars were on his feet. She caught the glint of a gold wristwatch with a dark brown leather strap.
Her hand automatically went out to him again. He reached out his, as well, and stopped to meet hers. She could feel energy tingling against her palm, but she sensed nothing solid. His palm tingled, as well.
"Why is this happening?" she asked, backing away from him until her legs hit the couch. She fell back into it and leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"Why now?" she choked the words out on a sob. The bottle of Port was on the edge of the coffee table and the glass was sitting across from it. She poured herself a full glass and downed it in practically one swallow. She refilled the glass and did it again.
"Want to slow down with the Port, Love? 'S meant to be savored, not chugged," he told her.
She looked up at him with tremulous green eyes. He was a ghost. He was in her apartment. No, his apartment. No... her apartment. And from the looks of things, he wasn't going anywhere. He was watching her with great interest as she assaulted the wine.
"Couldn't you get someone else play the part of Mrs. Muir?" she asked with a shaky laugh.
"Not a ghostie, Love," he said defensively.
"Oh yeah?" she asked. She grabbed a pillow from the couch and threw it at him telling him to "think fast."
He reached out to catch the pillow and it fell right through his hands.
"I'm going crazy," she whispered, reaching for the bottle of Port. She decided to forgo formalities and chugged back a huge swallow straight from the bottle. "I'm surprised it's taken this long."
"Crazy? Maybe. Drunk? Quite possibly," William agreed. "But how's that explain the state I'm in?"
Buffy closed her eyes tightly, still grasping the wine bottle.
"It's just my imagination. That's all it is. I've been alone so long that I'm beginning to make up imaginary friends. That's all. I'll just open my eyes and Mr. Cute and Ghostie will have disappeared," she mumbled.
She slowly opened her eyes.
"Still here, Love."
"WHY are you doing this to me?" she shouted. "Why is it you? Why isn't it Angel? Where is he? Where is he!"
She was demanding and borderline hysterical. William had no idea who this Angel was. And he was a little afraid to ask.
"Why did they send you? What did I ever do to them?" she was frantically searching the ceiling with glazed eyes. "What did I do to you? All I wanted to do was make him happy and you took him away!"
"Pet, who are you talking to?" William cautiously asked.
She turned to face him her face, for one moment, very serious. She suddenly broke into a wide grin and began laughing.
"It's a trick," she whispered through a maniacal grin. "They're testing me. Only I win. I… win. So send him back! Send my husband back now!"
Husband? William watched the scene as it played out before him. This girl was hurt to the very core and the only comfort he had to offer was words. Words... not a bad idea.
"With spectacles upon his nose, he shuffles up and down; Of antique fashion are his clothes, his napless hat is brown," William began reciting softly.
"A mighty watch, of silver wrought, keeps time in sun or rain to the dull ticking of the thought within his dusty brain," he continued.
Buffy quieted and stared at him, entranced by his soothing voice and lyrical words. She recognized the poem. The Bookworm, by Buchanon.
She listened until the poem was complete, not wanting to interrupt his heartfelt recital.
"He pokes the dust, he sifts with care, he searches close and deep; Proud to discover, here and there, a treasure in the heap!"
She gave him a watery smile and he returned it with a slight nod.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
