Series: Mortal Allies

Story Title: Episode 3, Postcards From the Edge

Chapter 9: Monsters

By: Passion4Spike


Author's Notes:

Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra slobbery doggie-Spike kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a 'like'/'kudos'. It seriously means so much to me, like cheese fries for my muse!

As always, my everlasting gratitude to Holi117 and PaganBaby for their betaing, encouragement, idea-bouncing, banner-making, and for all their efforts to keep me from following the pixies into the abyss.

Most of the Spanish in this chapter is from the internet with a little help from my vague recollection of high school Spanish. Some mistakes by Spike are intentional; some probably aren't. I kept it pretty basic and tried to make the meanings clear, either by Spike's reply or the actions of the characters.


Chapter 9: Monsters


Mexico.

Dru wasn't in their room when Spike got there. He dropped his duster on the table, stripped his tattered, bloodied clothes, and climbed into the shower, turning the water up to nearly boiling. He propped both hands against the wall below the showerhead and bowed his head beneath the spray. The vampire let the nearly-scalding-but-not-nearly-scalding-enough water sluice down his body, stinging the gouges and bites his sire had given him, washing away the grime and blood and tears.

But it couldn't wash away the green eyes that looked back at him from behind his closed lids. Accusing. Condemning. Dead. He growled and opened his eyes, staring at the white tile, watching the water at his feet go from red and rust to clear. Tears didn't color the water. Maybe they should.

A conversation from months ago came back to him as he stood there beneath the deluge of steaming liquid. Was just after he'd given the sodding puppy to the Slayer's mum… after she'd talked him into driving her to her daughter, who had just sent her first love to hell…

"Me and Dru, we're eternal… literally," Spike had told her as he drove them to Crawford Street from Revello after delivering the puppy. "Just needs a bit more monster in 'er man, she does." He sniffed. "Not a problem."

From the backseat Joyce had given him a sad smile in the mirror. "That sounds like a very lonely way to spend eternity, trying to be what you aren't."

Spike let out a wailing shriek of frustration and punched the wall, shattering tiles, sending the sharp splinters of porcelain raining down around his feet, slicing into the tender skin. He hit it again and again as he growled and cursed and screamed, turning the water red again. As any monster should.

** X-X-X-X-X **

Spike waited as long as his patience would allow, but Dru hadn't come back – off with the fairies… Spike hoped. Spike didn't really want to know what or who she was off with. What he wanted was to stop thinking, to stop feeling, to stop seeing the green eyes every time he closed his eyes. What he wanted was to get completely and utterly pissed. Maybe then he could find some sodding fairies to be off with.

He strode into the sparsely populated tavern with that mission in mind, slapped a pile of stolen cash down on the bar and ordered, "Patrón."

The bartender – an older man with short, grey hair, rich, brown skin, and dark, penetrating eyes – grabbed a glass, and poured Spike a shot. There were bowls of lime and plenty of saltshakers lined up along the top of the bar, but the vampire ignored them. He downed the shot in a flash of vampire speed, then snatched the bottle from the barkeep's hand before the man could even move.

"Save us all some time, eh?" Spike suggested, lifting the bottle to his lips and swallowing heartily.

The man furrowed his brows, but then shrugged and slid the pile of money off the bar, stuffing it into his pocket before turning to go tend to the few other patrons.

** X-X-X-X-X **

The world around him swam, undulating dreamily, as if it were underwater. Or maybe he was underwater. Spike blinked. He didn't feel wet. He definitely felt thirsty though. He picked up the bottle from the bar in front of him, threw his head back, and turned it upside down over his mouth. Only a few drops came out.

"OI!" he bellowed, swaying in his seat as he threw the bottle across the room, shattering it somewhere beyond his ability to see. "SERVICE!"

"No piensas que has tenido suficiente?" the small man asked from behind the bar.

"No, I bloody well don't think I've had enough. Still standing, aren't I?" he pointed out, looking down. Spike's brows furrowed. He moved his feet along the brass railing beneath them. His body didn't move. He moved them the other way. The rest of him remained in place. He looked back up at the barkeeper. "I-I think my feet 'ave come off," he admitted. "T-they don' move me about… think they're s-supposed t' do that," he slurred.

"Creo que ya has tenido suficiente," the man repeated, turning away from Spike.

"OI! Give me another sodding bottle or I'll rip your bleedin' head off!" the vampire threatened. "Can do it, too. Vampire, yeah? Monster," he breathed, widening his blue eyes dramatically and curling his fingers to mimic claws. Spike suddenly began to sob, dropping his forehead down onto the worn bar top with a 'thunk'.

"Not monster enough," he cried into the scarred wood, shaking his head back and forth. "Try t' be, don't I? Try to do everything she wants. Pluck all the ripest plums for my princess, but gotta keep 'er safe, don't I? Can't just pick every plum from the tree – the bleedin' farmer'd notice! Take 'er to shows, dancing, took her to the sodding Gulf and the Pacific – just what she said she wanted! Not enough! Never bloody enough," he moaned.

"Blergh…" Spike grunted, holding his stomach. "Gonna be sick. Need another bottle."

"Creo que—" the man began again.

"Yeah, well, yo creo que… I haven't had e-bloody-nough," Spike shot back, standing up on the railing where his disconnected feet rested, leaning over the bar, and snagging another bottle of Patrón. "So, bugger off! … ¡Vete la mierda!"

Spike's head spun when he dropped back down into his seat. He had to close his eyes a moment and hold onto the bar to keep from falling over. When he opened his eyes, he saw the bottle on the counter in front of him. He nodded and looked up at the bartender, who was looking distinctly unhappy, his dark eyes a mix of fear and anger.

"Muchas gracias, Panchito," Spike thanked the man, as if the barkeep had given him the bottle. Spike lifted the tequila up to take a swig, but nothing came out. He pulled it back and looked at it, rocking back and forth unsteadily, trying to focus on the top. "Can't get good help these days," he muttered, reaching one hand out to pull the cork from the bottle.

"Bloke could die of thirst 'round 'ere," he slurred, trying to close his fingers on the round cork. "Bloody hell… what they put these on with, sodding super glue?" he complained, his hand closing around the neck of the bottle rather than the stopper.

The barkeeper, whose name most certainly was not 'Panchito', rolled his eyes and blew out an impatient breath before reaching over and plucking the cork from the bottle, holding it up for Spike to see.

"Bloody hell… strong for a little flackito, aren't ya?" Spike observed, his eyes crossing as he tried to focus on the cork. "Remind me t' leave ya a good tip, eh? Oh! I got one for ya – don't fall in love with barmy women! And they're all bloody barmy!" he declared, laughing darkly before lifting the bottle to his lips and swallowing greedily.

"Vampiro estúpido," the man muttered, before going to clean up the shattered glass from the end of the bar. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd done that since the vampire had come in, nearly twenty-four hours ago. The only respite had been when Spike passed out sometime around dawn, giving the man a chance to go upstairs to his apartment, barricade his door, and get some sleep.

** X-X-X-X-X **

By the third night, the bartender had partly dragged, and partly lured the drunken vampire to the furthest end of the bar, away from his other, less depressed and less violent customers. He had no idea how to actually get rid of him, though. So far, no one had been attacked, but the man had seen enough to know that you didn't piss off vampires, especially drunken ones. And Spike was most assuredly drunk, and had been for the better part of the last seventy-two hours.

"Wha's tha'? ¿Qué eso?" Spike asked the man, squinting and trying to make out the rack of items on the wall that Not-Panchito was straightening and restocking. The vampire reached out with one wobbly hand and tried to grab what looked like small bottles of Patrón from the display. His fingers slipped over a smooth, glossy surface, unable to get hold of the mini-tequila bottles lined up in front of him.

"Recuerdos para los turistas," the bartender explained.

"Eh?" Spike asked, tilting his head as if that would make him understand better.

"Souvenirs," the small man tried in his thick accent. When Spike still looked confused, his chipped, black nails sliding over the slick bottles, unable to pick one up, the bartender rolled his eyes and pulled one of the cards out of the holder and waved it in front of Spike. "Tarjetas postales para los gringos."

Spike blinked and jerked his head back from the waving bottle. No, not a bottle. His brows furrowed and he grabbed it from the man's hand. "Postcards," he translated finally. "For gringos." He nodded drunkenly to himself. "I'm a bloody gringo," he asserted proudly, turning back in his seat and gently setting the postcard down on the bar in front of him, careful not to shatter it and spill the tequila.

He looked at it a few moments, swaying slightly in his seat, trying to remember what it was he did with postcards. He tried to pick it up and drink it again before remembering it wasn't actually a bottle, but a picture of a bottle. "'Keep calm and drink Patrón,'" he read from the card once his eyes focused again. "Good advice, that," he agreed, taking another swig from the actual bottle next to him.

After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Spike began digging in his pockets for his pen. The first thing he pulled out was the cell phone. He'd stuck it in his pocket earlier after, once again, considering calling Buffy, but not doing it. He hadn't been able to decide if he wanted to scream at her and curse her for the bloody cheese-loving bint she was, or cry on her shoulder – so he did neither.

Now, with a few more pints of fermented agave in his system, he opened it up and turned it back on. His head tilted in interest as the phone chimed cheerily. He watched the screen light up, displaying its animated logo, then go dark again, waiting for him to dial.

The bartender watched him, shaking his head. "Eso nunca es una buena idea," he advised, looking pointedly at the phone. "Nunca… eso no good."

Spike looked up at him. Frowned. Nodded. Turned the phone off. Put it back in his pocket. Went back to looking for his pen. What did he need his pen for, again?

** X-X-X-X-X **

In the wee hours of the fourth night, Spike started seeing pixies. They flitted around him in clouds of sparkling fairy dust, their delicate wings nothing more than blurs. He blinked. Then blinked again. They didn't go away. He reached out to catch them, but they were too fast, shooting away like comets.

He stumbled to his feet to follow them. As he stood up, the world stopped spinning. Spike didn't. For long moments he was the only thing in the universe still rotating, unbound by gravity or reality, and on the verge of spiraling out of control. He hung onto the bar top, rocking in place until the world jerked forward, caught up with him, and started turning again.

"Right…" he muttered, turning slowly to see where the fair-folk had got off to. His head wobbled around on his shoulders as if his neck were a frayed rubber band, and he had to put a hand to his forehead to keep it from bouncing on the floor and rolling away.

He caught sight of them going into the storeroom, and he took step to follow.

"¿Ya te vas?" the exhausted bartender asked hopefully.

Spike turned back to look at the man, nodding blearily. "Yeah, mate… gotta go," he replied, catching sight of a bottle on the bar where he'd been sitting. He picked it up, studying it closely for a few moments before he upended it over his mouth, letting the last drops of tequila dribble down his throat. He groaned. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Gracias a Dios," the barkeeper swore thankfully, folding his hands as if in prayer and looking up at the heavens.

"Yeah, yeah, Panchito, no need t' call in the big guy," Spike muttered, pulling out another handful of bills and dropping them on the counter. He blinked at the pile owlishly, then at the exhausted man. "That enough? ¿Suficiente dinero?"

"Si, si. Very good," the little man agreed, nodding eagerly and turning Spike toward the back door, where he'd been headed originally.

"Tha's good… i's all I got," the vampire slurred as he began staggering away under his own power, following the glittering pixies. He snagged another bottle of tequila from a carton as he walked through the back room, not bothering to hide it.

Not-Panchito let out a relieved sigh as soon as Spike was out the door, locking it behind the drunk vampire with a 'clack' of the heavy bolt. "Gracias a Dios," he breathed again, crossing himself, before heading back into the barroom.

He picked up all the money Spike had left – not actually enough to even begin to cover what he'd consumed, but the barkeeper was just happy to have him finally gone with no blood spilled. He straightened each note as he went, then folded it all and put it in his pocket. He furrowed his brows as he looked at the postcard that was left beneath the money, considered a moment, shrugged, and put it in the pile with his mail to go out later that day.

** X-X-X-X-X **

Sunnydale.

"So, no date-y goodness?" Willow asked Buffy between classes as they got books from their lockers.

"Not even a little bit," the Slayer sighed. "Then, when I got home, Spike sent me—" She stopped abruptly. Buffy hadn't told anyone about the postcards from Spike; only her mom knew about them. She was sure that there would be judgement and disapproving looks, possibly even long, boring lectures with a plethora of polysyllabic words from Giles. And there was no reason for it! They were postcards, for heaven's sake! It's not like she was dating another vampire! It was totally no big and everyone would want to make with the bigness.

"Spike sent you…?" Willow asked, looking at Buffy curiously.

"Huh? Oh, yeah… uh, Spike sent me… tumbling down the stairs when the pizza got there," Buffy covered, rubbing her arm as if it were bruised. "Big dummy," she complained.

"Well, Spike can get overly enthusiastic when it comes to cheesy-goodness," Willow agreed, closing her locker.

"Clearly," Buffy agreed, rolling her eyes. 'Fuck you and your fucking cheese!' What the hell did that even mean, anyway? 'I hope you choke on it and die.' Well, that, at least, was fairly easy to interpret.

"Oh! Look!" Willow bubbled, pulling a flyer down off the bulletin board and showing it to Buffy. "Speed dating at the Bronze tomorrow night!"

The Slayer paused and looked at the notice, her brows furrowing. "I don't know…" she demurred, her nose wrinkling. "I have to do that focus-y rock thing with Giles tomorrow—"

"That only takes a few minutes! You can still go. It'll be perfect!" Willow assured her. "You can talk to them for like, five minutes, and if you don't like them, you won't be stuck eating salads and hiding in the bathroom! And, if you do like them, then you can have a real date later."

Buffy still looked unconvinced.

"C'mon, Buffy, it'll be great! It'll give you a chance to get out of this whole vampire-missage phase," Willow cajoled.

"Vampire missage!? There's no missage! Why would I miss—" Buffy began to object.

"It's understandable!" Willow interjected. "Having Angel around but not being able to… you know, do anything about it." The redhead sighed, her eyes catching sight of another head of red hair passing through the crowd, pointedly not looking at her. "At least you can talk to your ex…" she said depressingly.

"Angel… right," Buffy sighed, letting out a breath of relief as she followed Willow's gaze. "No luck with the groveling?"

Willow shook her head and they started walking again. "He won't even let me try… he said to leave him alone."

"Just give him time, Wills. He'll come around… he cares about you too much to not forgive you," Buffy assured her friend.

"I might need another night of ice cream and Spike cuddles until that happens," the witch contended.

Buffy smiled. "Anytime. Spike's always up for kisses and cuddles."

** X-X-X-X-X **

The Bronze. Speed-dating.

"One of the things I look for in a woman is a low sexual partner count," the clean-cut brunette in the crisp, navy blue business-suit said just as Buffy sat down across from him.

Buffy's brows rose. "Okay, then, I guess that lets me out," she replied, smiling sweetly.

"Why, how many guys have you done?" he asked, wide-eyed.

"Oh, just guys? Well, if you're only counting guys…" She tapped a finger on her lips, eyes to the ceiling, apparently trying to calculate this immense number.

The fellow's eyes grew wider. "You've done girls, too?"

Buffy shrugged. "I'm and equal-opportunity doer. Let's see… now, do you count groups, too, or just, you know, one on one?"

The guy choked on his water.

-X-

The second boy, Jacob, looked more promising, in just regular jeans and a white t-shirt with a leather coat over top. The coat didn't quite hang right on him, though, it was too stiff, not broken in – it looked uncomfortable. Not like a certain leather coat she remembered, soft and supple, one that flowed sexily as the blond wearing it walked… no, not 'walked'. Spike never just walked, he sauntered or strutted. Sometimes he strode, occasionally he ran, the billowing duster making even his retreats seem evocative.

Buffy clenched her jaw as she sat down, shaking the image of that flowing duster and the blond wearing it from her mind. 'Bad Buffy! This is 'forget Spike' night, remember? He hates you! He wants you dead! He's back to public enemy number one! Forget him!'

"My cat died last night," Jacob related glumly, running a hand back through his dirty-blond hair and making it stick up at odd angles.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Buffy replied, doing her best to focus on his face and not his so-wrong leather coat. "Was it very old?"

"Yeah, like, twelve," he related. "My parents got her as a kitten when I was two."

Buffy furrowed her brow. "How old are you now?"

"Seventeen."

She gave him a saccharine smile. "Let me guess, math is your life."

-X-

"Whew! You're hotter than a data center with an old school cooling system!"

"O-kay, then. I'll just, uh, be in the restroom dousing myself with water so nothing catches on fire."

-X-

Buffy's hopes swelled as she moved to the next date, who stood up to shake her hand when she approached. His chocolatey brown eyes were bright and eager as they met hers. He was tall and broad, with a mop of brunette hair that was fashionably disheveled, and dimples! Oh God, the dimples when he smiled where melty, as was his smile, which made his eyes sparkle even more.

"Hello, gorgeous," he greeted Buffy, his voice a deep, rich baritone that flowed like warm honey.

Buffy couldn't help but smile, but figured that was his standard greeting. "It's Buffy, actually," she corrected as he released her hand and they sat back down.

"A gorgeous name to go with a gorgeous girl," he replied, leaning forward and giving her his full, undivided attention. "Denny," he introduced himself with a flash of white teeth.

Buffy could get used to all these compliments, even if they were just lines. His smile was infectious, and Buffy found herself returning it easily. "Nice to meet you, Denny. Is that short for Dennis?" she wondered.

"Nope, just Denny. Is Buffy short for 'Beautiful'?"

Buffy flushed, but didn't miss a beat with her reply. "Nope, just Buffy," she parroted back, her smile still matching his, though his included those killer dimples, which was so not fair. "I haven't seen you around before," Buffy continued.

"We just moved here a month or so ago from Seattle. I go to Central," he explained. "You?"

"About two years ago from L.A." Buffy provided. "I go to Sunnydale High."

"Oh, that explains it – you're from L.A. A starlet or a model?" Denny asked with a sly grin, flaunting his dimples again.

Buffy rolled her eyes, but smiled. "A cheerleader," she admitted.

"That's perfect," the brunette declared.

"Don't tell me – you play football," Buffy interrupted, her hope for this one fading as memories of Percy flooded her mind.

Denny picked up on it. "Not anymore," he asserted, giving her a lopsided smile. "I just quit."

Buffy laughed. "You'd give up football for me?"

"I'd give up breathing for you," he declared, that rich voice dripping with sincerity, his warm eyes focused solely on her, as if no one else existed in the whole world. Was it possible they weren't just lines?

"You don't even know me," Buffy reminded him.

"I know that you are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, that you have a smile that lights up the whole room, that you have eyes that glitter like emeralds, and hair that shines like spun gold. I know that you have great fashion sense and look amazing in red. And, most importantly, that you're no shrinking violet, and you don't take any crap from anyone."

Buffy's confidence swelled and lip twisted into a smirky smile. "That's not a lot of info to pledge your life on."

"Oh! I wasn't pledging my life. I'd give up breathing for, ya know, thirty seconds or so… a minute max," he joked.

Buffy laughed, finding herself utterly charmed. "Well, that's fair, then."

"I'd definitely need more to make a bigger fool of myself and, you know, pass out like a three-year-old in the middle of a temper tantrum. So, who is Buffy? Ten words or less," he challenged, his eyes glittering with anticipation.

Buffy could answer that in one: 'Slayer', but that would be meaningless to Denny. Plus, she'd gotten rid of her 'I'm a Slayer. Ask me how!' buttons. Who was she? The one girl in all the world… The Chosen One. None of that helped. Her smile turned slightly sad. "I'm the girl that monsters have nightmares about."

He arched a brow, his eyes narrowing in thought. "And nice guys dream about seeing again," he added cheekily, wagging his brows at her and giving her another of his drop-dead smiles.

Buffy grinned as the buzzer went off and she stood up. "That's more than ten words."

"So it is… so it is," Denny agreed, watching her move to the next table.

Buffy chanced a look back and found Denny still watching her, even as his next date came up to him. Another warm flush colored her neck and face when their eyes met and held for a long moment. She couldn't help but smile as she pulled her attention away from the (ex?) football player, though she could hear him saying hello to the next girl, and he didn't call her 'beautiful'.

-X-

"Hi, I'm Calvin," the next guy said in way of introduction, reaching his right hand across the table to shake. He had mousey brown hair, wore glasses and looked like he was trying to grow a beard but failing miserably. He also had braces on both of his hands and wrists.

"Buffy," she supplied, reaching over and shaking his hand.

"You're really pretty," he offered next, ducking his head shyly. "I like that dress."

"Thanks. You look nice, too. Rocking the whole sweater-vest thing," Buffy replied, trying to sound sincere.

Calvin fiddled with the collar of the knitted blue vest that he wore over a black t-shirt. "Thanks. I wasn't sure what to wear… you know, dress up or dress down?"

"So you dressed…?" Buffy hesitated, raising her brows.

"Up," he supplied.

"Up!" she mimicked quickly, as if that was her guess. "Well, yeah, it's, you know, unique, Calvin. Very… umm… wintery."

"You can call me Cal if you want."

"Okay… Cal." There was silence for a few moments before Buffy came up with, "What happened to your wrists?"

Cal held up both hands, showing her the black braces that wrapped his arms from mid-palm almost to his elbows. "I have nerve damage. Too much Mortal Kombat." He rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Like there could be too much Mortal Kombat!"

"Right—can never have too much of that… it's literally my life," Buffy agreed.

"You are the perfect girl," Calvin declared dreamily. "My old girlfriend never got it! She broke up with me last month. She said it was because the sex was really bad, you know, cos I can't use my hands." He raised said appendages again in demonstration. "And I can't climax cos of the meds, or, you know, even get an erection, but I know it was really about my dedication to winning the continued freedom of Earthrealm."

Buffy covered her mouth with one hand trying to hold back her shocked laughter, her eyes growing wider and wider as he spoke. Tears welled in her eyes as the strain of not laughing got to be too much.

"I know," Cal lamented sadly, shaking his head. "If I weren't such a badass warrior, it'd make me cry too."

Buffy nodded, her jaw clenched tight, her throat aching with the laughter that boiled up inside her. Lucky for her, the buzzer sounded and she shot up out of her chair and was gone before it even finished.

-X-

"Hi, I'm Daniel," the next one introduced himself in an almost lyrical baritone, standing up and extending his hand to shake.

"Buffy," she replied with a smile, accepting the proffered hand. He had a strong handshake, his hand didn't swamp hers, and he didn't try to crush her – not that he could, but he didn't know that. He had amazingly blue eyes and a thick head of chestnut-brown hair – trimmed neatly at the back and sides – that was slicked back on top – hiding curls? His chin and jaw were both strong, his high, prominent cheekbones making them look especially attractive.

"So," she began sitting down opposite him. "What do you do for fun? Video games? Comic books? Knitting?"

Daniel laughed easily, the humor sparkling in his blue eyes. "Would it kill my chances if I said, 'none of the above'?"

"Yeah, sorry," Buffy told him sadly. "I'm pretty into knitting. It's a real deal breaker."

"Well, I'm very trainable," he suggested, smirking. "What about you, Buffy? Other than the knitting, I mean? Axe throwing, maybe? Or grave robbing?"

"I can totally throw an axe!" Buffy declared unabashedly. "It was my talent in the Miss Sunnydale Pageant!"

"Which you won by throwing axes at all the other contestants?" he ribbed her, laughing.

"Well, that and my mad knitting skills," Buffy quipped, laughing in return.

Daniel was nice. He was funny. Not stuffy. Not piggy. She tried to imagine him with his hair bleached blond. Too bad his eyes weren't just a little less 'aqua' and a little more 'azure', and his teeth were a little too straight, too perfect, and he never once ran his tongue over them, and his smirk wasn't quite, well, smirky enough, and was his jaw actually strong enough to take a punch?

Buffy shook herself, barely keeping a groan from escaping her lips. 'Again, really!?' She was here to forget about a certain peroxided vampire, not compare prospective dates to him! Argh!

The buzzer sounded and they both stood up, Daniel extending his hand again, still smiling. Buffy took it, returning the smile. No way he could crush her hand, even if he tried. Should that be a bad thing?

-X-

"You're a cute one," the next guy, Joe, said first thing after introducing himself, peering at her over the top of his sunglasses. He had blue hair that stood up in stiff spikes all over his head, several earrings in each ear, and a skin-tight, long-sleeved black mesh shirt that showed off his thick muscles rather than covering them up. He ran his eyes over her face then down Buffy's body slowly before sitting back and pushing his sunglasses back up. "I'd give you a… six and a half."

Buffy raised her eyebrows. "Out of five?" she asked. "Like AAA?"

He snorted. "Outta ten, Bunny," he clarified.

"Buffy," she corrected.

He just kept talking, "I mean, maybe if you got a little something done up top – well, a lot of something from where you're starting," he suggested, waving at Buffy's chest, "and fixed your nose… you could maybe get to an eight… but your legs are too short, and there's just not a lot you can do about that."

Buffy looked down at her chest then put a hand to her nose as he spoke, frowning. "My legs go all the way to the ground," she pointed out, pouting.

He chuckled. "Yeah, but do they reach all the way up to heaven?" he asked lewdly, wagging his brows at her suggestively. "I'd have to stand you on a stack of phone books to bend you over and fu— oomph!" Joe's face nearly smacked into the table between them as he doubled over, groaning and clutching at his lap.

"I guess they reach far enough," Buffy observed sweetly. She shrugged and stood up. "By the way, Jack, I'd give you a one… only cos I like the color of your hair. I suggest you get something done up top, too… lobotomies are all the rage these days. Oh! Wait! You already had one, didn't you?"

-X-

"So, my dad wants me to go to Harvard, but I don't know," the dark-haired, olive-skinned guy in the 'Ghost Busters' t-shirt related. Buffy had already forgotten his name. "Everybody knows that MIT is better than Harvard in engineering. MIT does have a very good business school but not as dominant as Harvard's. And everybody knows that Harvard is better in the arts and humanities and the professions such as law, medicine, and business."

"Hmmm," Buffy grunted, her eyes glazing over.

"In the sciences, MIT of course has top departments, and I would say they are comparable in quality. But Harvard does publish significantly more papers in top science journals, has more National Academy of Sciences members on the faculty, and has more Nobel Prize winners and Fields Medalists among its alumni. Not just the graduate alumni, but also undergraduate alumni."

She hummed wordlessly again, looking at her watch. That couldn't be right. Four and a half more minutes!? Each date was only five minutes total. How could that be right? She'd been listening to this guy for at least five centuries already!

"MIT has been doing very well on the Putnam Competition for the past few years, though, likely because their admissions office has changed their recruitment policy and has been aggressively targeting high school math competition talent…"

Buffy found an interesting water droplet on the table to watch…

-X-

"Who shot first, Han Solo or Greedo?" the fourth guy, Walter, asked her, a nerdy little redhead in a plaid shirt with a plethora of pimples, silver braces on his teeth, and a definite dearth of muscles.

"Um, huh?"

"I can't date anyone who thinks Greedo shot first," he explained.

"Okay, I'm not sure I've formed an opinion on that yet?" Buffy hedged.

"Look, everyone knows Han Solo shot first in his fight with Greedo, the bounty hunter, at Mos Eisley Cantina. When they rereleased Star Wars: A New Hope, they changed how the scene went, showing Greedo shooting first. That's just wrong! Han shot first!" Walter insisted.

"The issue is that Solo's character was intentionally a maverick from the beginning," he continued to explain to Buffy. "So, his shooting without provocation made sense. Having him shoot second made the character more 'heroic' up front than was actually the case. It totally ruins his anti-hero mystique."

"Oh, uh, yeah, totally," Buffy agreed. "Go anti-heroes!" She furrowed her brow. "Um, what's an anti-hero, exactly?"

-X-

"Live long and prosper," the next guy greeted her, holding his right hand up, using his fingers to make a 'V' shape between the middle finger and ring finger.

"Uh, thank you. You too," Buffy replied with a polite smile.

The guy huffed, rolled his eyes, and folded his arms over his chest.

"I'm sorry, is that wrong?"

"The proper response to 'live long and prosper' is 'peace and long life,'" he informed her acidly. He narrowed his eyes at her. "Can you even do a Vulcan salute?"

"Is that like a twenty-one-gun salute? Cos I'm thinking I might be able to do that if I have to talk to one more nerd."

"I'm not a nerd," he sneered at her. "I'm a geek. Geez, blondie, get your head out of your ass."

-X-

"Whaddya say we blow this joint?" the next guy asked. He was trim and seemed well muscled under his tight, blue t-shirt – a swimmer's build. Nice looking, a smattering of soft freckles on his cheeks and nose, no pimples threatening to burst and spray puss all over her, shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair, super-cute dimple on his chin. "We can go get a bite… want to?"

Buffy's smile was real for the first time the whole night. "You're a vampire," she declared matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, so?" he replied.

"So, I'd love to go outside with you," she chirped enthusiastically, beaming as she stood up. Saved by a monster! Did that make this guy an anti-hero? She'd have to ask pimple-boy if she ever saw him again.


End Notes:

Once again, thank you so much for reading! Sorry to tease on the postcard. Buffy will get it in the next chapter. Things are gonna start getting a bit intense for Buffy coming up... Cruciamentum is nearing. I'll have another chapter for you on Saturday.

If you are a Grey's Anatomy fan, you might've recognized Denny as one of the dates. I couldn't find a good picture of a young-enough JDM to use in the story board, but that's totally who I was thinking of.