---
The thing about impulses, Buffy muses as the jet plane flies farther away from sanity and closer to destination crazyland, is that it's easy to forget how stupid they are in the heat of the moment. Her fingers are white as they grip the hem of her skirt, and her left leg is jiggling incessantly. They've been flying for eleven hours, with a pit stop in God know's where somewhere between Italy and L.A, and it's all Buffy can do to even close her eyes. She's too jittery to sleep.
Why did she think it was a good idea to fly around the world and confront not one, but both of her ex-boyfriends? To be fair, Spike's not technically an ex-boyfriend, more like an ex-bedfriend, but still, the sentiment's there--maybe even more so then her deal with Angel. After all, Buffy is used to the annual merry-go-round of broody woe and angst that Angel seems to be a permanent rider on. It's this new breed of melancholy with Spike that she's so confused about. Run of the mill grief is complicated when the object of your mourning is suddenly back, and second chances aren't so out of the question anymore.
Buffy groans silently. The two stupid vamps meant something to her once, and still do. Seeing them both all sexy and leathery and fighting-evil-y is not going to be good for her cookie-dough vow. Her original plan of fly first, see Spike, think later? Not so good.
She sighs for what must be the millionth time since her journey started sixteen hours ago. Buffy probably should have taken more time to plan, to strategize, to carefully suss out what's gotta be said once she gets to Wolfram&Hart, but the whole thinking aspect of the gig has always been someone else's forte. She almost wishes Giles was here to tell her what to do, but all she would get out of him on this one is a disapproving look and that annoying clearing-throat sound he makes before he says something he knows she won't appreciate.
"Blah," Buffy pouts. "Blah, blah, and more blah." She sighs again before being elbowed in the ribs by Dawn. "Ow!" she cries. "Hey!" She rubs the aching spot gingerly, glaring at her lightly-dozing sister.
Dawn jabs her unnaturally bony elbow into Buffy's tender ribcage once again, not even bothering to open her eyes.
"Okay, is there some sort of rule that says you have to shove all your lanky and awkward parts everywhere and invade my personal space?" Buffy complains. "Because I have this invisible line that you're crossing, and my god, you have extremely sharp elbows."
"You're like Little Miss Stormcloud," Dawn grumbles, shifting slightly and pillowing her head against Buffy's shoulder. "Stop obsessing over how much you wish you'd never had this dumb idea--and by the way, told you so--and just enjoy the ride. We can always just fly back when things get chaotic."
The pessimistic gene, Buffy is not surprised to find out, seems to indeed run through the Summers bloodline.
"If, Dawnie," Buffy absently corrects, patting Dawn's head, "If they get chaotic."
Dawn giggles sleepily. "For someone who knows chaotic so well, you really do have a hard time recognizing it from a mile away, don't you?" Buffy swats Dawn's arm playfully before bringing the complimentary airline blanket up and tucking it around both their shoulders. Dawn snuggles closer and is soon snoring gently, her little nose scrunched up as drool gathers against the corner of her lip.
Just for the chaotic comment, Buffy doesn't plan on pointing out the accumulating saliva, or the really bad airplane bedhead to Dawn when she wakes up. But Buffy does grudgingly admit that, while her little sister may be annoying in a way that ends all annoyances, she has a point. There's no point in worrying how things are gonna be once they land. Chaos will come no matter what Buffy does or doesn't do.
It's just the way her life goes.
Marginally reassured in a vaguely depressing way, Buffy sighs one more time and lets her head drop lightly against Dawn's. She may as well get some sleep before the coming light. She's found that being well-rested gives her the extra edge of patience needed when it comes to dealing with huge, inflated, easily-bruised egos. And at least she has some prior experience in this whole deal.
She gives a fond chuckle. Who is she kidding--feuding vampires with whom she has a complicated history? This is something she knows better than the back of a well-aimed fist.
It's good to be going back home.
With this thought, Buffy gives up and sinks into a heavy sleep, full of wonderful, non-Slayery dreams of Fred Seigel and Barney's and oooh, that really nice cafe on the corner of Greenview and Main that she used to get a croissant and coffee from every day of freshman year.
The sky outside is a light violet when Buffy's finally jarred out of her restful dreams, and Dawn is leaning across her to stare out the window longingly.
"California," the girl whimpers, and Buffy strokes her hair, silently marvelling at the sight below. The sky around them is bright indigo, and the rising sun fans soft yellow rays over the familiar arrangement of California land that makes Buffy's throat ache when she sees it. She's forgotten the briney tang of California ocean breeze, the warm press of sandy beaches against her bare feet and the golden-brown sheen of oil-slicked skin just waiting to bake in the hot sun. She's forgotten bright blue skies and the mad rush of the freeway and tall, gorgeous palm trees with fronds as green as the well-manicured lawns of her residential neighborhood. She's forgotten how much she loves this place, how much she's ached for it.
"California," Buffy agrees, breathing in deeply. She gives Dawn's hand a squeeze and whispers, "California."
As if on cue, a voice crackles over the speaker in the cabin. "Ladies," the pilot intones, "We're flying over California airspace and will be arriving shortly at the Council location--"
"Which remains undisclosed, due to the disease of appalling paranoia the stuffy set still suffers from," Dawn grumbles.
"--so I suggest you put your seatbelts on and prepare to land. Wouldn't want to be responsible for any Slayer injuries, would we, Pete?"
The co-pilot chuckles nastily before the intercom shuts off.
Buffy raises an eyebrow as the jet slowly begins its descent. "Gee," she says to Dawn, clicking her seatbelt closed, "With personalities like that, I have to wonder why Council employees can't find gainful employment in the burgeoning field of customer service."
"Would you like secrecy, lies, and disapproval with your Big Mac?" Dawn mocks, fastening her seatbelt with a snap.
"And a side-order of tweed, please, Jeeves," Buffy grins.
"It's George!" Both sisters exclaim after a beat, breaking into silent snickers. The jet plane gives an answering lurch, and the girls shut up, sharing twin looks of mirth as that familiar swoop in their stomachs begins to take hold.
When the plane finally lands (none-too-gently, Buffy observes, as Dawn's face turns slightly green), it rolls gently to a stop on a strip of runway overlooking the ocean.
She almost rips her seatbelt in half in her haste to get out of her seat.
The air in California, Buffy decides, is the best air ever. Screw the dirty, bustly, European air of Italy. This is good old fashioned American smog. Buffy takes a deep breath and closes her eyes as she drags her suitcase down the metal stairs leading to the ground below. Smells like burgers and exhaust and sunshine, and oh, god, high school. Both high schools, the one where she was a spoiled rich girl and the one where she was the slayer. It smells like hope and excitement, and something familiar like--
"Doughnuts!" Buffy's eyes snap open and she stumbles the last few steps to the ground, letting her carryon fall with a thump. Pastries and cannolis, etc., etc...those are all well and good. But Krispy Kremes? They can make a girl go crazy.
Dawn pushes past Buffy with a muffled shriek, diving at the impeccably-dressed man holding a giant box of frosty goodness.
Or they can make a girl go crazier, Buffy scowls, hoisting herself up and resigning herself to the fact that all the jelly doughnuts will be gone in point two seconds flat. As little as Dawn is, she eats like a friggin' beast. But that's okay, because for the first time in almost six years, Buffy's putting on weight and it shows. And she likes it.
And by the look in Mr. Armani's eyes, their chauffeur likes it, too.
Buffy saunters to the doughnut box held in his hands and gives him a bright smile. He just gives a curt, nervous nod, and holds the box in shaking hands. Buffy smirks; good to know she still has some reputation.
She peers into the box just as Dawn gives an impatient yell from the seriously choice car that is waiting for them. Buffy sighs. Limo or doughnut? Pastry of sugary wonder or air-condition and surround-sound American music and oh, god, roads without Vespas!
Doughnut time will have to wait.
Reaching for the box hastily, she says, "Thanks, Je--"
"If you say Jeeves, madame, I am instructed to withhold the doughnuts indefinitely." The box moves a millimeter away.
Buffy blinks. She looks to Dawn, who in turn, looks perplexed. "George?" she mouths, shrugging. Purple jelly is smeared inelegantly across her lower lip.
"Thanks...George?" Buffy tries. The box jerks another millimeter away. Buffy sighs again. "Okay, I bite. Or more like, I wish to bite, so let's play the name game. As in, what's yours?"
"Mitchell, madame," the man says pleasantly. "Mr. Giles says to reward you with this box and that I'm to tell you how fostering a friendly Council-Slayer relationship is indeed fruitious in the quest for baked goods." He frowns. "Mr. Giles does not always make sense, I'm afraid."
Buffy gives a wry grin and balances the box of doughnuts, the carryon in the other. "It's a habit of his," she says. She shoos Mitchell away to the driver's seat and hoists her own carryon into the trunk, however light it is. It's good to be out and about again, doing some labor of the physical sense. Her fingers itch for a well-made, balanced stake, and she thinks wistfully of graveyards and fledglings.
She almost giggles as she slides into the leather of the Rolls-Royce, resting her head back against the plush seats. Once upon a time she thought wistfully of everything but graveyards and fledglings. Once upon a time, she wanted to be a normal girl. With age comes wisdom, Buffy guesses, and she's finally old enough to be smart enough to know the truth of her life.
Normal is way overrated.
Dawn thrusts the doughnut box in front of Buffy's face. There's a gooey, glazed pastry of tastiness, tempting her with it's sticky siren's call. She reaches in and pulls it out gingerly, holding it up almost reverently. Licking her lips, she gazes at it for a long moment. "You and me," she tells it seriously, "Have a lot of catching up to do."
Then the doughnut is pretty much history, and Buffy is chewing away, gazing out the tinted car window and taking in the passing scenery as Mitch starts to drive. They drive relatively peacefully for a while until the car lurches and swerves off the road, onto the narrow shoulder. A litany of horns and shouts greet their ears and Buffy rolls her eyes. Good ol' L.A freeway, big with the impending vehicularly-caused deaths. And here she was thinking that Rome had been bad with the traffic and asshole drivers with their lewd comments and their stupid candy-apple red scooters.
A car behind them beeps its horn and Buffy makes out an R-rated comment or two.
Dawn grabs her arm. "Oh, please, can I?" she asks, and Buffy just sighs, making a 'go-ahead' gesture. The glass is at once rolled down and then Dawn is gesticulating wildly out the window, meeting the angry shouts with some choice words of her own. There is silence for a moment, then one last yell from both sides, before the other car peels away.
Dawn leans back into the limo, satisfied. "Drive on, Mitchy," she calls cheerfully. The car navigates back onto the freeway carefully, and Buffy looks at her little sister.
"You are very scary," Buffy says solemnly. "And I didn't even know Italians had a word for doing that action to that body part."
Dawn grins. "I've been educated pretty well," she shrugs, then goes back to happily bopping away to whatever drivel was previously playing on the radio.
"Madame?" Mitch asks. "Where would you like to be going?"
Buffy shrugs. "It's still light, so hanging out with the creepy-crawlies is out," she says. " And I really don't wanna deal with the reason we're actually here...not just yet. I thought maybe first, we could go to the hotel where Giles reserved a room for us, and then afterwards, maybe the mall."
Dawn clutches her arm. "Shopping," she all but gasps. "Oh, please, shopping. I need some non-Eurotrash style sitting in my closet. Please say we're gonna be doing a lot of shopping."
Buffy nods slowly, leaning back again. "Hotel first, though," she says thoughtfully. "It'll be good with the shower, the nap, the non-doughnut-y sustenance."
"Jet lag isn't any easier for a Slayer," Dawn pipes up sagely. Her eyes are now glued to the scenery outside, the cars whizzing by and the palm trees swaying in the breeze. The look on her face is contented rapture, and for the first time in a while, it strikes Buffy that maybe she's not the only one who's missed home so much. Buffy reaches a hand out to stroke Dawn's hair and vows that visits like this will happen more often.
"What happens after the recuperation, though?" Buffy asks, more to herself than anyone. "I mean...yeah, we have to go to Wolfram & Hart...eventually." She laughs nervously. "But--but it's okay that it's not on the agenda right this second, right? Even though I made with the crazy and we pretty much flew light-speed out of Italy? I just--I'm getting a case of the coldest of feet. Maybe I wasn't so ready as I thought to see him. Them."
Dawn looks at Buffy for a long minute. "It's fine," she says finally. "Wolfram & Hart can be on the agenda whatever time you want it to be. This is your game now, Buff. Not theirs." She gives a knowing smile. "I know how much it grates you that they're always the one's dropping in with the surprises. I get that you wanted to drop in with one of your own, your own way. And, if it helps, I think your arrival really will throw everyone for a loop."
"Good." Then Buffy furrows her brow. "A loop? Just a loop?"
Dawn sighs. "Buffy. Angel's up and up with the big, bad lawyers. And if Andrew's right, and when it comes to the bleached-blond love of his life, the little freak usually is, now Spike is involved, too. You gotta wonder if they're as invested in you as you seem to be in them. Like, would they leave their happy playground of evildom just to fly around the world and see you? I mean, through it all, how come neither of them ever bothered to send one eensy little phonecall your way asking how your apocalypse went?"
Buffy looks put out. "Oh, come on," she says skeptically. "To be fair, it'd be insensitive for me to ask Spike to do that--him, uh, being the reason my apocalypse, you know, went in the first place. And the whole Angel situation, well, look. He's got his deal and I've got mine, and hello--we've danced that dance for what, seven years now? So he doesn't pine anymore, so what? And okay, he doesn't even have the time for a lousy phonecall-- what does that prove, other than that he is still grossly inadequate at this 'being friends' thing? And Spike, well, I'm sure he's got a perfectly good reason for...you know, not calling, and not believing me when I told him I---" Buffy stops with difficulty, "--and, and telling Andrew not to tell me he was even back--" Buffy stops again and when she finally speaks, her voice is marginally softer. "Oh. Oh. It's...it's not about me anymore, is it? With them? With either of them?" She sighs. "That's what you're trying to tell me."
"Buffy," Dawn chides gently. "It'll always be about you to them. It's just that life moves on, and you've been in Rome, and Angel's got his apocalyptic law firm to run, and who knows what's going on in Spike's ginormous head? I'm just saying, you have to be ready for the possibility that our welcome back party may not be so...welcoming."
Buffy takes a deep breath and nods. "I get that," she says honestly. "And I'm not expecting big smoochies or anything." Off Dawn's skeptical brow, "Hey, don't look at me like I have no willpower of my own, I'm not addicted to vampire lips, okay? I just think, in my world, when someone comes back from Hell--or Heaven--there's a reason. And I didn't want to be avoidy-girl with the drama that is overabundant. 'Cause then maybe I'd miss the importance of that reason, you know?"
Dawn gives Buffy's hand a squeeze. "Giles would be so proud of you," she says. "Ignoring those hormonal impulses and coming here for the greater good."
Buffy laughs. "Hey," she says, shrugging. "I'm nothing if not sacrificial."
Dawn rolls her eyes. "Yeah, okay."
Then they lapse into a comfortable silence as the limo drives along, and Buffy lets herself relax, tells herself there's no pressure or expectations awaiting her. If she closes her eyes and thinks hard enough, she can almost believe it's true.
The hotel, when they get there, is a welcome sight. The limo drives up to the entrance and Buffy can feel the eyes of every tourist on the block staring through the tinted windows. She toys with the idea of slipping her Gucci sunglasses out of her purse and stepping out of the limo like she's someone who matters, but the inclination is gone within a second. She's okay being just Buffy. Took her a couple (okay, several) years to get to that point, but she's here, now. Just a little LA girl at heart, an unnatural blond, and maybe a few point short of the super-highest IQ ever, but she can kick someone's ass like there's no tommorrow. That's gotta be worth something to be proud about.
Buffy reasons that it still wouldn't hurt to beam a sunny smile and send a perky wave towards the Hawaiian-print-wearing, bucket-hat-having couple standing in the parking lot. They take some furiously snapped pictures with their camera and then Buffy is hoisting her suitcase up again, looking critically at the small, garishly-decorated building in front of her.
"Plastic hollywood sign on the front, tacky inflatable palm trees, archway of christmas lights," Buffy mutters. "I am going to kill Giles."
They say goodbye to Mitch at the door and Buffy promises to call him once they want to go back out. One of the perks of being employed by the Council is the nifty cell-phone they've gifted her. She's finally on the up and up enough to use one, but she's stoked that Mitch's number is already programmed in, because she's still shaky with the technology. Another sign of how out-of-touch she's been all these years, and Buffy is so impatient to start living again.
Dawn gives an impatient huff of her own at Buffy's tragic lack of cool as they stroll to the front desk to check in.
Hotel clerks, Buffy is displeased to discover, are pretty much the same worldwide. Rude, abrasive, and generally big with the 'I'm so much better than you' vibe. It's like being around Cordelia again. Buffy wrinkles her nose. Huhn. Cordelia and her whole business-partner thing with Angel. Another thing that is weirder than weirdness. Another thing she'll have to deal with.
Buffy shakes out of it. But not now, she reminds herself. Shower, nap, shoes. In that order. Then the awkwardness that is my life. She thanks the clerk with an icy smile and then she and Dawn head to their room.
It's smaller than tiny apartment in Rome, and definitely shabbier, but there are no unidentifiable stains to be seen, and they get free cable. So Buffy reasons that this is a good enough compromise and leaps onto the bed, sighing as she sinks into the soft mattress.
"You know," Buffy says, her voice muffled as she speaks into her extra-fluffy pillow, "I should be mad that I chickened out of going to Wolfram & Hart right away. I mean, I got pretty for nothing." Her silky green skirt and cute little top, worn so eagerly (and transparently) for the sole purpose of making a certain someone's eyes bug out, are pretty much useless now--dirty, wrinkled, smelling like stale airplane air. Too bad. She'd had big plans for the outfit.
Funny how quickly her head had spun with slow-mo images of big, blue eyes widening appreciatively--
Buffy blushes. Okay, so no more intricate fantasy-weaving for her. Stupid hopeful feelings, she thinks ruefully. Getting all big and built-up, and when you see him, he'll probably stammer a lot and run. Or you'll muck it up like a giant mucky thing and he'll be all, 'Why don't you just run along back to the land of piazzas and parmesan, Slayer?' and it'll suck just as bad as you deserve it to 'cause you treated him like crap for so long and didn't really realize how much he meant to you till he decided to let himself catch on fire--
Her inner dialogue stops mid-rant when Dawn lands on the bed beside her. "Well," her little sister says, "Just change into jeans and a tee-shirt, then. I did. You can always buy another dressier outfit when we go out shopping. And then afterwards, maybe we can hit up a club or something--the discos in Italy are seriously wack and I've been jonesing to get down with some good old American pop for awhile."
Buffy sighs. "Fine," she says wearily, dragging herself up.
"Maybe you'll even meet someone," Dawn suggests brightly. "Someone cute and non-fangy. Though, knowing you, he'll still have mega issues."
Buffy throws a pillow at Dawn as she heads to the bathroom to shower and change.
Maybe she will meet someone, she thinks, as she steps into the shower, but she has this nasty suspicion that it won't help any when it comes to forgetting--or getting over--the issues that have been plaguing her all summer. Namely one issue in particular, with pale skin, bleached hair, and a penchant for dark clothing. She lathers her hair and sighs, glad that Dawn can't hear her now and do something wholly obnoxious, like flush the toilet.
Buffy shakes the water of her eyes and gives a frustrated grumble. Annoyingly enough, she's feeling a lot like Spike must have early in the throes of his super-fun obsession with her. Every thought and belly rumble she has is a reminder that soon enough, she's going to see him again. And while to an extent it's about both of her exes, it'shim she's most eager to see again. She wants to drink in his chiseled features and smirky grin...but she's also afraid.
Because unlike the last time she saw him, if she declares her love at some startlingly innappropriate second, he won't just poof and die. He'll stick around and maybe break her heart. While the first vampire who broke her heart stands by and watches. Maybe they'll compare notes.
"Bufffffyyyy," Dawn calls. "Stop daydreaming Spike and Angel daydreams and come take a nap! We've got a lot of ground to cover tonight. Two words: Jimmy Choo!"
Buffy, changed and newly clean, opens the door fast and marvels at how quickly little sisters throw things into perspective. What's a little thing like a broken heart when new shoes are in the picture?
The bed is warm and the sunshine warmer against Buffy's cheek when she sinks into her second nap of the day. Her hand curls around her little sister's and she squeezes, thanking whoever it is up there that she will have this girl, who loves her so unconditionally, standing by her side when she confronts the prodigal vamps. She has a feeling she's gonna need all the support she can get, she thinks sleepily, as she drifts off.
When Buffy dreams of staking a vampire with a brand-new pair of Malano Blahnik stilettos, she knows it's time to wake up. The afternoon sun casts a shadow across the room as she opens an eye drowsily, her limbs still wonderfully heavy with sleep. She mumbles a little and stretches, her hand brushing her hair out of her eyes as she sits up slowly.
"Whazzat?" Dawn snorts in her sleep. "The footnotes have fangs!"
Buffy watches bemusedly as Dawn shoots up in a stupor, her hair in messy whorls, staticky against her cheek. "All right there, slugger?" she says thickly. "No more doing research for the Council past midnight for you, it's eating your brains."
Dawn whimpers and rubs her eyes. "Footnotes. Aramaic. Eating brains." She looks to Buffy. "I need to burn some plastic."
And so they do.
The mall that Mitch takes them to when Buffy calls is standard mall fare--crowded, bustling, and aromatic with that distinct food court/body lotion/cookie store smell. Dawn takes a big breath as soon as she crosses the threshold, and then she tugs Buffy's hand and they're off, practically running to the directory to inspect the offerings.
"Oooh, Charlotte Russe and Urban Outfitters!" Dawn squeals. "I've been dying for something that truly screams apathetic american teenager. Which means--lots and lots of torn denim!"
"Nevermind that," Buffy says gleefully, "Anne's Pretzels!" The sisters turn to each other and grin. Itay had been great in terms of high-style fashion and zoomy motorcycles and hot, if innappropriate, Italian men. But there really is nothing quite like the American mall experience.
The two spend five hours at the mall, window-shopping, shopping-shopping, and occasionally taking the odd picture or three of a tourist in particularly garish garb. It's a game that they've played in every country they've been in since Sunnydale fell into a hole. Travelling the world has afforded them some truly entertaining pictures of some truly frightening get-ups. These snapshots will find themselves in their album upon returning to Rome, and Buffy finds herself giggling at the perverseness of the Summers concept of 'souvenirs.'
They finally collapse onto a bench outside the mall, pooped out and weary, going over their respective loot. Buffy sits watching the evening sky bleed a beautiful red-violet when Dawn thumbs through one picture in particular.
"Wow," she whistles. "Who is this piece of big yum?" Buffy rolls her eyes but leans over with interest, inspecting the picture Dawn has plucked out of their pile.
The guy is tall and slender, with pale skin, pale hair, and dark eyebrows, and a grouchy expression on his face. It's the disaffected look of a model looking for a job (or a sandwich) and Buffy's breath leaves her for a second at how familiar that scowl is. The white-blonde hair and sun-starved skin, the hollow cheekbones, the way he's captured in swaggery mid-walk--all that she can ignore. But the way this man's lips curl is so reminiscent of Spike, that Buffy can't speak.
Knowing Spike's alive and being confronted with it face-to-face are two very different things. She doesn't really know what she'll do when she finally sees him, touches him (not that she'll touch him innappropriately, or anything), talks to him--she's only ever dreamt of it before.
In a few hours--or tommorrow--or never--she'll live it.
"Buff?" Dawn asks. "What's wro--" Dawn looks down at the picture and understanding settles in. "Oh." She squints harder at the picture. "Oh."
Buffy sighs, tugging at the bag of clothes she has just bought, not even solaced by their glittery newness.
"That's it," Dawn says firmly. "You're turning into Angel. All brood, all the time. The moment of reckoning will come, Buffy, but it's not here yet! The night is young and I don't think we'll be seeing any of your exes at the places I plan to go tonight. So, up and at 'em, missy. We're going dancing!"
Buffy gives a feeble protest as Mitch drives up in his severely obtrusive limo. But the look in Dawn's eyes rouse her from her gloom. She's young and fit, dammit, there is no reason she should be pining after immortals, anyway! She should be happy to go dancing.
"Okay, Mitch," Dawn says once they're situated in the car, "Take us to the first club you see."
And with those ominous words, the limo is off, navigating the freeway with all the ease of the Batmobile. "Wow," Buffy says, impressed, "Council cars. Big with the speed."
"And that's not the only thing that's gonna be going a little fast tonight," Dawn deadpans, giving a mock-leer. Buffy grimaces.
"Worlds of ew," she says, disgusted. "Your procreation plans are something off-limits in terms of discussion. As in, you better not have any plans, end of said discussion."
Dawn shrugs. "Fine. Cramp my style."
Buffy grins and turns to look out the window. When she's safely ensconced in the whole joke-with-her-sister thing, she can forget about the world outside. She's still pissed about the Spike and Angel situation, but she's also vulnerable to them. Shockingly so, still. Getting her bearings and really diving into a fun, girly night of dancing may be just what she needs before she's hard-ass slayer, jilted-lover Buffy once more.
"Here we are, madames," Mitch announces, as the car rolls up to the entrance of a swank-looking club.
"Dawnie, are you sure we--" Buffy starts, worried about how much it'll cost to even get in there, let alone pay for drinks.
"Council credit card," Dawn reminds her. "And neither of us are doing the alcohol thing, so it's just your standard water and soda deal. We won't be spending a lot, and more importantly, we won't be spending our money, so..."
"Let's get in there," Buffy finishes firmly. They say goodbye to Mitch and crawl out of the limo, and Buffy cringes at the whispers and shouts that sweep through the line to the entryway. Not only do they look totally lame coming out of a limo dressed like high school kids out for a night of forbidden fun (nevermind that this is exactly what Dawn is) but they also will have to wait in line forever just to get in.
"Who is that?" Buffy hears the trendy types whisper. "Is that the girl from that awful B-movie? What was it, Scooby Doo?"
"Nah," her companion says, "That chick was a redhead. This one's straight blonde."
Buffy scowls as she and Dawn hit the back of the line. Fat load of info they know, she huffs, I'm a natural brunette. So hah!
"Dawnie," she says, "What's the name of this club anyway?"
"Cat and Fiddle," Dawn replies, craning her neck. "The high-power, rich-people type of club from what we're seeing in line. But hey, if we're on Council dime, we may as well appreciate it, right?"
"Too true, sister mine," Buffy says absently. Something has caught her eye. A person in line a few feet ahead of them. He looks unsettlingly familiar. "Hey, Dawn?" She tugs her sister's sleeve. "Look at that guy up there. The one in the brown coat and the turtleneck."
Dawn looks, her eyes narrow as she tries to put a name on him. "Yeah, what about him?"
"Does he look...like we should, I dunno, know him?" Buffy's stomach is doing that oh crap thing again.
The man turns to his companion, a pretty dark-haired girl. There's a tall black man standing next to him, and--and a green-skinned guy! With horns?
"Damn." Buffy closes her eyes. She's heard the odd description or two of the LA gang from Willow, and the one that stands out the most? Yeah. Green-skinned guy with horns. And alongside him, the black guy named Gunn, and the girl is probably Fred. Which makes the man--
"Buffy, what?" Dawn asks anxiously. "Who is it?"
Blue eyes lock into Buffy's own hazel ones. An eyebrow arches up and everything falls away for a second. Buffy is thrust four years back into her past, when she was a senior in high school and this guy was just a namby-pamby authority figure. Now she's come back from the dead and he's got a vicious scar peeking out from his turtleneck, and Buffy has a feeling things have changed.
The man says something to his companion and steps out of line, coming towards them.
Buffy steels herself for a confrontation she's not ready for.
"Buffy, Dawn," he acknowledges, when he's finally in front of her and Dawn, who's jaw has dropped.
"Wesley." Buffy says in a defeated voice. "Fancy meeting you here."
And this, she thinks wearily, as Wesley's friends (minus the two people she's actually here to see) come to join them, is probably the start of a very long night.