7.
Unfinished Music: No. 1
Within a minute of entering the room, Buffy was alone. And she'd been accused of some sort of duplicity she didn't entirely understand, by Willow of all people. She poked her head out the door and decided to take a chance. In the past, Giles had been the go-to guy for 'rational,' even when everyone else was having a cow.
He was just down the hall lecturing to Willow's bedroom door, "Yes, I'm certain that you have what you believe are valid reasons for everything you've done." Considering content and context, his speechifying was probably aimed at Kennedy. "Just because you believe—"
That ended when Buffy called his name. Willow melting down in the room across the hall added a 'walk of shame'-like quality to her approach. Buffy hung her head and concentrated on the important part. The walking part. This was only all her fault, but walking was still important. And the carpet was red. A truly crappy red.
When she looked up, Giles was staring at her expectantly. "There's something really wiggy going on here." It felt strange having to point that out. A fact made all-the-better by Kennedy going off in the background. Wow. The universe must really revolve around her. Buffy snapped at the door, "Oh, would you shut up?" She turned her attention to Giles. "Care to explain to me what just happened?"
Without saying a word, he confirmed that she was right. That was the good part. Or almost good. Not being wrong is good, right? The bad: Giles is having a cow. And his 'cow having' started when I looked up. He got a good look at me and wigged.
"Oh, dear," he sputtered. "That hadn't occurred to me."
"What?"
Giles being afflicted with the verbal equivalent of two left feet made Buffy antsy. Before he got out, "Your eyes," he mumbled, stumbled and 'ered' enough times that she considered unsticking him with a pop to the head.
"Yep, they're my eyes," she said, utterly deadpan. No clue what's up with—
"Yes, but the person I spoke with didn't—"
Didn't what?
"What I mean to say is, her eyes weren't—"
My eyes are— Oh. Oh! Giles didn't talk to me. He talked to— "Oh, jeez." My twisted, psychotic, homicidal alter ego is here—with the dividing and the—
"I feel like such a fool," Giles mumbled. He moved on to the whole 'head hanging', 'self-castigating' part of the exercise. And that was fine.
He's welcome to do that—somewhere else—somewhere where he isn't playing into the rest of that scenario.
"Take care of Will, okay?" Buffy said, putting a hand on his shoulder to steer him in the right direction. "Get her somewhere safe."
As Giles took the hint, picking his way past the scraps of door that littered the floor of Kennedy's former room, Buffy knocked to get her attention. "Stay put."
Buffy didn't hang around for an answer. As far as she knew, the sky was still blue most days. And if things worked here like they did in her world, sharing that with Kennedy would just get her an argument. Yes, the sky does have an annoying habit of changing color based on the amount of light, pollutants, clouds—whatever, but it is generally accepted as being blue.
And this carpet is still the fugliest shade of red I've ever seen. Kennedy probably loves it.
That little flight of fancy took her halfway down the stairs. Although the fugly red carpet was still absolutely captivating to watch, she looked up. The lobby was still lobby-like in a 'James Cameron: post apocalyptic future' kind of way, with one minor addition. The weird, round, facey-outy couch had gained a Xander. Or part of it had. He didn't so much fit. Though, it was pretty safe to say that no one could nap on that couch gracefully. It wasn't that kind of a couch.
Buffy hurried to his side as fast as her gimpy leg would carry her. She felt a strong need to reach out and check that he was okay, even though his chest was rising and falling…and she could hear him breathe. Smell him breathe.
Wow.
Alright, well, I guess it's not all that surprising that he's having problems too. My Xander's not without his vices. Though they normally take the form of spending obscene amounts of money collecting comics that he claims are rare. Not that he reads them. Most of them are sealed in these clear plastic 'comic book time capsules.' If they aren't, he sends them away to become the Book in the Plastic Bubble.
Thereby proving my claim that boys are weird.
Though, to be fair, I decided that his thing and my thing aren't that much different. One of these days he'll have all the comics—all pristinely encased so that they can never ever be read—and I'll find the perfect pair of Fendi flats. It'll happen.
And I'll wear them.
She said his name in that whispered, insistent way that sometimes wakes people up. It was a no-go with him, so she tried again. Besides, I don't know that this is a standard thing. He could've just had a bad day. The third time she shook him and got swatted away for her trouble. I can relate.
"Stop," he whined. His breath was lethal.
Buffy straightened up to put some distance between herself and that. The back of her hand went protectively to her nose. She stated the simple truth, "Xander, you can't sleep here."
Xander's eyes opened and closed repeatedly. When they finally stayed open, he still didn't look like he was focusing on anything, but apparently he was because he slurred, "Oh, i'z you." He blinked again. "You saith—" His face scrunched with concentration. "You were—" He tried to sit up. "You hath ta go." His version of 'sitting' looked a whole lot more like 'falling.'
Oh boy, this is gonna be fun.
"We have to go," Buffy corrected as she held him by the upper arms to keep him upright.
"Nuh-uh, you go," Xander replied.
"I'm not going anywhere. There's a vampire here, in the hotel." Shouldn't he be wigging? She tried to encourage him to stand by lifting his arms. His shoulders rose and fell. Xander was for all intents and purposes a very large, very heavy ragdoll.
"Tha's wha' I said. You were jus' here." His eyes widened. "You weren' here?"
"No," Buffy replied. She'd heard better news.
The good news: once Xander had that much figured, he got a whole lot more helpful. He stood with minimal difficulty and was almost able to stagger on his own. But it was still a case of the lame leading the even lamer. He stopped halfway across the lobby to ask, "Say, how d' I know y're tha good 'n'?"
Keeping him on his feet strained her sore shoulder. Buffy bit back a wince. "You're just gonna have to trust me on that."
Kennedy let out a contemptuous hiss. "Stay put," she grumbled. "Like I'm gonna stick around to watch the Great Blonde Hope get her ass handed to her." The noise in the hallway had died down. Slowly, carefully, she turned the key. A dry snicker slipped out, pretty much negating her attempt at silence. She paused to listen. Yeah, more like Thing One will vamp Thing Two and we'll end up with bookends. Just what this hell hole needs: another homicidal maniac.
Whatever. It's past time I make that 'we' a 'they.' And for that I need my phone.
The hallway was still dead. She cracked the door and peeked out. All of the drama had moved to other parts of the hotel. She thought it was cool until she set foot outside the door. It was like the bitch had been waiting, but Kennedy was pretty sure that was just the paranoia talking. Xander sounded plastered. Staging something like that with someone like that would be a total pain. From the faintness and hollowness of their voices, it was apparent they were in the lobby. Kennedy figured all of that out during the mad dash she made to her dresser in the adjacent room.
Her phone was right there, sitting amongst the cosmetics and jewelry. She should've just taken it and gone, but a funky old coin grabbed her interest. It was positioned front and center, away from everything else so she couldn't miss it. She couldn't remember ever having had anything like it. It could be Willow's. It looks like something she might use for a spell. But that doesn't make sense either. As far as I know, she's done with the hocus pocus.
Well, she does glamours every now and then. I let her have that because she can't exactly hurt anyone by hiding a blemish.
It's sad. Everyone thinks I've done something wrong. All I've been trying to do is keep a loaded gun holstered. It's like no one else sees how scary she is.
Kennedy picked up the coin. It was rough to the touch, like the mold had been crude. Yeah, no clue. This thing's either really, really old or some kid's shop class project. As she turned it over to inspect the other side, Buffy walked past her room with Xander. Her dresser was out of the line of sight of the door from that way at least. But when Buffy returned, it'd be a different story. Kennedy grabbed her phone and waited for Xander's slogging footfalls to fade.
A distant door opened. That was her cue. She slipped silently across the hallway and into the other room.
Giles and Willow were talking. Or at least, Buffy heard Giles' voice through the door. It was safe to assume that Willow was in there listening. Either that or Giles was talking to himself, which wasn't unheard of. This is probably a good thing, right? He'll be able to explain that I didn't do anything wrong.
I should just go and let them talk. But I don't know, after finding Xander, I'm not so sure I even know who lives here. There might be someone else who's unaccounted for.
Stalling to make up her mind was coming dangerously close to eavesdropping again. That was the last thing she wanted, so as Giles said, "I appreciate that this is—" she made her presence known by knocking. He stopped to acknowledge her. "Yes?"
"Sorry," she explained, "I just—I wanted you to know that Xander's in his room. I didn't make it very far. He was downstairs and I, umm…"
"Ah, thank you," Giles replied.
She accepted his gratitude by mumbling, "Yeah, no problem." It was nice, but not what she was after. "Is there anyone else I should be worried about?"
It surprised her when Giles responded with a clipped, "No." Usually a question like that would inspire him to ramble.
"Okay," she replied. And if that's the biggest surprise I get for the rest of the day, I'll be—
"Perhaps I should come with you?" Giles added as she turned to leave. "The task might be better handled with a guide."
"No," Buffy replied, confused by his sudden, unexplained warmth. "It's fine. I've got it." How can he even be sure it's me? I mean, really? Didn't we just do this…badly?
I guess it's because of Xander. The last thing vampy-me would want is to help him. Unless she was helping him to throw them off. Besides, all he knows is I said I did it. She could've too and snapped Xander's neck for spite.
This whole thing is unbelievable. Amateur hour. Xander might've had a point. Not now. What Will said he said before. The thing with the audience, and the wanting of. If vampy-me had wanted anyone dead tonight, they'd be dead, except for Kennedy. That's like reverse Darwinism. Survival of the haughtiest. Or the setup for pretty much any slasher film. Save the character everyone hates for last so the audience will cheer when she's mutilated beyond recognition in the most brutal way imaginable. Until the next sequel.
Buffy sighed. "Stay put." She didn't care enough to hide her annoyance and it came through clear as day. "And don't open the door unless you're absolutely sure it's me." The way she saw it, Giles was being ridiculously, uncharacteristically careless. "Ask me something that Will asked me this morning at least. Even that isn't foolproof. As far as we know, my evil half followed me here. She's probably heard every word we've said." Giles has to see how bad this is. Did he learn nothing from the First?
As she turned to leave for the second time, he called out, "Buffy, please wait. I would be remiss in my duties were I not to point out that you are in no condition to face an ordinary vampire, let alone one of her strength. Perhaps you should take some time to recuperate? No one's in immediate danger. I'll limit my activities and instruct the others to do the same."
"I'm fine, Giles," Buffy replied, still trying to walk away. He had a point, an irritatingly good one.
"You should at least take a weapon."
That was just Giles again. She ignored him, but when Willow said, "He's right, y'know?" Buffy stopped. "You're being silly." A key rattling in a lock caused Buffy to turn around. The door opened and Willow met her eyes. "If you're going, I'm coming with you."
"Did you not hear anything I just said?"
Bringing the coin had been the worst idea—maybe not ever—but it ranked up there. Kennedy sucked the pad of her thumb where the stupid thing had cut her. It wasn't that bad—a little worse than a paper cut—but it still pissed her off.
The coin sat on the table in front of her along with her phone. Being back in a locked room was a relief. She had time to make up her mind what to do, which was good because the question of the moment wasn't even about that. She couldn't decide whether it was an illusion or not, but it seemed like the blood-smeared edge of the coin was less distorted. It looked almost like there might be something written on it.
The last thing she wanted to do was touch the thing again, but curiosity and a lack of any real 'this is evil,' supernaturally inspired heebie-jeebies eventually won out. She pinched her thumb to make the blood flow. When a fat drop had pooled, she smeared it over the coin's face. Every instinct she had still told her it was a terrible idea. She worked the blood around anyway. At first, she did it just because, but as the image took shape, she felt compelled to finish. It was cool, like one of those mess-free watercolor books she'd had as a kid. Somehow the red was bringing out yellows, blues and greens. Where there had been a crude, blotchy design, now there was a Renaissance style painting of a goatish man kissing some fat girl. She couldn't place it, but she knew she'd seen it before, probably in some art appreciation class or at a museum. Her life had been so full of that sort of thing that it was only the stuff she really liked that she could keep straight.
She'd been right about the text. There was a passage in Latin bordering the image. She recalled what she could from the Latin class she'd taken in high school. 'Nomine' means 'name' and 'beatum' means 'saint' or 'blessed,' so 'Blessed is the name of D'Hoffynis,' or just 'D'Hoffryn' because the suffix was probably there to denote gender.
That was enough. It's a summoning spell. Whoever this D'Hoffryn guy is, he left me a calling card.
So, worst case: a big, ugly demon tries to rip my face off. Sounds pretty much on par with the rest of my day.
But if he's a dick, I can always bounce. Not like that'd be some major change of plan. And bonus: Gidget gets a thoughtful parting gift.
Thing is, I don't think it'll go that way. This is more like an invitation. A weird one, but violent things typically show up and do violence, not leave tokens.
So I guess the question is: do I want to talk to this thing?
I didn't think I was gone that long, but I guess whatever needed to be said was said in my absence. Or it doesn't seem like Willow's upset anymore, at least, or—uh, so…assumption?
Assumptions never turn out well.
Buffy cast a glance over her shoulder to thank Giles as she walked away. Willow was right there, just a pace or two behind, but she wasn't screaming, or glaring much, so he'd obviously done something. She sure didn't look like she planned on backing down any time soon. Buffy stopped at her room, opened the door and went inside. It was either that, or make things worse.
Willow just stood there. Saying anything before she was ready to say something meaningful just seemed wrong, so Buffy went for the pantomime. Once Willow was inside, she closed the door and locked it. Trapping her like that felt a little wrong too, but it beat the alternative.
On the way to her chair, Buffy tried to strip down to her undershirt and bra. That went about as well as it usually did with a broken this and wrenched that. She froze mid-stride to rip the stupid thing over her head without any actual ripping, though that was a tempting solution. She sucked in a wince and moved on, draping her 'stretched, but still intact' tee-shirt over the back of her chair with the blanket.
When she sat down, Willow was still by the door, watching her. Great. Taking my shoes off was going to be fun without an audience. Buffy had to fold herself in half to reach the laces. There was no other choice. Her right knee wasn't going to bend. She slipped them off and gave her guest a glance. A quirky mix of grin and grimace met her. It was cute, annoyingly so. Just great. Buffy sighed. I may not be much else, but at least I'm entertaining. Her shoes hit the floor and she stood up.
The right side was the wrong side of the bed. Just turning down the covers felt wrong. Sleeping there promised to be truly weird. Like that even counts here.
Like I even know if she'll come to bed. But whatever, I'm going to bed right here. I'm not taking another step. She can join me or not. It's her choice.
Buffy pulled the drawstring to untie the bow that held her sweatpants up. With a tug they dropped, but her right knee was so swollen they didn't drop all the way. Besides—and 'presumptuous much?'—but if she does that thing where she snuggles against me…my left side is so much the better option. I might not flinch or tear up this way.
She sat down and peeled her sweats off. Naturally, that involved another contortionist act. Her right knee was every ugly color of the rainbow and twice its normal size, which made it pretty much normal size for anyone who didn't routinely shop in the junior's department. She didn't look up. She didn't need to. Willow's wince was impossible to miss.
I could really live without anyone touching me—at least that side of me—for, well, hours. However many I can sleep. I have no clue. I'm normally not good for much more than three, but I feel terrible. Giles was right. I need rest.
Sliding into bed was a noisy, painful process. She pulled the covers up and lay down, only to sit up again. The pressure of the blankets resting on her toes was unpleasant. She folded them back, exposing her leg.
Willow was still standing sentry when she finished.
That put an end to Buffy's moratorium of verbal communication. "You can join me or go." A 'come hither' gesture just wouldn't work. Hurt or not, there was only one way she'd interpret that if she were on the receiving end. And that so wasn't what she wanted. "Your choice. I'll open…"
She trailed off because Willow was on the move, not to 'her side of the bed,' but it was a start.
Great.
The instant Kennedy fell silent; a bright flash erupted to her left in front of the other chair. White smoke filled the air. It was like someone had set off a flash pot, but there was no 'bang,' or acrid smell. A static charge prickled her skin. She shot to her feet.
As her fight and flight instincts wrestled for supremacy, a voice rang out, "Behold D'Hoffryn! Lord of Arashmaharr, purveyor of nightmare, bringer of—" The smoke cleared enough to see, and nightmare guy shut the hell up, or at least, he changed his approach, "Oh, what a pleasant surprise." His tone became affable even if his appearance wasn't. He waved his hand in front of his face to clear the last of the smoke. His nose wrinkled with distaste. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Kravis." The waving stopped and he held his hand out for her to shake. "Now, how—?"
"Miss Kravis?" Kennedy cut him off. Asshole came in looking something like a cross between a queer monk and Satan with a Smurfy skin condition, but didn't put her off half as much as hearing that name. No one here even knew it, except maybe Giles and he was pretty tight lipped. Hearing it spun her. She sure as hell wasn't going to take this sonuvabitch's hand.
"Would you prefer I call you Bastiana?"
And if one wasn't bad enough, the second one tore it. "Hey!" Kennedy snapped. "Bite me, freak!"
"Now, now," D'Hoffryn chided, withdrawing his hand. "There's no need for that."
The glare she gave him just made him smirk. "I don't know who you are, or what you want, but I'll thank you to keep that to yourself." She was practically in his face, ranting. Like she could. D'Hoffryn was almost a full head taller than her, and utterly unflappable. A beat passed before she explained, "It's a family name." But that just made her look self-conscious, which pissed her off even more.
Her discomfort didn't appear to mean a damned thing to him. His genial smile barely faded as he put in, "And a fine name it is." He gestured behind her with a flourish of his hand. "Please, relax, have a seat. I'm not here to antagonize you." He seemed to consider that for a moment. "Though I must admit it is tempting. You make it so much fun."
Kennedy stood her ground, so he backed up. That was the only reason she didn't take his head off. Not that she thought Mr. Personality would've noticed. This guy's a loon. He was one of those people she wanted to smack just to see if his stupid grin was real or the result of some weird facial muscle affliction. She sure didn't expect it to go away on its own, but it did.
Of all things, this wiseass switched directions again, and gave a serious answer to a serious question, "My name, as you've already guessed, is D'Hoffryn. I am the patriarch of a family of beings who serve justice. I am here to perhaps make you an offer. Whether or not I do, will depend entirely upon you." He looked to his right, gesturing at the empty chair. "May I?"
"Sure. Knock yourself out," Kennedy replied.
"Thank you," D'Hoffryn said as he made himself comfortable. Once seated, his long legs crossed beneath his robe. He folded his hands in his lap.
It was obvious he didn't think he had anything to fear from her. That means he's either ridiculously old and powerful, or a complete idiot. Kennedy was beginning to lean toward the former, though she hadn't dismissed the latter. He could be both. Wouldn't be the first time old age has led to senility.
It had taken what felt like forever for Willow to come to bed. Apparently, the tiny mess Buffy had left needed to be picked up. Saying anything had been pointless. Willow would do whatever she was going to do. That much hadn't changed.
She emerged from the bathroom wearing Buffy's tee-shirt. Talking her into not coming to bed in her dress had been another hurdle, one that had come with too much information. The news that she didn't have much or anything on under her dress hadn't been helpful. Not that Buffy could do anything about it now, besides get a truly uncomfortable, really annoying, utterly inappropriate, completely embarrassing happy. That much she was good for. My body just hates me.
She did her damnedest not to pay attention as Willow crossed the room, which meant she paid just enough attention to notice the bruises inside Willow's thighs. That was exactly what she needed: confirmation that the bullshit with Kennedy earlier hadn't been bullshit. But it wasn't even that. Honestly, that could've been normal. Hipbones can be brutal. Buffy had had similar bruises when she was sleeping with Spike. Not that sleeping with Spike had been exactly normal. It just wasn't the same. But really, it didn't matter how minor, or how questionable the evidence was, the fact was, it bothered her.
It figured that the first words out of her mouth were a lie, "I don't care." Or not so much a lie, but her trying to soft-pedal the conclusions she'd drawn. She salved the near insincerity of her first statement with a big dose of truth, "I know who you can be and that's what matters." That helped.
Once Willow settled in, Buffy located her hand beneath the covers. And she did it without any embarrassing groping. Their fingers laced together. It was still a little weird, but mostly nice.
That was enough contact. Plenty. Much more and it wouldn't matter how badly her leg or shoulder hurt. Even her broken hand wouldn't be a big deal. The compulsive need to comfort Willow, which had every intention of turning hot and sweaty, grated at Buffy's nerves.
She mumbled, trying to work out how she felt as a way of keeping her mind off everything else, "But I dunno, maybe that isn't fair. I don't think you're any less smart, or funny, or sweet than my Willow is." Buffy grinned and changed tack, "Or stubborn, or challenging, or infuriatingly right, like a little too often." Willow had the sweetest smile. That much was exactly the same. "You're the same person, just under different, much tougher circumstances."
Looking down on D'Hoffryn felt strange, so as he picked up his thought, "But first, there's one thing I don't understand about you," Kennedy stepped back to half-lean against, half-sit on the middling, vintage bed. "You've spent most of your life in search of power and respect. Yet when you were offered a choice, you shunned your surname. A name that, I need not remind you, commands respect, at least in certain mortal circles."
She crossed her ankles, trying to look casual, but the way her arms were folded betrayed that, and she knew it. He was just way too well informed for her to relax.
Her anxiety increased as he filled in more detail, "Your given name belonged to a formidable woman. Your great-grandmother was quite the spitfire in her day. Yet you choose to use your middle name. A name which ties you to nothing. It is androgynous, if not a tad butch—which, I suppose, suits you—but it carries no real significance, merely fancy. Your father was an admirer of John F. Kennedy. He always intended to name his first male child 'Sebastian Kennedy.' When it became apparent, due to your mother's advancing age, that he would have no male heir, he gave the name to you, after a fashion."
The whole thing left her unsure what to think. It was really bizarre hearing a family story that she was pretty sure no one else knew from some random demon. Stranger still, this demon actually seemed alright. He seemed interested, if not concerned. It was disarming.
"Butch or not," Kennedy admitted, "I would've been happier if he'd stuck with 'Sebastian'." Her posture relaxed. She played with the hem of her tee-shirt. "You know how kids are." Her attention turned to her hands. She watched the fabric conform to her fingers, though she knew he would interpret that as insecurity. "It didn't take long. A couple of years. They learned my real name and the word 'bastard'—not that they had a clue what it meant, they just knew it was offensive—and I became 'Bastard Tina.' It sucked. My dad said they were just jealous. I guess that was true, but it didn't help much."
She looked up. He was listening attentively, like some sort of therapist. "My family still calls me Tina, but whatever…" I'm sure he thinks he's got me all figured. Poor little rich girl. That's where most people who think they know me go. "I like the name Kennedy. That's who I am now. That other stuff's got nothing to do with me anymore. The only people who play those games are sycophants looking for a payday."
D'Hoffryn smiled knowingly. "That hasn't stopped you from skimming from the family money trough."
Kennedy shrugged the accusation off. I still don't have anything to be ashamed of. "Just because I don't feel the need to use my family name to get a leg up, doesn't mean I have to starve." If I was actually 'skimming,' it'd be different. I'm not. "Especially if there's no reason."
"Yes," he agreed, "but surely you see that you have the type of opportunities most people only dream about. You could attend the Ivy League school of your choice. Had you been able to turn your back on the allure of all of this…" he waved his hand to indicate their squalid surroundings "…you'd be a freshman by now. You could be well on your way to securing the influence and prestige you crave, yet here you are stagnating in this place." He smirked. "Though I suppose an eight figure trust fund might've quelled some of your ambition."
Taking that badly would've been easy. Money was a touchy subject. And her persistent presence in this place was an even touchier one. But D'Hoffryn was teasing and Kennedy, in spite of herself, liked the demon. She wasn't even sure why, just that she was smirking too. "Now you sound like my dad," she deflected. Her smile faded. This is fun and all, but I still want to know what he's got up his sleeve. Considering his sleeves—could be almost anything. "Why are you so interested in me?"
D'Hoffryn met her gaze and held it. "Well, we've had our eye on you for some time."
A straight answer was obviously too much to ask for.
"I'm sorry," Buffy whispered.
Willow turned onto her side. Her lower arm raised and folded, she rested her head against her hand, pushing the pillow out of the way. Her fingers combed through her hair. "Why?" she asked. "You didn't do anything wrong."
One of the more annoying things about being a girl was when guys stared at your boobs instead of looking you in the eye. Buffy tried to stop herself. Being guilty of that on top of everything else was just sad, but she couldn't help it. Willow's shirt was twisted, her breasts were crushed and other parts were standing at attention.
What might've normally merited a glance became a lingering gawk. A mental 'that's pretty' wouldn't have been inappropriate. This was just plain wrong, but Buffy couldn't quite get her head around what she saw. She'd gotten over the fact that Willow's tongue was pierced. That one was easy. Kennedy's influence in her life was difficult to miss. The fact that it was something Buffy only occasionally glimpsed in passing made it that much better. Willow didn't play with the silly thing like some people do and it hadn't caused a speech impediment, so brushing it off hadn't been a problem.
This new piercing was a little more difficult to overlook. Buffy tried to convince herself she was seeing things, but the ring was clearly outlined beneath the tightly stretched fabric. She could even make out the glint of metal through the weave. Wondering if it was just the one side wasn't helpful at all. Her first glance had been a little bit pervy. The next bordered on lecherous. By her count, she was currently working on completely shameless.
She stopped herself before things got stupid. This was one subject that she didn't need to be curious about. As it was, Willow was giving her a funny look. She hadn't quite gotten around to 'whatcha doin?' yet, but things were rapidly heading that way. The textured plaster ceiling was a much better, safer thing to ogle. They had been talking about something. Talking was a much better idea. There were things they actually needed to discuss.
As she studied the abstract pattern, trying to figure out what to say, Willow located her hand again. Buffy didn't resist when Willow pulled it from beneath the blankets and brought it to her mouth. "You didn't do anything wrong," Willow repeated. The warmth of her breath flowed over the backs of Buffy's fingers.
"I didn't do what you thought I did," Buffy mumbled, "but that doesn't mean I didn't do anything wrong." Just that tiny admission brought more heat to her cheeks, like they weren't already hot enough. Oh, this is gonna go well.
Willow's lips caressing her knuckles was nice on the one hand, but distressing on the other. It was a mixed blessing in a world of mixed messages where Buffy was just plain mixed up. She needed space; so of course, Willow slid over and snuggled up to her side. Other that just giving in, her only options were to say something or to push Willow away. Neither of those things was going to happen. Buffy slipped her pinned arm free, allowing Willow to settle into the crook of her shoulder. She bit back a wince when Willow's knee clunked her injured leg.
"Sorry," Willow gasped. She tried to recoil, but Buffy held her in place.
And the mixed-uppedness just keeps on coming. Buffy's hand rested on the small of Willow's back. From its relative position, she picked up the second piece of completely unhelpful information: Willow hadn't been exaggerating about having nothing to wear. The only thing she had on below the waist was a belly chain. That wasn't that big a deal. In fact, besides the obvious, imagined aesthetic—which wasn't bad—it was easily dismissed. But the hot, steaminess against Buffy's thigh was another detail that needed to be actively ignored.
Two would've been too much, so just for fun Willow had given her three. The usual prickliness was missing, which meant she'd shaved, or more likely waxed, considering the lack of scratchy stubble. Or electrolysis was an option. Kennedy did have money. And that would be just one more way that she'd marked Willow.
Buffy picked up her previous thought, hoping to avoid any more awkward revelations and just settle in for sleep, "It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have a gift for scaring the people I love." The flow of smooth skin beneath her fingertips lulled her as she caressed Willow's back. "I asked Will—my Will—to put me back the way I was." Buffy pondered for a moment. That seemed like days ago, but the fact of the matter was: "That was last night. Now I'm not sure she'll ever get a chance. She wasn't even sure she'd—"
Willow drew in a sharp breath, causing Buffy to jerk away. Buffy hadn't even realized that her hand had wandered lower. She was trying to be good. And that had worked out about as well as usual. The noise itself was one of those. It sounded ouchy, but could've just as easily been followed by a groan. She wasn't sure whether she'd hurt Willow or not.
A glance in that direction didn't reveal any useful clues. It could've been either. Willow looked concerned—which, considering the conversation, wasn't inappropriate—but from the look in her eye and the flush of her cheeks, she was also obviously horny. "It's okay," she whispered.
It was in Buffy's nature to assume the worst, which led her to imagine why an affectionate caress might've been painful. The gory details filled in on their own.
Well, isn't this just fun?