One Girl in All the World

by Brenna's Urbangirl Projects

"Buffy," Giles repeated, as if memorizing it. "You know the prophecy." "'One girl in all the world,'" Buffy repeated, a sharp hint of irony to her tone. "You think maybe fate crossed a wire in there somewhere?"

1. Chapter 1: Welcome to the Hellmouth

Warning: Normally I would do the summary first. But I need to do this first. If you are anti-Trans, that is okay. You don't have to like anything to do with transgender issues and I am not forcing you to read this story. That said don't come in and start complaining because Buffy is a transgender woman in this story. I will simply add you to my block list and you will be unable to review any of my stories ever again as a result. I have no tolerance for such people, especially since I am myself trans. My advice if you do have a problem with transgender issues, is to stop reading now. No harm, no foul. And go read something else you do like better.

Summary: "Buffy," Giles repeated, as if memorizing it. "You know the prophecy."

"'One girl in all the world,'" Buffy repeated, a sharp hint of irony to her tone. "You think maybe fate crossed a wire in there somewhere?"

Disclaimer: Disney owns Buffy

A/U: From the beginning

Pairing: To be determined

Author's Note: First off, as stated in the warning above, Buffy in this story is transgender.

Second, Dawn is in this from the beginning. I have not decided if she was simply created early or if she has always been there and made to be the human vessel for the Key.

Third, Credit goes to Zedpm (over on A03) for some of the scenes in this story (with their permission) as well as the inspiration to do this story as it is based off their story of the same name.

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Chapter 1: Welcome to the Hellmouth

January 9, 1997 – Thursday

Summers Home, Sunnydale

Buffy rose from her bed, squinting as the morning sunlight streamed through her curtains, its brightness an uninvited intruder into her sanctuary. The light splashed across her room, revealing corners still in transition—half-decorated walls that held promise but felt incomplete, much like herself. Boxes lined one side of the room, some spilling open, remnants of a life uprooted once again. She blinked against the glare, pulling the blanket tighter around her, as if shielding herself from the world just a moment longer.

"Rutherford?" her mother's voice called out from downstairs, that name echoing through the walls like an unwelcome reminder.

Buffy flinched, her focus shifting to her mother's voice. "I'm awake, Mom," she called back, her own voice tight. The syllables of her given name tasted bitter in her mouth, the sound of it pulling her further from the girl she truly was. Rutherford. That name wrapped around her like chains, a weight she bore every day. Each time someone used it, it felt like they were acknowledging someone she wasn't—a boy she never truly was.

The disconnect between her body and her soul ached, an invisible but constant discomfort. She often found herself wishing she could peel away the outer layer that had been thrust upon her at birth and step into the world as Buffy—the girl she knew in her heart. Her reflection in the mirror had always betrayed her, showing the form she was born with, rather than the woman she was meant to become.

"You don't want to be late on your first day!" Joyce Summers urged from the hallway, her mother's voice softening into concern.

"No," Buffy muttered to herself, "I wouldn't want that." But the thought of it made her stomach churn. There was uncertainty in her tone as she sat up slowly, her gaze wandering across the room again, landing on the unpacked boxes. It felt like she wasn't just unpacking her belongings but trying to piece together a version of herself she could present to the world. And yet, everything felt half-finished, as though parts of her were still locked away, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

With a sigh, Buffy rose to confront the day ahead, dragging herself into the reality where everyone knew her as Rutherford Summers—the son of Hank and Joyce Summers. She was supposed to be their only boy, the older brother to ten-year-old Dawn, yet in her heart, she was anything but. A pang of sadness hit her; it wasn't just the world outside that didn't see her truth, it was her own parents too.

Dawn knew, though. Her little sister had always sensed something was different, and Buffy had eventually shared her truth. That conversation had been a rare moment of peace in an otherwise turbulent existence. Dawn had embraced her completely, offering quiet support in a world that so often felt hostile.

Buffy's thoughts drifted back to the night she had tried to tell her parents the truth. She had gathered all her courage, heart pounding in her chest, thinking she would finally reveal that she was their daughter, not their son. But the words had come out wrong, tangled in fear, and instead, she had only managed to confess that she liked boys, that she was bisexual. Their reaction had been swift and cold, the kind that settled into the bones and left her feeling small and wrong. If that revelation had gone so poorly, how could she ever hope to tell them the rest?

So she had kept her secret buried, not out of shame, but out of survival. Every day was a balancing act—living in a body that didn't feel like hers, under a name that felt foreign, in a family that didn't truly know her. But at least she had Dawn, her small but powerful source of comfort in the storm.

Sunnydale High School

The exterior of Buffy's new school appeared pleasant enough at first glance, the wide-open yard filled with students moving between laughter and conversation. The crisp spring air buzzed with energy, and the sun illuminated the red-brick building in a welcoming light. Yet, despite its charming facade, Buffy couldn't suppress the pang of longing that suddenly gripped her, the ache of missing her old life.

Her mind drifted to her previous school—the one filled with luxury and distance. There, the lot was always lined with sleek Mercedes-Benz cars, their glossy finishes gleaming under the California sun. The students who stepped out of those cars were always draped in designer brands, each more expensive than the last. The hallways, though pristine, were as empty of real connection as they were filled with expensive shoes clicking against marble floors. And that was what she missed most—the anonymity. She could spend hours roaming those halls, her presence unnoticed, her name unspoken. No one had cared enough to see her, and she had taken comfort in that. At least there, Rutherford had been invisible, and being invisible meant being safe.

But here, in Sunnydale, all of that was over.

"I hope you'll find it enjoyable here," Joyce remarked, snapping Buffy back to the present as the car came to a halt by the school curb. Her mother's voice carried a quiet optimism, a hopefulness that gnawed at Buffy's insides. "Sunnydale will bring about change for us, hopefully for the better."

Buffy nodded, trying to force a smile onto her lips, though it felt more like a mask than anything real. "I'll give it my best," she promised, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on her mom's cheek, the gesture mechanical, almost reflexive, as if she could somehow ease her mother's worries with that single, small act of affection.

"Now, have a great time," Joyce encouraged, her eyes full of that same hopeful brightness as she watched her child step out of the car. "I know you'll make friends right away. Stay positive. And, sweetheart," her voice softened with a note of humor, but also something deeper, "try not to get expelled."

"You burn down one gym," Buffy muttered under her breath, more to herself than her mother, but the weight of the words clung to her. It was a reminder of what had happened at the winter formal, when she had faced the master vampire, Lothos and his minions.

"Bye, Bu—" Dawn's voice cut through, almost instinctively. She was perched in the backseat, waving from her window, but she caught herself mid-sentence. A brief flicker of guilt passed over her face as she remembered their mother, unaware of Buffy's truth. Dawn quickly corrected herself, shifting gears. "…Rutherford," she finished, her voice quieter now, almost apologetic as she waved.

Buffy smiled softly, her heart swelling with appreciation. Dawn had always been her ally, her support when the world seemed like it would swallow her whole. "Bye, Dawnie!" Buffy called back, her voice a touch lighter as she waved, grateful for her sister's unwavering loyalty. Dawn might not be able to call her by her real name in front of their mother, but that didn't matter; Buffy knew her sister saw her for who she truly was.

As their mother drove away, the car disappearing into the distance, Buffy stood still for a moment, taking in her surroundings. The school in front of her was smaller than her old one, less polished, but somehow more alive. Students passed by in clusters, each group a potential challenge or opportunity. The noise of the bustling courtyard echoed around her, filling her ears with laughter, chatter, and the distant sounds of a school day starting.

The weight of the moment settled on her chest—this was the beginning of something new, but she wasn't sure if that was a good thing. She had been able to hide in her old school, slipping between classes and faces like a ghost, but here? She wasn't sure what to expect. Could she keep hiding behind the name Rutherford? Or would Sunnydale be the place where everything would finally come crashing down, where her true identity might be exposed in ways she wasn't ready for?

As Buffy took a deep breath, she knew that no matter what lay ahead, she had to face it, even if it meant confronting the parts of herself, she still kept locked away.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Buffy sat in the principal's office, her muscles tense, as if her entire body were on high alert. The room smelled faintly of old books and polished wood, a sharp contrast to the warm, open air outside. She perched stiffly on the edge of the chair, her fingers gripping the armrests as though they could ground her through the rising tide of anxiety. Across from her, Mr. Flutie sat behind his cluttered desk, looking every bit the picture of authority, shuffling through papers with a practiced air of detachment. Yet, Buffy could feel his eyes on her, the weight of his gaze making her shift uncomfortably.

The moment he pulled out her transcript from the folder, the air between them grew heavier, thick with unspoken tension. As he scanned its contents, Buffy's heart began to thud loudly in her chest, the rhythmic pounding echoing in her ears. She kept her eyes trained on him, studying every minute twitch of his face, searching for any sign that he knew. Did he know? Could he tell that beneath the surface, beneath the name and the clothes, she wasn't the boy that piece of paper claimed her to be? The thought twisted her stomach into knots.

"Rutherford Summers," he recited, his voice steady, cutting through the quiet.

Buffy winced inwardly at the sound of her birth name. "Buffy," she corrected, her voice barely audible, the word slipping out like a whispered plea. It was a small rebellion, but an important one. Each time she asserted herself, it felt like reclaiming a tiny piece of her identity, even in the face of authority.

"Sophomore, late of Hemery High in Los Angeles," Flutie continued, his tone casual but curious. "Interesting record. Quite a career." His eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and skepticism as he studied the document in his hand. Buffy's stomach churned as she watched him. Then, with a sudden, deliberate motion, he tore the transcript into four neat pieces. The sound of paper ripping filled the room, and Buffy's pulse quickened, dread settling deep in her bones.

Her mind raced. Why would he do that? What was the point? She wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or insulted. The gesture seemed symbolic, but of what, she couldn't tell.

"Welcome to Sunnydale," he announced with a half-smile. "A clean slate, Rutherford; that's what you get here. What's past is past. We're not interested in what it says on a piece of paper. Even if it says—" He paused dramatically, his gaze dropping to the torn transcript, his eyes widening slightly as though something on the page had surprised him.

Buffy swallowed hard, her throat dry, panic creeping up on her. Did he see something? Did the records say anything about her real identity, something she hadn't accounted for? Could he see through the layers of secrets she had spent years carefully crafting?

"At Sunnydale, we nurture the whole student. The inner student," Mr. Flutie added, his voice taking on an almost theatrical tone as he gathered up the pieces of her torn transcript, laying them carefully in front of him like a puzzle. He continued speaking, though his attention seemed divided between his words and reassembling the shredded paper. "Other schools might look at the incredible decline in grade point average," he said, eyes flicking over to Buffy. "We look at the struggling young man with the incredible decline in grade point average. Other schools might look at the reports of gang fights—"

"Mr. Flutie—" Buffy interrupted, her voice laced with tension, but she was quickly cut off.

"All the kids here are free to call me Bob," Flutie interjected with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Bob—" Buffy tried again, though she could tell this wasn't going anywhere productive.

"But they don't," he added with a chuckle, taking out a roll of tape as if this was all part of some strange ritual. He began piecing the torn transcript back together, his focus now solely on the task in front of him.

Buffy took a breath, gathering her thoughts. "I know it looks bad," she said earnestly, her voice steady but soft, hoping to break through his theatrics. "But I really don't want any trouble, sir. That gym was a freak incident."

Mr. Flutie's eyes snapped up to hers, his expression shifting to one of disbelief. "You call burning down the gym a freak incident?" he asked, incredulous.

Buffy shifted in her seat, uncomfortable but determined to stay composed. "I do," she replied, her tone calm but firm. "And if you give me a chance, I think you'll find me an exceptionally average student." It was an understatement, but one that she hoped would work in her favor. She didn't want to stand out, not here, not now. All she wanted was to blend in, to survive.

"Rutherford. Don't worry. Any other school might say, 'Watch your step,' or 'We'll be watching you,' or 'Get within a hundred yards of the gym with a book of matches, and you'll grow up in juvie hall,' but that's just not the way here," Flutie continued with a breezy confidence. "We want to serve your needs and help you respect our needs. And if your needs and our needs don't mesh…" He trailed off, his expression hardening slightly. "See that I don't see you in here anytime soon, Rutherford."

"Yes, sir," Buffy responded quickly, her voice as polite as she could manage. The tension in the room remained, but she exhaled softly as Mr. Flutie slid the hastily mended transcript back into her folder with an exaggerated flourish, slamming it shut with a sharp clap of his hand.

As she stood to leave, her pulse still racing, she silently vowed that she wouldn't give him—or anyone—reason to look too closely at her, to see past the name and the record, and into the truth she kept hidden.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Buffy paused in the crowded hallway, narrowly sidestepping a student who seemed lost in their own world, head down, nearly colliding with her. Her pulse quickened; a spike of anxiety that had become all too familiar. She pressed forward with urgency, hurrying to her first class of the day.

Within minutes, she slipped into the back of her history class, the last empty seat waiting for her as she settled in. The classroom was bathed in the soft glow of morning light, but it still felt suffocating, the chatter of students around her a low hum of indistinguishable voices. Buffy quickly set up her notebook, scribbling the date across the top of the page, eager to fall into the rhythm of taking notes—anything to focus her mind.

The teacher, a woman who introduced herself as Marie Danvers, though insisting the students call her by her first name, began lecturing. Her voice was soft yet commanding, the kind that could lull students into passivity if they weren't careful. Buffy tried to keep up, her pen darting across the paper as she wrote down fragments of the lesson. She was determined to absorb as much information as she could, hoping that throwing herself into her studies might offer a distraction from the restlessness bubbling beneath her skin.

"It's estimated that about 25 million people died in that one four-year span," Marie said, her tone almost indifferent despite the grim subject matter. "But the fun part of the Black Plague is that it originated in Europe. How? As an early form of germ warfare. The plague was first found in Asia, and a Kipchak army actually catapulted plague-infested corpses into a Genoese trading post. Ingenious, really. If you look at the map on page sixty-three, you can trace the spread of the disease…"

The sound of pages flipping filled the room, a soft rustling that made Buffy suddenly aware of the absence of a textbook in front of her. She hadn't yet been issued one, and now, as her classmates immersed themselves in the reading, she felt a wave of embarrassment rise up her chest. Her eyes darted around, trying to appear as if she wasn't the only one without the materials.

Just as she was about to shrink further into her seat, the girl at the desk next to hers leaned over, nudging her textbook toward Buffy with a quiet gesture. Her kindness was unexpected, and for a moment, Buffy hesitated, not used to receiving help from a stranger so freely.

"Here," the girl said, shifting her book so that Buffy could share it without drawing attention.

Grateful, Buffy offered her a small, relieved smile. "Thanks," she whispered, her voice barely above the hum of the class. It was a simple exchange, but one that warmed Buffy's chest. In a new environment, kindness felt rare, and she clung to it whenever it appeared.

Marie continued her lecture, oblivious to the interactions at the back of the room. "And this popular plague led to what social changes?" she prompted, waiting for someone to respond. The room remained silent for a beat too long before a brave student finally muttered an answer.

Buffy, however, found herself momentarily tuning out the teacher's words, more focused on the girl beside her. She had short, perfectly styled hair and an air of confidence that suggested she knew exactly where she fit in this new world Buffy was still struggling to navigate.

When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of class, the girl turned to Buffy, offering a friendly smile. "Hi, I'm Cordelia," she introduced herself, her voice bright and self-assured, as if she had made the decision that they should know each other.

Buffy hesitated for just a second, her heart skipping a beat. "I'm Bu…" she started, almost reflexively, before catching herself. "Rutherford," she corrected, the name tasting bitter on her tongue.

Cordelia, thankfully, didn't seem to notice the slip. "If you're looking for a textbook of your very own, there are probably a few in the library," she said casually, tossing her bag over her shoulder as she stood from her seat.

Buffy blinked, surprised at the offer of assistance. "Oh, great. Thanks," she said, quickly packing up her own things. "Where would that be?"

"I'll show you," Cordelia replied with a small nod, her tone friendly yet carrying an air of authority, as if this was her territory and Buffy was merely a visitor.

The girls stepped into the bustling hallway, the noise of lockers slamming and conversations buzzing around them. Cordelia's eyes flicked over to Buffy, her gaze sharp with interest. There was something about the way she looked at Buffy that made her feel slightly on edge, like she was being sized up by someone used to being in control.

"You transferred from Hemery, right? In L.A.?" Cordelia asked, her voice casual but probing, as if testing the waters of who Buffy might be.

Buffy nodded, feeling the familiar knot of discomfort tighten in her stomach. She wasn't sure if it was the scrutiny or just the general tension of navigating new social circles. "Yeah."

Cordelia's face lit up, her curiosity transforming into something more akin to admiration—though perhaps a little superficial. "Oh! I would kill to live in L.A.," she gushed, her eyes sparkling as if L.A. was some glamorous utopia. "Being that close to that many shoes…" There was a touch of genuine envy in her voice, though it was clear her interest in the city was rooted more in the material than anything else.

Buffy forced a smile, the unease still lingering. "Why'd you come here?" Cordelia asked, her tone almost disbelieving, as if the idea of leaving such a glamorous place was unimaginable.

"Because my mom moved, is the reason," Buffy replied, her words tumbling out a little awkwardly as she adjusted to Cordelia's rapid shifts in conversation. "I mean, we both—and my sister—moved. But my mom wanted to."

Cordelia made a face that was half sympathetic, half indifferent. "Well, you'll be okay here," she said, her tone breezy, as though she was making a decree about Buffy's future.

They came to a stop at the water fountain, where a girl with red hair and a shy demeanor was taking her turn. Buffy's gaze shifted to her, sensing something softer, more approachable in the girl's presence. She barely had a chance to take it in before Cordelia's voice cut through the moment.

"Willow!" Cordelia's voice had an edge to it, one that Buffy hadn't noticed earlier. Her perfectly manicured eyebrow arched as she appraised the girl's outfit, a flicker of judgment flashing across her face. "Nice dress. Good to know you've seen the softer side of Sears."

Buffy's stomach dropped as she caught the immediate flicker of hurt in Willow's expression, the way her face seemed to momentarily fall before she masked it with a tight, uncomfortable smile. There was a sharpness in Cordelia's words that pierced the air, leaving an uneasy silence in its wake. Buffy was taken aback by the sudden cruelty, the way Cordelia's tone had shifted from casual friendliness to biting criticism in an instant. It was like watching a predator zero in on its prey, and Buffy found herself recoiling from it.

She blinked, staring at Cordelia, shocked by the callousness of it all. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. The realization hit her hard—Cordelia wasn't just popular, she was likely the popular girl at Sunnydale High. And with that status came a certain power, one that she clearly wielded carelessly.

Cordelia shrugged, her face a mask of indifference as if this was just another routine interaction for her. "What do you think?" she replied, her tone nonchalant, as if insulting someone's appearance was no more consequential than commenting on the weather.

A surge of anger flared up inside Buffy, hot and fast. She hated seeing people being torn down for something as trivial as what they were wearing. It stirred something protective in her, a deep-seated need to stand up for people who couldn't—or wouldn't—stand up for themselves. She glanced at Willow, her heart aching for the girl's quiet pain.

"Well, it looked like you were being rude to her," Buffy said, her voice firm, each word carrying a subtle weight. Her gaze locked with Cordelia's, unflinching. "And I don't really stand for that kind of thing, personally. So how about you hurry up and leave? I'm sure she can show me where the library is."

Cordelia's eyes widened for a moment, taken aback by Buffy's defiance. It was clear from the way her lips curled into a haughty smirk that she wasn't used to being challenged, least of all by someone new. For a long, tense moment, she stared at Buffy, as though weighing whether to snap back or let it go. Finally, she huffed, her eyes narrowing into an irritated glare before she let out a low snarl of frustration and stormed off, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she disappeared into the crowd.

The tension in the air seemed to ease the moment Cordelia was gone. Buffy exhaled, the tightness in her chest loosening as she turned back to Willow.

"Thanks," Willow said, her voice soft but filled with genuine appreciation. Her smile was small, but it reached her eyes, a flicker of relief breaking through her earlier hurt. "Are you new?"

Buffy nodded, feeling a strange mixture of pride and uncertainty. "Yeah," she replied, hesitating only for a split second before adding, "I'm—Rutherford Summers."

Willow's smile widened just a little more, her eyes lighting up with a genuine warmth that made Buffy feel a sense of welcome she hadn't quite expected on her first day. There was something comforting about Willow's easygoing demeanor, a softness in her voice that hinted at kindness. Buffy could tell from the way Willow's gaze softened that maybe, just maybe, she had made her first real connection at Sunnydale High, and it was a relief in a sea of unfamiliar faces and judgments.

"Willow," the redhead introduced herself with a friendly nod. "Do you want to come eat lunch with us? Me and my friends, Jesse and Xander, I mean."

Buffy hesitated, not because she didn't want to, but because the idea of meeting new people always brought with it a twinge of anxiety. She knew she had to be careful, to keep parts of herself hidden, at least for now. Still, the invitation was genuine, and the prospect of not sitting alone was tempting. Finally, she nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Sure," she said, offering Willow a grateful glance. "First, can you show me where the library is? I need to get my textbooks. Then I can meet you…"

"Just out front," Willow replied, her smile brightening as she seemed pleased that Buffy had agreed. There was a lightness to her step as she began walking, leading the way through the bustling halls.

The two walked together, the crowded school around them fading slightly into the background as Buffy felt a growing sense of ease. It was nice to talk to someone who didn't seem to judge or pry. Willow was just… Willow. And it was exactly what Buffy needed. When they finally reached the doors to the library, a modest, unassuming entryway in contrast to the chaotic hallways, Buffy paused.

"Thanks," she said, her gratitude genuine. She met Willow's eyes, and for the first time in a while, she felt something akin to hope. Maybe Sunnydale wouldn't be so bad after all.

"You're welcome," Willow replied, her voice soft and friendly. "I'll see you at lunch," she added before turning and heading back into the throng of students, disappearing among the crowd.

Buffy took a breath and pushed open the library doors. The moment she stepped inside; she was struck by how different it felt from the rest of the school. The chaos and noise outside seemed to melt away, replaced by a serene stillness that wrapped around her like a comforting blanket. The library was grander than she expected, with dark wood paneling that gave the space an old-world charm. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, casting golden beams across the floor, making the polished wood gleam in the soft light.

A short flight of stairs led up to a second level, where more towering bookshelves loomed, packed with volumes that seemed to whisper with secrets. The air smelled of paper and old bindings, and it had a warmth to it, like a place that had seen countless students before her, each seeking knowledge or escape. A large oak table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by study lamps with soft, glowing light. It was cozy, in a way that made Buffy feel like she could lose herself here, if only for a little while.

The room seemed deserted. As she wandered past the checkout counter, something caught her eye—a folded newspaper, with a front-page article circled in red ink. Curious, she leaned closer, her eyes scanning the headline: "Local Boys Still Missing." Below the words was a blurry, grainy picture of three boys, their faces just recognizable enough to spark a sense of unease in Buffy. There was something ominous about the way the article had been circled, as though someone had been scrutinizing it, obsessing over the details.

Buffy frowned slightly, but she didn't have much time to dwell on it. She ventured further into the library, her footsteps light as she moved between the towering shelves, the silence amplifying the sound of her breathing. It felt almost too quiet, the kind of quiet that made her feel like she wasn't alone, even when no one seemed to be there.

"Hello... Is anybody here?" Buffy called out, her voice breaking the stillness as she peered around a bookcase.

Suddenly, she felt a light touch on her shoulder. Startled, Buffy spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. She found herself face to face with a man who stood just inches away, his presence nearly making her jump out of her skin.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, his voice calm and polite. His British accent was crisp, almost formal, and there was something about his expression—a quiet intensity, the kind of look that suggested he knew more than he was letting on. His sharp eyes assessed her in a way that wasn't unkind, but rather... curious, as if he was piecing together who she was and why she was there.

Buffy let out a small sigh of relief, steadying herself after the unexpected encounter. "I was looking for some, well, books. I'm new," she explained, her voice steady but still touched with the residual adrenaline of being startled.

The man smiled kindly, his expression softening as though he recognized something in her that few did. "Miss Summers," he said, his voice gentle yet formal. It was only the second time in her life she had been addressed that way, and the word sent a ripple of surprise through her. The first had been back in Los Angeles, when Merrick, her first Watcher, had identified her as the Slayer. It had been strange then, too, hearing someone call her by a title that aligned with who she truly was, even though her life as Buffy was still a secret to most.

The shift in atmosphere was palpable. The cozy warmth of the library seemed to evaporate as tension coiled in the air around them. Buffy's instincts, sharp from her time as the Slayer, kicked in immediately. Her eyes narrowed, and suspicion bled into her voice. "You're one of those guys," she accused, her tone firm, recognizing the telltale signs that the man standing before her was not just a librarian. The library, which had initially felt so welcoming, now felt more like a stage for something larger, something inescapable. "One of those Council people."

The man, taken slightly aback by her quick deduction, nodded. "Well, yes. How did you—" His words trailed off, surprised by her insight.

Buffy crossed her arms, her posture guarded. She wasn't about to let her guard down so easily, not with someone who might drag her back into the chaos she had tried to leave behind. "Me being 'Miss' Summers isn't exactly common knowledge," she said, her voice laced with dry sarcasm. Her eyes remained fixed on him, watching for any signs of deception. "Only two people really ever knew. One of them was one of your people, and the other is my sister."

The man's face softened with understanding as if pieces of her past were clicking into place for him. "Ah," he said, extending a hand in a gesture of goodwill, but Buffy didn't move to shake it. She wasn't ready to trust him yet, not with what she'd been through. After a brief, awkward moment, he withdrew the hand, as if sensing her hesitation. "My name is Rupert Giles. I'm your new Watcher."

"Buffy," she replied, her tone guarded, as if testing how it felt to introduce herself on her own terms. There was power in that name, the name she had claimed for herself, the name that felt right.

"Buffy," Giles repeated, the syllables rolling thoughtfully off his tongue as though he was committing it to memory, recognizing its significance. "You know the prophecy."

"'One girl in all the world,'" Buffy said, her voice sharp with irony. The phrase always struck a bitter chord within her, a reminder of the weight that had been thrust upon her shoulders without her consent. She had always felt the prophecy didn't quite fit, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong slot. "You think maybe fate crossed a wire in there somewhere?"

Giles paused, his expression becoming more contemplative as he addressed her concern. "Transgender Slayers are not unprecedented in history," he said, his voice calm but carrying a weight of knowledge. "Martha of Venice, in the 1430s, lived to be almost forty. And the Mayan Itzal in the 870s. Fate didn't mess up. Society, on the other hand, has, in its limited conception of gender."

His words landed softly, but their meaning struck deep, settling in Buffy's chest. It was the first time she had heard anyone from the Watcher's Council acknowledge her identity in a way that didn't feel dismissive or wrong. Giles wasn't just reciting facts; he seemed to genuinely understand the weight she carried—not just as a Slayer, but as someone who had fought to be seen for who she truly was. And that—that—made her find herself liking him, despite her instincts to keep her walls up.

But liking Giles didn't erase the conflict that burned within her. "I didn't ask for this," she said, her voice quiet but resolute. There was a vulnerability there, one that she usually kept buried under layers of sarcasm and defiance. "Can't you find somebody else to kill vamps for you? Slaying already messed up my life in L.A."

The mention of her past life hung in the air between them. Her mind flickered back to the memories of L.A.—the chaos, the danger, the isolation. Being the Slayer had uprooted everything, and she couldn't bear the thought of disrupting her mother's life or her sister's life again. Buffy wasn't ready to throw herself back into that storm, not when her family had just started to settle into Sunnydale, a town that might offer them a chance at normalcy.

Giles regarded her with a soft, understanding gaze, the weight of the words "chosen one" hanging in the air between them like an undeniable truth. "You're the chosen one," he reminded her, his voice calm but unwavering. "At least train with me for now."

Buffy exhaled, the tension in her shoulders not quite releasing as she resigned herself to the inevitable. "Fine, whatever," she muttered, her voice laced with reluctant acceptance. "I'm going to lunch. I'll come by after school." She turned to leave, eager to put some distance between herself and the conversation, but something stopped her. A thought gnawed at the back of her mind, tugging her back. She paused, then turned on her heel to face him again.

"Talking about training," she began, her voice more deliberate this time, "is there a way we could get that so the school saw that as my physical education requirement?"

Giles tilted his head, his brow furrowing in thought. "Under normal circumstances, I don't see how," he admitted, his voice thoughtful, though the gears were visibly turning in his mind. "But given your situation, I will see what I can do. I assume that…"

Buffy's heart skipped a beat as the words she had been dancing around surfaced. She had always been careful with her body, careful not to show too much, to hide what didn't feel right. But she needed Giles to understand. "I have some body dysphoria," she admitted, her voice quieter now, more vulnerable. Her eyes flicked downward, landing on her flat chest and the small but unmistakable bulge in her pants that made her skin crawl every time she noticed it. "I don't feel comfortable changing in front of other people, especially boys."

Giles didn't flinch. He nodded, his face softening with an empathy that Buffy hadn't expected. There was no awkwardness, no judgment, just a quiet acceptance of her truth. He walked over to his office, his footsteps soft against the polished floor, and retrieved a sheet of paper. The familiar clack of a typewriter soon filled the silence as he composed an excuse for her.

"Buffy!" he called after a moment, and she stepped into the office, her curiosity piqued as she approached him. He handed her the note, already signed by him, and gave her a measured look. "Can you reasonably forge your mother's signature?"

Buffy raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "I can try," she admitted. The note in her hands felt like a lifeline, a small relief from the anxiety that gnawed at her every time she thought about gym class. She set the note down on the desk and pulled out a blank sheet of paper, practicing her mother's signature a few times, her hand steady as muscle memory took over. After a few tries, she felt confident enough and signed the real note with practiced ease.

Giles watched her in silence, his expression unreadable but patient. When she finally handed him the note, he took it and examined it briefly before tucking it away.

"We'll figure out something more permanent soon," Giles reassured her, his voice low and steady, as though the world of Slayers and Watchers and vampires wasn't colliding with her personal struggles. In that moment, Buffy felt a flicker of gratitude—Giles wasn't just her Watcher; he was someone who seemed to understand her far more than most.

Buffy hesitated, her breath catching slightly in her throat as she began to speak. "So you do see me as..." Her voice trailed off, uncertain, as though speaking the words aloud would make the truth too fragile, too exposed.

Giles, standing there with the quiet authority of someone who had seen far more than anyone else in the room, didn't let her finish the sentence. His eyes, full of empathy and understanding, met hers without flinching. "As the girl you are, not the boy you were born as," he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. The simple affirmation hung in the air, heavier than the words themselves. It was as if, for the first time in a long while, someone truly saw her—not just what the world expected her to be.

Buffy felt something shift inside her, a small weight lifting, though the rest of her world still felt impossibly heavy. She was used to people seeing only Rutherford, her old name and the male identity imposed upon her from birth. To hear Giles, a Watcher who held the ancient traditions of the Slayers, acknowledge her in the way she had always wanted to be acknowledged was startling and, for a moment, overwhelming.

"If you want more confirmation that you are indeed a girl within a boy's body," Giles continued, his voice steady, gently coaxing her through her doubts, "think about this. Slayers, as you likely know, are always girls. Why would you think that is?"

Buffy stood there, her mind processing Giles' words. Her hands trembled slightly, but not from fear—this was something else, something deeper. It felt like the validation she'd longed for, even if she hadn't known it, had finally come in a way she never imagined.

"So... being a Slayer..." she began, the words hesitant, forming slowly, "it's not just some random thing that happened to me because of... whatever cosmic forces are out there. It's because I'm—" She stopped, the enormity of it dawning on her.

"Because you are who you are," Giles finished for her, his voice soft but resolute. "The Powers That Be chose you for a reason, Buffy. Not in spite of your identity, but perhaps because of it."

Buffy swallowed hard, her throat tightening with a mixture of emotions she couldn't easily untangle. "But how does that work? I mean, every Slayer is supposed to be this girl—strong, capable, ready to face whatever comes her way." Her voice wavered, frustration creeping in. "How can I be that when so much of me still feels… wrong?"

Giles studied her for a moment, the intensity in his gaze not one of judgment, but of thoughtfulness. "There's more to strength than physicality," he said. "Being a Slayer is not merely about muscle and instinct. It's about spirit, will, and identity. Your sense of who you are—what you fight for—makes you stronger, not weaker. You are Buffy, and Buffy is the Slayer."

She let out a small, shaky breath, trying to reconcile the words. It made sense in a way, and yet part of her still rebelled against it, still clung to the old wounds that her body didn't reflect the girl she knew she was. The battles she faced within were as fierce as those with vampires and demons—battles of acceptance, of being seen, and of navigating a world that so often didn't understand her.

"And the Slayer part of me... it doesn't care that I'm trans?" she asked, her voice softer, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.

Giles' expression softened further. "It doesn't. Being a Slayer transcends the limitations of how others may perceive you. The Slayer essence chose you, Buffy, because you are who you are—not because of how you were born. You were always meant to be this."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

As Buffy walked through the bustling hallways, the walls seemed to loom closer with each step. It wasn't just nerves; it was the sense that everything was changing around her, and she hadn't quite figured out where she fit in yet. The bright lights, the chatter of students, the clanging lockers—it all felt overwhelming, like the school was watching her, waiting to see what she would do next. She picked up her pace, focusing on the simple task of grabbing her lunch from her locker. But as her fingers brushed the cold metal, she grimaced slightly—she hadn't managed to get a single textbook from Giles.

Not like I won't be back there later anyway, she thought wryly, mentally kicking herself for being so distracted by their conversation.

When she finally made her way outside, the fresh air was a relief. It grounded her in the moment, pulling her out of her racing thoughts. Nearby, Willow was seated, her head bent over her lunch, absentmindedly rearranging items like they were puzzle pieces she had to solve. She seemed completely immersed in her own world, her expression distant as if whatever was running through her mind was far more important than the sandwich in front of her.

Buffy hesitated for a moment, not wanting to break the peace, but then she cleared her throat gently. "Willow, hi," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet space between them.

Startled, Willow turned around quickly, her face lighting up when she saw Buffy sitting down next to her. "Hi, Rutherford," she greeted warmly, her smile breaking the previous tension.

Buffy offered a small smile of her own, feeling a little more at ease in Willow's presence. "I heard after I left the library that you were a good person to study with," she said, her tone lighter but with a trace of earnestness. Buffy wasn't a bad student by any means—if anything, she had always been sharp and quick to learn. The only reason her grades had started to tank at Hemery was because slaying took over her life. Between the training, the constant fights, and the exhaustion that came with it, academics had slipped through her fingers like sand.

"And I have this burning desire not to flunk my classes," Buffy added with a wry grin.

Willow's face brightened, her whole demeanor shifting into eager enthusiasm. "Oh, I could totally help you out!" she chirped, her voice bubbling with excitement at the prospect of tutoring. "If you have sixth period free, we could meet in the library—" she suggested, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Buffy paused, her thoughts swirling. The library made perfect sense—quiet, full of resources, and relatively free of distractions. But it also meant blending her school life with her Slayer duties, especially with Giles lurking around. That was a complication she wasn't quite ready to confront head-on. But Willow was so sincere, and Buffy didn't want to reject the offer.

"Sure," she finally said, nodding slowly, though the hesitation lingered in her voice.

Before the conversation could deepen, a new presence entered the scene. Xander and Jesse sauntered over, both wearing their usual easy grins, looking like they hadn't a care in the world. Xander glanced between Buffy and Willow with his eyebrows raised, already in full charm mode.

"Hey. Are you guys busy?" Xander asked, his voice carrying that familiar casualness. "Can we interrupt? We're interrupting," he added with a smirk, clearly aware that he and Jesse had barged into whatever was happening.

Buffy turned toward them with a bright smile, her earlier nerves momentarily fading away. "Hey!" she greeted, genuinely glad to see them.

"Hey there," Jesse echoed, giving Buffy a nod. His gaze flickered between her and Willow, as if he were trying to figure out what exactly they'd walked into.

"Rutherford, this is Jesse," Willow introduced, pointing first to Jesse and then to the taller boy standing beside him. "And that's Xander."

Buffy smiled, feeling the warmth of their easygoing nature. "Nice to meet you guys," she said, glancing between them. "So, what's up?"

"Lunch," Jesse answered with exaggerated seriousness, puffing out his chest a little. "That most manly of activities."

Buffy suppressed a flicker of discomfort at Jesse's remark, the word "manly" sticking in her mind like a splinter. She forced a light smile and bit into her apple, trying to shake the feeling. "Oh, yeah... manly," she echoed, her tone slightly wry.

The casual conversation continued, but Buffy's thoughts lingered on how easily words like that could stir her dysphoria. She was still navigating who she was in this new place, and comments like Jesse's, though harmless in intent, nudged at the walls she had built to protect herself.

Jesse seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil as he suddenly leaned in, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Looks like the ultrafine Queen C has her eyes on you, Rutherford," he said, motioning subtly toward Cordelia, who was standing a few tables away, her gaze sweeping over their group.

Buffy rolled her eyes, groaning inwardly. "Ugh. No thanks." She took another bite of her apple, her thoughts lingering on Cordelia's perfect posture and immaculate appearance. While Buffy was bi, attracted to both men and women, Cordelia's type of beauty felt so... manufactured. Too perfect, too shallow. Definitely not her type.

"Yeah, Cordelia is gross," Xander chimed in, his expression scrunching up as if the thought of her was physically repellent.

Willow nodded vigorously. "Rutherford totally told her off for me earlier! It was awesome!" she exclaimed, her excitement about the encounter still fresh.

Buffy chuckled, a little embarrassed by Willow's enthusiasm. "Well, telling her off might be putting it a little strongly. I just told her to go away." She shrugged as if it hadn't been a big deal, but a part of her felt proud of having stood up for Willow, even in such a small way.

"Brave words from a newcomer," Xander teased, his elbow gently nudging Buffy in the side. His grin was playful, and Buffy found herself smiling back. "Pretty impressive, completely wrecking your social status that quickly."

Buffy noticed Willow's cheeks reddening and couldn't help but smile at her. It was nice to see the girl, who had been so shy earlier, opening up a bit. "I'm not really interested in being popular," Buffy admitted, her voice carrying a quiet confidence. "Besides, being bisexual might be a turnoff for the Queen C's of the world."

Willow's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "You're bi?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Buffy nodded. "Yeah, not exactly the fastest track to popularity around here, I'm guessing." She tilted her head toward Jesse, whose wide-eyed expression of shock was impossible to miss. His reaction was so comical that even Willow had to stifle a giggle.

"Given his reaction…" Willow said with a wry smile, as Jesse awkwardly shifted in his seat, trying to cover up his surprise.

"My reaction? What? No, it's just—my back does this thing—" Jesse babbled, twisting around like he was trying to shake something off, but failing miserably.

Buffy laughed, the sound light and unbothered. "Relax, Jesse. Trust me, when it comes to guys, I'm sure I can find a hotter guy around here than you."

Jesse visibly deflated, and Xander, who had been quiet up until now, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure of how to respond. But Willow, her eyes sparkling with newfound camaraderie, was grinning from ear to ear.

"This is great!" Willow said, the enthusiasm in her voice infectious. "I finally have someone to talk to about boys!"

Buffy met her gaze and returned the grin. "That would be nice," she agreed, feeling a sense of connection form between them. She glanced at Xander and Jesse, who were still in varying stages of shock. The sight was amusing, but it also raised a question in her mind. "Just out of curiosity," Buffy asked, tilting her head, "are there no gay people out at this school?"

Willow furrowed her brow, clearly thinking hard for a moment. "There's a senior couple, Adam and Horatio," she finally said. "But other than them, I really can't think of anybody."

Buffy raised an eyebrow, amused by how limited the options seemed in Sunnydale, but before she could say anything, Xander finally seemed to shake himself out of his stupor. He gave Jesse a playful shove, causing Jesse to grimace as if he had been snapped back to reality.

"Sorry," Xander mumbled, looking sheepish as he nudged Jesse again.

Jesse, still recovering from his earlier embarrassment, managed a weak smile. "Yeah, sorry, Rutherford," he added, his voice much softer now.

Buffy waved them off, her tone light and reassuring. "It's okay," she said with a small chuckle. "I don't have AIDS or anything. You guys can chill."

"Chill," Xander muttered to himself, picking up his sandwich and taking a thoughtful bite. After a moment, he nodded, as if finally coming to terms with it. "Gay is okay."

"Let's let them process that," Willow said, her tone lighthearted but understanding as she shifted the conversation. "What's your next class?"

Buffy glanced at the crumpled schedule she pulled from her pocket, her fingers brushing over the edges. "Officially, gym. But I have a note to excuse me this week."

Willow's eyes brightened as she took in the news. "Well, then we can walk together," she said cheerfully, giving Xander's head an affectionate pat as if he were an overgrown puppy. "Bye, boys."

"Bye," Xander mumbled, still clearly processing the earlier revelation, as Jesse gave a delayed "Bye" of his own.

As the two girls made their way through the crowded halls, the noise of students rushing to their next classes filled the air, but Buffy's mind was on something else entirely. She gave Willow a sideways glance, her curiosity piqued. "So, they're pretty homophobic, huh?"

Willow's face grew thoughtful, and after a moment, she gave a little shrug. "They're good guys," she reassured Buffy, though there was a hint of apology in her voice. "Sunnydale just isn't what you'd call cultured. They'll get over it." Her awkward smile spoke volumes about the small-town mentality they were up against.

Buffy nodded, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Yeah," she said, before changing the subject with a playful edge to her voice. "So, Xander, huh?"

Willow blinked at her, confusion flashing across her face. "What about him?" she asked, not quite following where Buffy was headed.

Buffy's grin widened, her eyes dancing with mischief. "You like him," she teased, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the weather.

Immediately, Willow's face flushed a deep crimson. She looked away, trying to hide the color rising to her cheeks. "I do not!" she protested weakly, but Buffy's raised eyebrows were enough to make her crack. "Okay, yeah, I do," Willow admitted with a groan. "But he's so oblivious. I'd probably have to show up on his bed naked to get his attention."

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and when she realized what she'd said, her face turned an even deeper shade of red. "Not that I would do that!" she quickly added, flustered and horrified at the thought.

Buffy burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the hallway. "Yeah, you don't exactly seem like the type to show up without a stitch on and your breasts on full display," she teased, her laughter only growing as Willow's embarrassment reached new heights.

Willow's face practically glowed with mortification. "Shut up," she muttered, trying to hide her smile as they turned the corner.

The hallway ahead was unusually crowded, with students lingering in a haphazard line, their faces a mixture of confusion and curiosity. Buffy, sensing something was up, made her way toward the crowd. She tapped the shoulder of a nearby girl who seemed to be watching the commotion.

"What's going on?" Buffy asked, her tone casual, though she could feel a slight knot of unease forming in her stomach.

The girl glanced at her, then back toward the locker room doors. "Coach Foster cancelled gym class because of a dead guy in the locker," she said flatly, as if she were delivering news about a minor inconvenience rather than something out of a horror movie.

Buffy's heart skipped a beat. "Dead?" she echoed, her voice just a fraction above a whisper. The word lingered in the air, heavy with dark possibilities.

The girl gave a nonchalant nod, as if this kind of news barely registered on her radar. "Way dead," she said, pointing lazily in the direction of the locker room, her tone disturbingly casual.

Buffy's mind churned, each gear spinning faster as she fought to keep her expression neutral. A dead body at school, and no one seemed fazed? A chill crawled up her spine, cold and familiar. She knew this feeling—the rising certainty that something dark was at play. Her instincts as the Slayer, sharp and finely tuned, kicked in. "How did he die?" Buffy pressed, her voice tighter now, her eyes narrowing with intensity.

The girl shrugged, oblivious to Buffy's growing tension. "Not sure… though he had two holes in his neck," she replied, her words hanging ominously between them.

Buffy's pulse quickened. Two holes. Her mind immediately conjured the image of vampire bites, the unmistakable twin punctures that marked victims across centuries. But she forced herself to stay calm, to gather more information. "Was there a lot of blood?" she asked, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "Was there any blood at all?"

For the first time, the girl seemed to pick up on the gravity of Buffy's questions. She blinked, staring at her with a mix of confusion and alarm. "I don't know," she stammered, taken aback. Clearly, she hadn't thought about it much deeper than the initial shock.

Buffy offered her a quick nod, trying to pull herself back from the edge of panic. "Thanks," she said briskly, already turning away, her thoughts racing a mile a minute. She was certain of it now—this was no ordinary death.

She glanced at Willow, who was watching her with concern, and forced a tight smile. "Sorry, Willow. I've got to go. Looks like we have a free period."

Willow, ever loyal and sharp in her own right, didn't miss a beat. "I'll come with you," she offered, her voice steady even though Buffy could see the worry flickering behind her eyes.

Buffy hesitated for a brief moment, considering Willow's offer. She didn't want to put her new friend in danger, but something about the way Willow stood beside her—resolute, even when clearly unnerved—made Buffy relent.

"Fine," Buffy agreed, nodding. Without wasting another second, she turned sharply and started for the library, her boots echoing off the tiled floors with determined strides. Willow hurried to keep pace, the air between them thick with unspoken understanding.

The weight of the situation settled heavily on Buffy's shoulders. If it really was vampires, if this wasn't just a coincidence, then the quiet calm of Sunnydale High was about to be shattered in the worst way. And she would have to be the one to stand between it and the people she barely even knew yet.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Buffy burst through the library doors with a force that echoed her racing heart. Her gaze immediately locked onto Giles, who was perched on the second level, lost in the pages of an old, worn book. She didn't slow her pace, her boots thudding against the floor as she hurried up the stairs, the urgency of her footsteps reverberating through the quiet, book-lined room. "Hey, Giles! It's me, Rutherford Summers, and Willow Rosenberg, my new friend. Hear about the dead guy?"

Giles looked up from his book, his eyes shifting quickly between Buffy and Willow, the weight of the situation evident in his furrowed brow. "I did, yes," he responded, his British accent calm but his gaze sharp, assessing. He spared a second glance at Willow, noting her presence with mild curiosity. "I heard he had holes in his neck. How odd."

Buffy gave a quick nod, her mind already deep in slayer mode, every instinct alert and humming with anticipation. "Very odd," she echoed, her voice lowering as if the very words were dangerous. Willow, standing beside her, shifted uncomfortably, her confusion growing as she glanced between them, sensing there was more to this conversation than she understood.

"Who do you think the killer might be?" Buffy asked, her tone serious, though she kept her voice light enough not to alarm Willow.

Giles, ever the master of discretion, chose his words carefully, his tone cryptic enough to fly over Willow's head. "Certainly, an inhuman individual," he said, his eyes dark with unspoken knowledge. His subtle implication left no doubt in Buffy's mind about the type of threat they were dealing with. Willow, meanwhile, furrowed her brow, her confusion deepening as she stood on the edges of a conversation she wasn't fully part of.

Buffy crossed her arms, her mind already playing through the grim possibilities. "What do you think they'll do with the poor boy?" she mused, half to herself.

Giles responded with a simple, somber shrug. "Bury him, I suppose," he said with a sigh.

Willow, sensing the increasingly cryptic nature of their conversation, gave them both a confused glance. Feeling a bit out of place, she quietly wandered into the stacks, her curiosity pulling her toward the rows of books.

Giles seized the opportunity, his gaze following Willow's retreating figure before he leaned in toward Buffy, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "Will he rise again?" he asked, his tone laced with unspoken meaning, knowing Buffy would understand the darker implication.

Buffy shrugged, her eyes darting around the library as if half expecting something—or someone—to appear from the shadows. "No clue," she admitted, though her instincts told her the vampire was likely not coming back. "I don't think so, though."

Willow glanced over at them from behind the shelves, her curiosity still piqued, but Buffy met her gaze with a reassuring smile, waving her off. "I think somebody was sending a message, though," Buffy added, her voice dropping as her expression hardened. "I think they know I'm here."

Giles nodded grimly, his lips pressing into a thin line. "They wanted your attention," he said, the weight of his words heavy with foreboding. "That means whoever it is will come to you, whether you want to keep slaying or not."

Buffy felt the knot in her chest tighten. There was no escape, no matter how much she wished otherwise. The life of a Slayer wasn't something she could leave behind, even here in a new town, with new faces and new friends. "Yeah," she muttered; the resignation thick in her voice. "It's inescapable, isn't it? I'll never be free."

Giles, sensing her frustration, allowed a brief moment of levity. "You could always join a commune underground," he teased lightly, though his eyes held a touch of sympathy. "Abandon society entirely. But people you could have saved will die."

"Yeah," Buffy muttered, a heavy weight sinking into her words. "This thing is a real bitch." She let the curse slip, the frustration of her situation too thick to filter. No matter how far she moved, how hard she tried to live a normal life, this... thing—the Slayer destiny—was always there, haunting her like a shadow that refused to be shaken.

Giles regarded her with calm, understanding eyes, the kind that came from witnessing too many slayers, too much loss, yet still holding on to hope. "Fate picked you for a reason," he said softly, his voice reassuring but firm. "You wouldn't be chosen if you weren't strong enough to bear this." His words were meant to comfort, to remind her that this burden was not without purpose, though Buffy wasn't sure if it was strength or sheer stubbornness that kept her going sometimes.

Buffy couldn't muster a glare, even though she wanted to. She sighed deeply instead, her chest rising and falling with the heaviness of all the lives she hadn't yet saved, the battles she hadn't yet fought. "One vampire-free day," she muttered wistfully, her voice barely above a whisper. "That's all I wanted." It wasn't too much to ask, was it? Just one day where she didn't have to think about bloodsuckers or end-of-the-world prophecies.

Giles reached out, patting her shoulder with a gentleness that surprised her, given his usual reserved demeanor. "I have been doing some research," he said, his tone shifting back into Watcher-mode. "It is apparent that something is coming. Something is going to happen here soon. As far as I can tell," he continued, "the signs point to a crucial mystical upheaval very soon—days, possibly less."

The words "crucial mystical upheaval" hung in the air between them, heavy and foreboding. Buffy let them sink in for a moment before nodding, the gears in her mind already turning. "I'll keep an eye out," she finally responded, her voice low and thoughtful. She paused briefly, her gaze drifting to the floor as she calculated her next move. "I'm not patrolling tonight, but I will tomorrow."

Giles raised an eyebrow, clearly questioning her decision.

"I still have to unpack," Buffy explained, shrugging off his concern with a casual wave of her hand. "Besides, we need to know who I'm going after." She hopped off the counter, the soles of her shoes hitting the floor with a soft thud. "You research local vamps tonight and fill me in tomorrow on who I'm looking for. Cool?"

Without waiting for his affirmation, Buffy turned on her heel, the decision already made. "Cool. See you tomorrow, Giles." Her voice called out behind her as she made her way toward the exit, her movements quick and deliberate. "We're leaving, Willow!" she added, her voice echoing across the stacks.

Willow, who had been engrossed in a random book on the far side of the library, startled at the sound of her name. She quickly scrambled after Buffy, her footsteps hurried as she caught up in the hallway. "You know the librarian? Mr. Giles?" Willow asked, her curiosity piqued.

Buffy hesitated for a split second, the truth lingering on the edge of her lips. But she wasn't ready to unpack all of that just yet. She glanced at Willow, then offered a quick, simple lie. "Old family friend," she said with a casual shrug, hoping that would suffice for now.

Willow raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but not pressing the issue. "You could've just said you wanted to speak to him privately," she suggested, her tone light.

Buffy shrugged again, not really in the mood to delve into the complexities of her strange and secretive relationship with Giles. Some things were better left unexplained, at least for now.

"So," Willow continued, her voice brightening with enthusiasm, "would you like to come to the Bronze tonight? It's about the only club in Sunnydale worth going to."

Buffy's interest piqued slightly. A night out could be a welcome distraction. "Where's it at?" she asked, genuinely curious.

Willow began rattling off directions as they made their way toward the student lounge. Buffy listened with half an ear, her mind wandering as they walked. The rest of the day stretched out before her, her emotions bouncing between gratitude for these newfound friends, frustration that they knew so little about her true identity, and annoyance—no, irritation—at Giles and his eternally calm, posh British accent.

Why did life in Sunnydale have to be so complicated? Buffy thought to herself. Wasn't it supposed to be simpler here, away from L.A., away from her past? But, of course, even in this seemingly quiet town, the universe had other plans. Slayers didn't get vacations from destiny.

As they neared the lounge, Buffy pushed aside her darker thoughts for the moment. Tonight, maybe she could pretend to be a normal teenager, even if it was just for a few hours. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow the fight would begin again.

Summers Home

Night had drawn its dark cloak over Sunnydale, a gentle breeze whispering through the cracks of Buffy's window. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated her face as she stood in front of her bedroom mirror, her reflection staring back at her with familiar frustration. She let out a weary sigh, the weight of the evening pressing heavily on her chest. All she wanted was the simple joy of picking out an outfit, the way any other girl would—choosing something that made her feel beautiful, seen, and confident in her own skin. But instead, she found herself once again facing the clothes that reminded her of the body she was trapped in, one that didn't align with who she truly was.

Her fingers brushed over a shirt hanging in the closet, but the gesture felt hollow. Each option was limited, each garment a compromise in her assigned "boy mode" wardrobe. Nothing here felt right.

As she stood there, lost in thought, the familiar creak of her door opening drew her attention. Joyce stepped in, her motherly concern evident in the way her brow furrowed slightly, her lips curved in a soft smile. She always tried to be supportive, but Buffy could see the layers of worry just beneath the surface.

"Are you heading out tonight, honey?" Joyce asked, her voice tinged with love but also the unspoken worry that had grown since they moved to Sunnydale. Buffy could feel it—their lives were different now, and Joyce was doing her best to navigate the change.

"Yeah, Mom. I'm going to a club," Buffy replied, her tone a mix of exhaustion from the day's revelations and a bit of anticipation for a night that might offer some relief from the constant weight of her identity and her slayer duties.

Joyce's concern, however, wasn't so easily dismissed. "Will there be girls there?" she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as if gauging the potential trouble her child might find. There was genuine curiosity in her question, but also that innate protectiveness.

Before Buffy could respond, Dawn piped up from the doorway, her voice laced with playful sarcasm. "Mom, Rutherford isn't planning to join a monastery."

Buffy smirked at her sister's teasing, the smallest bit of tension lifting. Dawn had that effect—always knowing how to lighten the mood, even when everything felt impossibly heavy.

Joyce gave a small, affectionate smile in response to Dawn's remark, brushing it off as she focused again on Buffy. Yet, her smile couldn't completely hide the deeper layers of concern that lingered in her gaze. "Well, just be cautious," she added, her tone taking on that serious, motherly edge—protective and loving, but also recognizing that Buffy, or Rutherford as the world still knew her, was navigating so much more than just a regular night out.

"I will," Buffy assured her, though the promise carried the unspoken weight of so much more than Joyce could understand. It was a constant balancing act—between who she was, who she wanted to be, and the reality she had to live in. She sensed that her mother knew, at least on some level, but they weren't ready for that conversation yet. Not tonight.

Dawn, always perceptive in her own quiet way, stepped closer to Buffy, her presence offering unspoken solidarity. There was no judgment in her eyes, only understanding. They didn't need words. Dawn just knew.

As if deciding to shift the mood, Joyce straightened her posture, her voice filled with that hopeful determination only a mother could muster. "I believe we can make it work here," she said, her words brimming with optimism. There was a kind of resilience in her voice, the way she refused to give in to the uncertainties that came with starting over. "I have positive energy flowing through me. I'm working on establishing the gallery, and we might have already found a suitable space."

Buffy managed a flicker of enthusiasm, though it was faint. "That's great," she said, her tone trying to match her mother's optimism. It wasn't that she didn't want to be hopeful, but the realities of her life made it hard to fully embrace the good moments. Still, her mother's determination was contagious, and for a brief second, she allowed herself to believe in the possibility of something better.

Joyce continued, her words measured, mixing practical advice with the kind of wisdom only a mother could provide. "And both schools provide nurturing environments," she said, her tone informative yet soft. "But don't worry, I'm not advocating excessive nurturing. I've read about the risks involved." She paused, her gaze steady as she looked at Buffy and Dawn, both of them watching her intently. Then, with a deep breath, she spoke her truth. "It's challenging. Adjusting to a new town and all. It's tough for me too. But I'm determined to make it work. I will make it work."

Buffy could see the fierce determination in her mother's eyes, and for a brief moment, her own heart fluttered with a small yet potent sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they really could make it work here. She drew in a breath, feeling the strength of that possibility settle within her. "Dawn and I know," she affirmed softly, her voice carrying a quiet but resolute strength. She glanced over at her sister; their shared understanding evident without needing words. "Right, Dawnie?"

Dawn nodded without hesitation, her eyes shining with unwavering loyalty. "Right, Rutherford," she replied, using Buffy's birth name for their mother's sake.

Joyce gave a small nod. "Okay," she said, her voice softening as she glanced at Dawn. "Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes." With that, she left the room, her footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving the two sisters alone again.

As the door closed behind their mother, the air in the room shifted slightly. Buffy turned back to her closet, her fingers brushing over the fabric of the clothes hanging there. She let out a long, tired sigh. "You know, Dawn," she began, her voice tinged with a mixture of longing and frustration. "I can't wait till I can wear a dress or something more girly."

Without missing a beat, Dawn reached out, slipping her arm around Buffy's waist, offering silent comfort. Her touch was light but filled with reassurance. "You will," she affirmed with quiet confidence, her voice gentle but firm, as if the future Buffy hoped for was inevitable, just waiting for the right moment.

Buffy turned to look at her sister, and despite the weight of the day, a small smile tugged at her lips. Dawn's constant presence, her unwavering belief in who Buffy was becoming, made everything a little more bearable. With a newfound sense of purpose, Buffy carefully selected her outfit for the evening, landing on a pair of stylish denim jeans that fit her comfortably, a soft powder blue shirt that felt smooth against her skin, and her favorite leather jacket—a piece that had come to symbolize a certain confidence, a strength she was still learning to embody.

With a final glance at the mirror, Buffy turned toward Dawn, seeking her sister's opinion, her eyes searching for that familiar encouragement. "What do you think?" she asked, her tone hopeful, though still carrying a hint of vulnerability.

Dawn's eyes lit up as she took in Buffy's appearance, her admiration genuine and unfiltered. "You look amazing, Buffy," she replied, her voice brimming with enthusiasm and pride. "The colors suit you perfectly, and that jacket gives you such a cool edge. You're going to turn heads tonight!"

Buffy's smile widened at Dawn's praise, a warmth spreading through her. It wasn't just the compliment—though it meant the world—but the fact that Dawn always saw her, truly saw her, as she wanted to be seen. It made the often arduous journey of self-discovery feel a little less lonely. "Thanks, Dawnie," Buffy said, her voice filled with gratitude and affection. "Your approval means everything to me. I'm so glad we can share these moments together."

Dawn's response was wordless but powerful. She wrapped her arms tightly around Buffy, pulling her into a hug that was full of love, acceptance, and understanding. Buffy closed her eyes, sinking into the embrace, feeling the connection that only siblings could share—a bond that transcended all the struggles and uncertainty she faced. In that moment, with her sister's arms around her, Buffy felt a little bit lighter, as though the future she longed for was one step closer.

Streets of Sunnydale

Deciding to head to the Bronze, Buffy left the welcoming lights of the suburbs behind, venturing into the quiet streets on the outskirts of town. The familiar sights of home faded into shadows, and a soft breeze rustled through the leaves, adding an eerie soundtrack to her solitary walk. As she treaded the dimly lit pavement, the echo of her footsteps reverberated in the darkness, a rhythmic reminder of her isolation. Yet, an uneasy feeling began to creep over her, an instinctive alarm whispering that she wasn't as alone as she had hoped.

The sound of footsteps, matching her own in their cadence, began to echo behind her, steadily growing closer with each passing moment. Buffy's heart raced as her instincts kicked in, sharp and alert. She swiftly turned around, her eyes narrowing as they fixated on a figure cloaked in shadows, a silhouette that seemed to blend into the night. Though she couldn't discern the person's features, a sense of foreboding washed over her, intensifying her unease and setting her nerves on high alert.

Determined not to show her vulnerability, she quickly resumed her journey, quickening her pace. But the figure continued to trail her, their footsteps echoing ominously, mimicking her movements like a predator stalking its prey. Realizing that escape was necessary, Buffy's pulse quickened. In a spontaneous decision driven by adrenaline, she darted into an alleyway, her mind racing as she assessed her surroundings for a tactical advantage. The narrow passage was dim, but she could make out a sturdy pipe suspended about ten feet above her.

With a deep breath and a surge of determination, Buffy harnessed her agility, effortlessly hoisting herself onto the pipe with the grace of a seasoned acrobat. She assumed a poised position, crouched and ready, as she anticipated the figure's arrival. The anticipation thrummed through her, her senses heightened, every muscle in her body primed for action. Without warning, she launched herself downward, her legs locking around the figure's neck in a perfectly timed takedown, bringing him crashing down onto the hard pavement.

To her surprise, the figure quickly regained his footing but made no aggressive move toward her. Instead, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, a hint of amusement dancing across his face as he regarded her with an unfazed expression. "Is there a problem, ma'am?" the young man asked, his tone laced with sarcasm.

Buffy's mind raced as she processed the unexpected turn of events. Her initial instinct had been to attack, but as she scrutinized him, she realized he wasn't reacting as she had anticipated. "Yeah, we do have a problem," she responded, her voice laced with determination and a hint of defiance. "First, you were following me. Second, you're a vampire. And you know what happens when vampires cross my path." With a swift motion, she brandished her stake, pressing it firmly against his chest, the cold wood a stark reminder of the danger that lurked in the shadows. "Any last words? I don't usually offer that courtesy."

Panic seeped into the young man's voice as he pleaded for his life. "You can't kill me! I'm a good guy! I have a soul! How did you know I'm a vampire?"

Buffy tapped the back of her neck, a coy smile playing on her lips as she played it cool. "Tinglies," she remarked, acknowledging her not-so-perfect Slayer senses. "And the way you addressed me, calling me ma'am, only vampires or someone who knows I'm the Slayer would do that. Besides, the only way you could know my gender identity was…"

"If I knew you were the Slayer," he winced slightly, conceding her point, his confidence faltering. "People call me Angel," he replied, sincerity etched across his features. "Look, can you back off?"

Buffy let out a laugh, a mix of amusement and disbelief. "Yeah, sure, vampire. I'll just let you go," she scoffed, sarcasm dripping from her words. "You and your soul."

"It's true," Angel insisted, his tone earnest, devoid of the arrogance she had expected. "Look, I don't know how to prove it. Can you just this once take it on faith?"

Buffy pondered his request, her mind racing with the implications. She weighed her options carefully, feeling the tension in the air. "I have a better idea," she proposed, her voice firm yet tinged with curiosity. "Come with me for a minute. But remember, any funny business, and you'll find yourself as a pile of dust before you can say 'help.'"

The Bronze

A good-sized crowd buzzed with energy outside the Bronze as Buffy and Angel made their way through the line, their anticipation mingling with the vibrant atmosphere. The air was thick with excitement and the distant thump of bass reverberated through the pavement, drawing them closer. As they entered, the atmosphere inside the venue enveloped them like a warm embrace—dark, noisy, and filled to the brim with the eager chatter of young voices. The band on stage played with fervor, their melodies soaring high above the din, while the patrons—mostly high schoolers and a smattering of older faces—revelled in the music, their movements a blur of energy and youthful abandon.

Buffy navigated the crowded space with practiced ease, her senses heightened as she kept an eye on Angel, acutely aware of his presence beside her. The thrumming of the music pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and she felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation as she searched for her new friends in the throng.

Spotting Willow at the bar, her familiar face brought a rush of warmth to Buffy's chest. She approached with a bright smile, her heart lightening in the presence of her friend. "Hi, Willow!"

Willow's eyes lit up at the sight of Buffy, a mix of relief and delight washing over her, though she looked a tad out of place in her Peter Pan collar and cozy sweater. "Oh, hi, Rutherford!" she exclaimed, her voice rising above the music as she beamed at Buffy's arrival. "You made it."

"Unfortunately," Buffy replied, a hint of disappointment creeping into her tone as she surveyed the lively crowd. "I can't stay long. Just wanted to make sure you didn't think I bailed on you."

Willow's expression dropped slightly, tinged with a touch of sadness as she processed Buffy's words. "Aw, darn," she responded, her enthusiasm faltering. "I guess I'll head out too. I was hoping Xander would show up, but it doesn't seem likely."

Buffy frowned, contemplating the situation and the unspoken camaraderie that hung in the air. Her gaze shifted to Angel, who leaned awkwardly against a nearby table, observing the crowd with a distant look. "Are you planning to walk home alone?" she asked Willow, a note of concern threading through her voice.

"Yeah," Willow confirmed, her face shadowed by a hint of uncertainty.

Buffy let out a sigh, her protective instincts flaring to life. She approached Angel, her tone shifting to one of practicality. "Do you have any cash?" she inquired, her eyes narrowing slightly as she gauged his response.

Angel retrieved two twenties from his pocket, the crisp bills a stark contrast to the chaotic energy around them, and handed them to her with an easy gesture. Buffy accepted the money, a flicker of gratitude warming her heart before she passed it to Willow. "Call a cab," she instructed curtly, her gaze serious as she shot a disapproving look at Angel. "It's not safe to walk alone at night."

"Okay," Willow agreed, her brow furrowing as she glanced at Angel, sensing the underlying tension. "By the way, who's that guy?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Buffy rolled her eyes in exasperation, the weight of the evening's unpredictability settling on her shoulders. "You don't want to know," she replied, a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Willow nodded eagerly, her excitement palpable as she walked over to the bartender, who handed her a phone with a practiced efficiency. Buffy observed her for a moment, appreciating her friend's determination amidst the chaos, before grabbing Angel's arm and pushing through the dense crowd toward the back door near the stage. The energy around them was electric, the music vibrating through the floor and mingling with the laughter and chatter of the patrons. As they neared the stage, the throngs of bodies pressed in tighter, the intensity of the atmosphere amplifying Buffy's frustration.

Buffy and Angel struggled their way through the mass of dancing and socializing teens, their urgency propelling them forward as they navigated the labyrinth of limbs and flashing lights. Finally, they reached the door, which creaked open to reveal an empty and mysteriously quiet backstage area. The sudden silence was almost jarring after the raucous noise of the club, a stark contrast that heightened their senses. They moved cautiously along the dimly lit brick walls, passing an old chair tucked in a shadowy corner, its worn fabric hinting at countless forgotten stories, before eventually finding the exit door that opened into the alley.

As they stepped into the alley, the cool night air greeted them, a refreshing change from the heat of the club. However, their moment of reprieve was short-lived. They quickly encountered a young man dressed in outdated clothing—a style reminiscent of a bygone era—struggling with a girl who was clearly terrified.

'God, can vampires not figure out how obvious they look when dressing in outdated clothes?' Buffy thought to herself, her instincts kicking in as she swiftly intervened, pulling the vampire away from the girl with a fierce determination. "Go home," she instructed the girl, her voice steady and commanding. The girl wasted no time, bolting away from the scene, grateful for her escape.

With Angel standing innocently nearby, the vampire, now enraged by Buffy's interference, charged at her with a menacing growl. But Buffy was ready. She countered his aggression with a powerful punch to his stomach, feeling the satisfying impact of her fist connecting. Grasping him by the hair, she flung him against a nearby dumpster, the clang of metal echoing in the alley. Though the vampire momentarily recovered, Buffy was relentless; she swiftly kicked him in the chin, disorienting him further and causing him to stumble back.

Seizing the opportunity, she drew her stake and plunged it into his heart with precision, watching as he disintegrated into a cloud of ash. The sudden explosion of dust caught her off guard, and she coughed, a consequence of the ensuing dust cloud that hung in the air like a ghostly reminder of the confrontation.

"My clothes," she groaned, shaking her head as she brushed the remnants of the vampire off her outfit, a mix of annoyance and acceptance washing over her. "Whatever. Come on, vampire," she said, glancing at Angel with a hint of exasperation and determination.

Sunnydale High School

Buffy marched Angel forcefully into the library, the heavy wooden doors swinging open with a creak as she shoved him through. The air in the library was thick with the scent of old books and polished wood, a comforting contrast to the chaos outside. Giles looked up from his research, his eyes widening in surprise at the unexpected sight of the two.

"Cage," Buffy grunted, her tone leaving no room for negotiation as she indicated the sturdy metal enclosure in the corner. With a practiced efficiency, Giles moved to unlock it, his mind racing with the implications of Buffy's abrupt arrival.

As Angel stepped into the enclosure, he rolled his eyes and huffed with a touch of indignation. "This is a little over the top!" he called out, voicing his protest with an air of mockery. His tone was light, but the weight of the situation hung heavy in the air, an unspoken tension that neither Buffy nor Giles seemed to acknowledge.

Buffy and Giles paid no attention to his complaints, their focus sharp and unwavering. Giles turned to Buffy, curiosity evident in the way he adjusted his glasses. "Who is this, then?" he inquired, his voice a mix of intrigue and caution.

"A vampire," Buffy responded flatly, her voice holding a hint of annoyance as she crossed her arms over her chest, the muscles in her shoulders tense. The weight of the encounter hung over her, and she wasn't in the mood for games.

"And he's still in one piece because?" Giles questioned, raising an eyebrow, a mixture of skepticism and professional curiosity written across his face.

"He claims to have a soul," she explained, her tone skeptical, as if the very notion amused her. "Not the brightest, though. He was lurking around the streets, following me like a creepy stalker." The irritation in her voice echoed her frustrations with the entire situation.

Giles shook his head, clearly taken aback by the revelation. He addressed the caged Angel, his tone shifting to one of cautious inquiry. "What's your name, then?" he asked, hoping for clarity amidst the chaos.

"Angel," he replied reluctantly, the name hanging in the air like a whispered secret. Giles raised an eyebrow further, as if weighing the significance of the name against the larger narrative at play.

"Angelus," Angel ground out, the full weight of his identity spilling into the room with a sense of foreboding. The name seemed to resonate with the very walls of the library, stirring echoes of past horrors and infamous tales.

"The Scourge of Europe?" Giles exclaimed, his surprise evident as he took a step back, the implications of the name registering fully in his mind. Angel nodded, albeit reluctantly. Giles turned to the blonde Slayer; an eyebrow raised in surprise. "Buffy, this is quite a catch. He's rather notorious."

"I'm reformed!" Angel insisted, his tone filled with determination, as if the very weight of his words could shift the air in the room. "Look me up! It's been decades since I last killed anyone. I want to help." His gaze was earnest, a mixture of desperation and hope flickering in his dark eyes, as he leaned slightly forward, trying to convey his sincerity.

Giles tilted his head, contemplating the situation with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "You mentioned a soul, Buffy?" he asked, seeking confirmation as he adjusted his glasses, the faint light catching the frames. Buffy nodded in response, her own uncertainty mingling with the intrigue of the moment. "There might be a detection spell. Vampire, do you see any mallow root in there?" Giles began listing several ingredients with the methodical precision of someone who had performed this ritual before, his voice steady and authoritative.

Angel, with an exasperated expression on his face, rummaged through the clutter of the book cage and handed the items through the cracks of the cage, each gesture tinged with impatience. Buffy observed him intently, noting the way he moved, his focus unwavering as he retrieved a dusty old book from the shelf, the spine creaking in protest.

"This really isn't necessary," Angel protested, but his objections fell on deaf ears, the determination in Giles's demeanor making it clear that the spell was a priority.

Ignoring Angel's discomfort, Giles proceeded to set up the spell, his fingers deftly arranging the ingredients on the table as he began chanting quietly in Latin. The rhythm of his voice resonated in the air, each syllable carrying a weight of ancient knowledge. As he finished, a faint pink glow enveloped Angel, illuminating the dim corners of the library with a warm hue. Giles studied the ethereal light with a look of certainty on his face. "He's telling the truth," he informed Buffy, his tone imbued with a newfound respect. "He has a soul."

"So did Charles Manson," Buffy muttered under her breath, her skepticism still firmly in place. Nevertheless, she approached the cage and unlocked it, the metallic click echoing in the quiet library as Angel stepped out. He regarded her warily, the tension between them palpable, and she raised her hands in a placating gesture, a silent truce offered amid the unease. "Come on, dude. Did you honestly think I would just trust a vampire who was stalking me?" Her words held an edge of incredulity, underscoring the absurdity of the situation.

Angel lowered his gaze, the fight seemingly draining from him. "Well," he admitted, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "I just wanted to warn you about the Harvest. And give you this." Slowly, he reached into his coat, retrieving a small jewelry box that seemed incongruous in his rough exterior. The act was delicate, almost reverent, as he presented it to her.

Buffy cautiously opened the box, her heart racing with a mix of trepidation and curiosity. Inside was a cross, small yet undeniably striking, its antique surface catching the dim light of the library. It was attached to a long silver chain, the kind that hinted at stories untold and lives lived in shadow. Buffy looked up at Angel, her eyes filled with questioning, as if searching for the meaning behind this unexpected gesture.

"A little extra protection never hurt anybody," he said, offering an explanation that rang with sincerity, yet felt laden with unspoken complexities.

Buffy shook her head, her resolve hardening. "I still don't trust you," she stated flatly, her voice unwavering as she considered the implications of wearing the very symbol meant to keep her safe from beings like him. "But thanks." She fastened the cross around her neck, the cool metal resting against her skin.

"This wasn't what I was expecting," Angel remarked, his voice carrying a tinge of surprise as he observed her reaction, the uncertainty of their newfound alliance hanging thick in the air.

"Yeah, well," Buffy responded with a wry smile, her determination shining through the cracks of her skepticism. "Welcome to Sunnydale."