Chapter 8: Surprise
January 19, 1998 – Monday
Sunnydale High School
Xander sat in the backseat, wide-eyed, his amazement impossible to contain. The hum of the Mustang's engine faded into the background as his gaze remained fixed on Buffy. He blinked a few times, processing what she had just casually admitted.
"You had a dream about me?" he asked, his voice filled with a mix of disbelief and curiosity, like he was trying to make sure he'd heard her right.
From the driver's seat, Buffy shrugged, her expression calm, almost nonchalant, though a flicker of something softer danced in her eyes. Since they had started dating, dreams about Xander had become a regular occurrence, little snapshots of her subconscious tugging at the edges of her mind whenever she closed her eyes at night. There was a strange comfort in it—knowing that even in her sleep, he was there, part of her world in more ways than one.
"Yeah," she said simply, her voice casual, as if this was just another normal part of their relationship now. She pulled the Mustang into the school parking lot, the familiar sight of Sunnydale High coming into view, but Xander's attention remained squarely on her.
His amazement didn't fade. If anything, it deepened. "Like, what kind of dream? Was I doing something heroic? Saving the day? Maybe rescuing you from an apocalypse or two?"
Buffy smiled, a small, private smile as she glanced at him in the rearview mirror, the corners of her lips twitching with amusement. "Something like that," she replied, her voice teasingly vague, leaving Xander to fill in the blanks.
Willow, seated in the front beside Buffy, stifled a giggle, glancing between the two of them with a knowing look. She could tell that whatever Buffy's dream had been, it wasn't something she was going to share with too many details. Not yet, anyway.
But Xander's mind was racing, trying to imagine the possibilities. His girlfriend, the Slayer, dreaming about him—it was surreal in the best way possible. And as Buffy eased the car into a parking spot and cut the engine, the excitement bubbling inside him refused to simmer down.
"Well, whatever it was," Xander said with a grin, leaning forward between the front seats, "I hope I didn't embarrass myself."
Buffy glanced over at him with a soft chuckle, her eyes gleaming. "Trust me, you did just fine."
Xander flashed a wide grin, his steps quickening as he hurried away from the two girls, the remnants of his giddy excitement still clear on his face. Buffy and Willow watched him go, and Willow couldn't help but smirk at the sight of their friend so obviously buoyed by the idea of being the star of Buffy's dream. Once he was out of earshot, Willow turned her attention back to Buffy, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.
"So, what exactly did Xander do in your dream?" Willow asked, her tone light but probing, clearly eager to get some juicy details from her best friend. She raised an eyebrow, hoping for something fun, something a little scandalous.
Buffy paused for a moment, considering how to answer, her expression coy, a mischievous glint flashing in her eyes. She glanced around to make sure Xander was well out of range before leaning in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to give the moment a bit of weight. "Stuff that I would never tell my mother about," she said with a wicked smile, her tone suggestive, letting Willow's imagination fill in the blanks.
Willow's eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed slightly as she processed Buffy's insinuation. "Oh," she said, her voice a mixture of surprise and amusement. "Hot and steamy, huh?" She gave Buffy a playful nudge, clearly delighted by the implication.
Buffy chuckled softly, her mind drifting back to the dream for a moment. It had been intense, leaving her slightly flustered when she woke up, her thoughts tangled in ways they hadn't been before. There was something about Xander that had always been comfortable, familiar. But in the dream, he had been something more—more confident, more alluring. It was as if her subconscious had taken all the feelings she'd been pushing down and brought them to life in vivid, undeniable detail.
"I'm not saying anything else," Buffy teased, waving her hand dismissively as if to brush off the conversation, though the small smile playing on her lips said enough.
Willow giggled, clearly loving every moment of this rare glimpse into Buffy's romantic dreams. "I guess Xander would be thrilled if he knew the whole story."
Buffy rolled her eyes playfully, knowing full well that Xander would probably puff out his chest in pride if he ever caught wind of just how much her dream had gotten under her skin. But for now, it was her secret—a little slice of fantasy that she wasn't quite ready to share with anyone but Willow.
"Let's just say," Buffy added with a sly smile, "that Xander's got nothing to worry about in the dream department."
"Wow," Willow said, her voice filled with a kind of wistful admiration that seemed to float between them. Her eyes were wide, as if she were absorbing every bit of what Buffy had just shared, the weight of Buffy's dream settling in her mind like a beautiful, forbidden secret.
Buffy couldn't help but smile, feeling a rush of emotions all at once—excitement, a little bit of shyness, but mostly relief. There was something about sharing that side of herself with Willow that felt freeing. "Yeah," she said softly, echoing her friend's astonished tone.
Willow, still clearly captivated by the idea of Buffy dreaming about Xander, repeated herself with a touch more awe. "Wow…"
Buffy's smile brightened as the school bell rang, signaling the end of their quiet moment, but not the energy between them. "Yeah," she repeated, though this time her voice was lighter, happier, as if the weight of her confession had made everything else a little easier.
She glanced around the courtyard, her eyes landing on the concrete picnic tables nearby. But her gaze wasn't idle—it sharpened, focusing on the figure seated casually on top of one of the tables. A guy with spiked hair and an air of cool nonchalance strummed lazily on an electric guitar, his fingers dancing effortlessly along the strings. Beside him, a large black amp hummed softly. His presence was magnetic, even from this distance. A little grin tugged at the corner of Buffy's lips. 'Now it's Willow's turn to think a few things through,' she mused to herself.
Dawn's voice piped up in her head. 'She does need to decide if she's going to date Oz or not,' she agreed.
Buffy arched an eyebrow playfully and leaned toward Willow, her voice dropping to a teasing, almost conspiratorial tone. "Hey," she drawled, her tone coy and knowing, "speaking of wow potential, there's Oz over there. What are we thinking? Any sparkage?"
Willow's eyes followed Buffy's line of sight, landing on Oz. Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly as she took him in, her usual calm composure faltering for just a moment. "He's nice," she said, her voice softening as she spoke. There was a gentle glow about her, like the warmth of a candle just lit. "I like his hands."
Buffy's grin widened, delighted by her friend's admission. "Ooh, fixing on insignificant details is a definite crush sign."
Willow looked away, her eyes dipping shyly as if to guard her feelings from getting too real too fast. "I don't know, though," she added, her humility slipping back into place. "I mean, he is a senior."
Buffy rolled her eyes lightly, unimpressed with Willow's hesitation. "You think he's too old 'cause he's a senior? Please." She waved the concern away, though in theory, she could understand the hesitation. Still, it seemed a trivial roadblock when love—or even crushes—were involved. "When Angel and I were together, he had a bicentennial," she reminded Willow with a casual shrug, as if that was a normal part of her love life.
Willow's voice rose slightly, a reminder of how strange and extraordinary Buffy's world truly was. "That's true," she conceded, a small smile creeping across her lips. But as quickly as her confidence appeared, it began to waver again. "I guess… I just…"
Buffy sensed her friend starting to lose her nerve, and she knew it was time to give Willow a little nudge—a push in the right direction. "You can't spend the rest of your life waiting for the right person to wake up and smell the hottie. Make a move," she urged, her voice full of encouragement and certainty. "Do the talking thing."
Willow, though clearly considering Buffy's words, still seemed cautious, uncertainty clinging to her like a second skin. "What if the talking thing becomes the awkward silence thing?" she asked, her worry deepening as she imagined the possibility of things going wrong.
Buffy shrugged, undeterred. "Well, you won't know unless you try," she pointed out simply, her tone matter-of-fact. Buffy knew that the only way for Willow to get past her fear was to take that first step, no matter how terrifying it seemed.
With a confident smile, Buffy started to move on ahead, leaving Willow to mull over the advice and, hopefully, take it. She glanced back once, briefly, catching the look on Willow's face—a mixture of hope and anxiety—as her friend stood there, her gaze drawn back to Oz.
Giles moved gracefully through the school lounge, balancing his briefcase in one hand and clutching a few copies of archaeology magazines in the other. His morning routine was typically uneventful, but today was different. He spotted Xander lounging nearby, who, despite his usual relaxed posture, seemed to carry a slightly dejected air.
"Good morning," Giles greeted him in his characteristically pleasant, formal tone. His voice was calm, the epitome of British politeness. "Everything in order for the party?" He wasn't just inquiring about logistics; his careful tone also seemed to be a subtle check-in on Xander's mood.
"Absolutely," Xander replied, but his words lacked their usual buoyant energy. His shoulders slumped just a touch, as if the weight of something unseen was pulling him down. "Ready to get down, you funky party weasel?" He added, injecting his usual Xander brand of humor, though it felt more like an attempt to shake off whatever was bothering him.
Before Giles could respond, his attention shifted as he noticed Buffy and Ms. Calendar descending the staircase. They moved together with casual ease, their footsteps echoing lightly against the school's polished floors. Buffy was chatting lightly with Ms. Calendar, her expression relaxed—though there was always that undercurrent of vigilance in the Slayer's posture.
As they approached, Giles leaned in slightly toward Xander, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ah. Here comes Buffy. Remember—discretion is the better part of valor."
Xander shot him a look, unbothered by the advice, and fired back with a cheeky grin. "You could have just gone, 'ssh'," he retorted, shaking his head as if Giles' dramatics amused him more than anything. "God, are all you Brits such drama queens?"
Before Giles could respond, Buffy and Ms. Calendar reached them, and Xander's mood instantly lifted. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he shifted his attention toward Buffy, the teasing grin already creeping onto his face. "Buffy, I feel a pre-birthday spanking coming on," he said, his tone dripping with playful intent. His hands rubbed together theatrically, as though preparing for the event.
Buffy rolled her eyes, exasperation mingling with the faintest hint of affection. This wasn't the first time she had heard this from him today. In fact, Xander had made the same comment when she picked him and Willow up that morning, and by now, it had become a running joke—one Buffy could see coming a mile away.
Ms. Calendar, ever the cool-headed voice of reason, raised an eyebrow at Xander's antics. "I'd curb that impulse if I were you, Xander," she said, her tone firm but amused.
"Check," Xander replied, pretending to talk into an imaginary lapel microphone. His eyes glinted with mock seriousness, as if he were some undercover agent on a mission. "Cancel spanking," he added with a playful wink in Buffy's direction. The wink said it all—his teasing wasn't over. After all, being Buffy's boyfriend came with certain privileges, and playful banter like this was one of them. To Xander, it was all part of the fun, a way to keep things light even when the world around them wasn't always so kind.
Buffy gave him a sideways glance, the kind that said she was onto him but wasn't about to indulge his antics just yet.
The Factory
Dalton arrived at the factory, stepping into the vast, candlelit room that felt both ancient and foreboding. The flickering flames cast long shadows that danced across the walls, creating an atmosphere thick with anticipation and the faint scent of melting wax. Clutching an iron box tightly in his arms, he called into the dimness, "I have your package."
From the shadows, Spike's voice cut through the silence—imperious yet tinged with fatigue. "Just put it on the table. Near the other gifts." As he rolled into view, the sight of him brought a wave of conflicting emotions. Spike sat in a wheelchair, his once proud posture now hunched with weariness. His pallor was alarming, the scars marring his skin a haunting reminder of the fire where he had fought to reclaim Drusilla, only to be left with the ghosts of his past. It was a miracle he was still alive—a testament to his unyielding strength in the face of despair.
As Dalton moved to obey, placing the box down with a muted thud, his eyes caught sight of Drusilla gliding gracefully behind the wheelchair. She exuded vitality and allure, her tight red sleeveless dress accentuating her every curve. The transformation was striking; Spike's sacrifices had not been in vain. He had succeeded in curing his beloved, and now, their roles had shifted. It was Drusilla who took care of Spike, nurturing him with an intensity that was both fierce and protective.
"Are you dead set on this, pet?" Spike asked Drusilla, his tone heavy with the weight of the world. The weariness in his voice hinted at battles fought—not just with enemies, but within himself. "Wouldn't you rather have your party in Vienna?"
Trying not to eavesdrop, Dalton set his box next to two other similar containers that sat like sentinels on the table. Nearby, two other vampires were busy decorating for the party, their movements swift and practiced, one twining vibrant red flowers into the backs of tall, imposing wooden chairs that stood like watchful guardians. The atmosphere buzzed with a mix of excitement and tension, as the vampires prepared for a celebration that felt oddly out of place in this dark factory.
Pouty and whimsical, Drusilla responded, "But the invitations are sent." Her voice was laced with a childlike insistence, a melody that spoke of dreams and desires.
Spike's frustration was palpable, his brows knitting together as he struggled against the constraints of the factory's gloom. He would never deny Drusilla anything she truly wanted, but the weight of their surroundings pressed heavily upon him. "Yeah, but it's just, I've had it with this place. Nothing ever comes off the way it's supposed to." Each word was infused with a resignation born from experience—Spike had learned too well that Sunnydale held a curse for them both.
Drusilla, ever the enchantress, leaned in closer, wrapping her arms around Spike with a tenderness that was both comforting and possessive. "My gatherings are always perfect. Remember Spain, Spike?" she cooed, her voice a soft caress that seemed to wrap around him like silk. With a playful smile lighting up her features, she crouched down beside him, her fingers walking seductively up his thighs and across his chest. "The bulls?" The glint in her eyes was filled with secrets and promises meant only for him, a tantalizing reminder of their shared history and the passion that had once burned brightly between them.
Finally, a smile broke through the shadows of Spike's face, a fleeting glimpse of the vampire he had once been. "I remember, sweet." But the smile faded as reality crept back in. "But Sunnydale is cursed for us. The Slayer sees to that."
"Ssh," Drusilla breathed into his ear, her voice a sultry whisper that sent a shiver down Spike's spine. "I've got good games for everyone." The warmth of her breath lingered as she adoringly licked the scars that traced the side of his face, a haunting reminder of the fire that had tried to consume him but had only deepened his connection to her. "You'll see." With that, she left him, her smile radiant and infectious, as she turned her attention to the intricate arrangements of flowers that adorned the factory.
As Drusilla surveyed the work, however, her expression shifted dramatically. The light in her eyes dimmed, and her face fell as she assessed the floral decorations. "These flowers are wrong. They're all wrong," she moaned, her voice now tinged with desperation. She began to shake, the familiar turmoil of her mind bubbling to the surface. "I can't abide them!" In an instant, the playful creature Spike adored transformed into a whirlwind of fury and horror. She ripped the flowers from their places, her movements frantic and unrestrained, her face contorting with rage as petals fluttered to the ground like fallen leaves.
As quickly as the tempest had arisen, it ceased. Drusilla paused, bringing a trembling hand to her face, her expression a mixture of shock and realization. The chaos of her emotions hung heavily in the air, creating an electric tension that Spike had come to recognize all too well.
With a tired but understanding gaze, Spike looked at the two vampires who had been decorating, their eyes wide with uncertainty as they exchanged glances. "Let's try something different with the flowers, then," he suggested, his tone calm and steady, like that of a seasoned leader who had navigated these storms of his lover's psyche many times before. His voice carried the weight of experience, a gentle reminder that beneath her erratic behavior was the woman he adored.
Drusilla's mood shifted yet again, her darkness dissipating like fog in the morning sun. She glowed with good-nature, advancing on the table of presents with wide, girlish eyes that sparkled with anticipation. "Can I open one?" she asked, her voice laced with excitement as she grinned coquettishly through her lashes at Spike. "Can I? Can I?"
Spike chuckled indulgently, his heart warming at her infectious enthusiasm. "Just a peek, love. They're for the party."
Bouncing on her heels with excitement, Drusilla reached for the very box that Dalton had just brought in, her fingers dancing over its surface as if it held secrets yet to be revealed. With a flourish, she opened it, looking inside with rapturous glee, her eyes lighting up like a child on Christmas morning.
"Do you like it, baby?" Spike asked, his voice infused with pride, knowing he had truly succeeded in pulling off a surprise that would delight her. His confidence swelled as he observed her reaction, pleased that he had brought a moment of joy to her chaotic existence.
"It reeks of death," Drusilla exclaimed, her voice filled with immeasurable delight, each word dripping with a twisted joy that only she could embody. She glided to Spike, kneeling before him in an intimate gesture, her fingers stroking his knees and trailing lightly over his legs as if she were weaving a spell of devotion. "This will be the best party ever," she purred, her enthusiasm palpable.
"Why's that?" Spike asked warmly, intrigued by the glimmer of excitement in her eyes.
"Because," Drusilla said, rising with a dramatic flair, her gaze returning to the box, "it will be the last." With a flourish that was both theatrical and powerfully mad, she slammed the box shut, sealing its contents with an ominous finality.
January 20, 1998 – Tuesday
Summers Home
In the sunny kitchen of the Summers' house on Revello Drive, the warm rays of the morning sun streamed through the window, casting a cheerful glow on everything it touched. Joyce hummed softly to herself as she cleared the breakfast plates, her movements fluid and practiced, each scrape of the dishes a comforting rhythm. Meanwhile, Buffy stood nearby, looping colorful stretchy wire bracelets around her wrist, each one a burst of vibrant color that reflected her youthful energy and carefree spirit. An open birthday card lay on the counter, the words inside lovingly scrawled in Joyce's handwriting, waiting to be fully appreciated.
It was the morning of Buffy's seventeenth birthday, a milestone that made her feel both giddy and contemplative. She felt refreshed, the excitement of the day igniting a spark within her, and the scent of pancakes and syrup still lingered in the air, wrapping around her like a cozy blanket.
"Mall trip for your birthday on Saturday," Joyce reminded her, her tone light but laced with maternal anticipation. "Don't forget."
Buffy gave her mother a playful look, eyebrows raised in mock disbelief. "Space on a mom-sponsored shopping opportunity? Not likely."
Joyce chuckled, a warm smile crossing her lips as she continued to tidy up, her eyes twinkling with fondness. "So," she said, glancing over her shoulder, "does seventeen feel any different than sixteen?"
"A little older," Buffy replied cheerily, a grin breaking out on her face as she twirled a bracelet between her fingers. "But the same."
"Hmm," Joyce mused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Well, you enjoy the day. Do you have anything special planned?"
Buffy nodded, her excitement bubbling to the surface. "The guys and Giles are planning to throw me a surprise party at the Bronze tonight. Ms. Calendar is supposed to take me over there after school."
Joyce raised an eyebrow, a hint of playful skepticism in her expression. "Why does it not surprise me that you know about the surprise party?" she asked, her voice teasing but warm.
Buffy simply smiled, a glimmer of mischief dancing in her eyes as she glanced down at the opened card, her heart swelling with appreciation. "Thanks for the card," she said, her voice soft with gratitude.
Joyce turned from the sink, a plate clutched in her hands, her movements suddenly faltering. "You're welcome, honey," she replied, just as the plate slipped from her grip and shattered on the floor, the sound echoing in the otherwise serene kitchen. "Oh, dear."
Buffy sprang into action, her instincts kicking in as she hurried over to the broom and dustpan. "I got it, Mom," she said, her voice reassuring and steady, as she bent down to sweep up the broken pieces, shards glinting like tiny stars scattered across the floor.
'I remember that happening in the other timeline,' Dawn said from the back of Buffy's mind, her voice a gentle echo that made Buffy pause for a moment.
Buffy nodded slightly, lost in thought as she carefully gathered the remnants of the plate. 'That's because this was when Angel turned, Dawn,' she thought, her mind racing back to that fateful moment in her past. 'Even though the monks hadn't created you yet, I remember you being there too.'
Sunnydale High School
Ms. Calendar entered her classroom with the grace of someone who had mastered the art of juggling multiple responsibilities at once. In her arms, she carefully balanced her books, her purse, and a steaming cup of herbal tea—the comforting scent of chamomile and mint wafting around her as she moved. The room was still and quiet, the soft hum of computers in standby mode the only sound as she placed her things on the desk, her mind already racing ahead to the day's lesson plans. She began to organize her papers for first period, her movements efficient, almost mechanical, a reflection of her daily routine.
The tranquil moment was abruptly shattered when a voice behind her pierced the silence.
"Jen-ny Calen-dar," the voice said slowly, each syllable dripping with the weight of an accent that was thick, deliberate, and distinctly Eastern European—as if savoring the name, twisting it through the mouth like an unfamiliar taste.
Ms. Calendar jumped, her heart lurching in her chest, and whirled around to face the source of the voice. Her eyes landed on a tall man, standing like a specter in the doorway. He seemed out of place in the modern classroom, wearing the clothes of another time and place—of the Old Country. His brown hat was tipped slightly forward, casting a shadow over his sharp features. A crisp white shirt was tucked beneath a black vest, fastened by a large silver pin that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Everything about him spoke of tradition, of a world far removed from this one. He was reading her name off the blackboard, but she knew very well that he didn't need the cue.
Ms. Calendar's breath caught in her throat as recognition dawned. He was no stranger, though she wished he could have been. His presence always unsettled her, stirring up emotions she would rather keep buried—guilt, fear, and obligation. This man, standing before her, was none other than her Uncle Enyos. He wasn't just her uncle by blood but also her superior within their clan. The weight of centuries-old responsibility rested on his shoulders, and he had come to remind her of it.
His face, carved in stern lines, betrayed his displeasure—displeasure that made her stomach tighten into knots.
"You startled me," Ms. Calendar said, her voice unsteady as she tried to regain her composure, hoping her words would mask the tension rapidly building in the room.
"You look well," Enyos replied, though his tone carried no warmth. There was an edge, a sharpness, as if the words themselves were a reprimand rather than a greeting.
"Yes, I'm fine," she answered quickly, her nerves on edge as she moved briskly behind her desk, putting a barrier of wood and paperwork between them. She forced a smile, though her heart pounded in her chest. "I know I haven't written as much lately. I've been busy."
Busy. The word felt hollow in her mouth. Busy teaching, busy blending in, busy pretending that the chains of her past didn't drag behind her everywhere she went. But she knew that excuse would not fly with him.
Enyos' frown deepened, his expression one of growing displeasure, disappointment etched into every wrinkle of his face. His voice, when he spoke again, was laced with cold condemnation. "I cannot imagine what is so important to make you ignore your responsibility to your people."
Ms. Calendar's voice wavered slightly as she tried to excuse herself. "I've been working, and—"
But her uncle was relentless, cutting her off sharply. "The elder woman has been reading signs," he said, his tone grave. His eyes darkened, as if the weight of the Old Country itself pressed down upon them. "Something is different."
Ms. Calendar's spine stiffened, a flicker of defiance sparking within her. She had grown accustomed to these vague, unsettling declarations, and while they still unnerved her, she refused to let it show. "Nothing has changed," she replied, her voice firm, her gaze steady. "The curse still holds."
But Enyos wasn't so easily placated. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he bore down on her with the authority of generations. "The elder woman is never wrong," he insisted, his voice low and insistent, a whisper from the shadows of their shared heritage. "She says his pain is lessening. She can feel it."
Ms. Calendar's pulse quickened, but she steeled herself. She couldn't afford to lose control now, not when she had fought so hard to keep this life separate from the chains of her past. "She is wrong," she said, her voice hardening. She met his gaze, though inside, her stomach twisted in knots. The elder woman had never been wrong before, but she needed to cling to this. She needed it to be true.
Her uncle leaned forward, his face mere inches from hers now, the lines on his face etched deeper in the flickering shadows. "She is never wrong," he repeated, his voice a soft but unyielding threat. His presence loomed over her, not just as family, but as an emissary of the clan, their ancient traditions bearing down on her like an unshakable curse.
Ms. Calendar swallowed, forcing herself to hold her ground, though the weight of his words pressed heavily on her chest. Her heart pounded, the strain of the moment almost too much. She wanted to run, to flee from this life, from these responsibilities, but she had chosen her path. "In this, she is wrong," she finally said, her voice thick with the weight of the admission. It was difficult to force the words out, but she held on to the truth she knew. "What the elder woman sensed is of the past."
She paused, her throat tightening as the memory of the struggle surfaced. "Yes," she continued, "the Slayer was lessening his pain." Her voice softened slightly, the truth of Buffy's role laying bare before them both. "But she discovered the curse. She gets prophetic dreams. She saw one that told her the clause to his curse. She told him."
Enyos listened in silence, his expression unreadable but still charged with the tension of disappointment, as if sensing the weight of what Ms. Calendar was about to say.
"He left Sunnydale," she said, her voice faltering slightly. "He left so that she would not be the cause of him losing his soul. He's in L.A. now, striving for redemption. He now helps the helpless."
Enyos remained silent for what felt like an eternity, his stern face betraying nothing as he absorbed her words. The room seemed to shrink around them, the weight of centuries-old expectations pressing down on Ms. Calendar. She tried not to fidget, to remain composed, but inside, the knot of anxiety tightened.
"You believe this changes anything?" Enyos finally asked, his voice low, yet filled with a quiet intensity. His eyes, dark and piercing, searched hers for something—doubt, guilt, weakness. "Do you think because he left, because he helps others, that the curse is safe?" He spat the words like they were poison. "That he is beyond our watch?"
Ms. Calendar flinched slightly but held her ground. "He's not beyond our watch," she said softly, but firmly. "I'm still here. I'm still watching him." The lie tasted bitter, but she needed to convince him. She could not allow him or the clan to interfere. She had already lost too much—her own life here was balanced on the precipice of duty and freedom, and Angel's redemption, however fragile, had to be allowed to play out.
Enyos shook his head slowly, disappointment etched into the lines of his face. "You are blinded by your affection for these people," he said coldly. "You forget your duty to your blood." He stepped back slightly, his eyes narrowing further, as if to distance himself from the betrayal he saw in her.
Ms. Calendar's stomach twisted. "I haven't forgotten," she replied, her voice tight with the strain of keeping calm. "But the situation has changed. Buffy—the Slayer—knows the risks. Angel knows the risks. He's not the monster he was. He chooses to do good. We should let him continue that."
"Let him?" Enyos's voice sharpened, and the word came out like a blade. "It is not for you to decide who is or isn't redeemed, Jenny. We are the watchers of his pain, of his suffering. That is our purpose."
Ms. Calendar felt a surge of frustration, the heaviness of tradition pushing down on her every word. She clenched her fists at her sides, the weight of her dual lives crushing her. "He's trying to atone," she insisted, her voice rising with desperation. "He's suffering enough without us constantly hanging over him like a sword waiting to fall."
Her uncle's face darkened further, his expression hard and unyielding. "He must suffer. That is the curse. It is our duty to ensure it continues, to make sure his soul remains intact."
For a moment, Ms. Calendar felt a rush of helplessness. She could feel the walls closing in on her, the inescapable pull of her people's demands, the ancient curse that hung over everything she had tried to build here. She wanted to scream that it wasn't fair, that Angel deserved a chance, that she deserved a chance to live her life without the chains of the past strangling her.
But instead, she took a deep breath. "I'm watching him," she said again, quieter this time, but with more conviction. "I'll make sure the curse holds. But you have to trust me. He's doing good, Uncle. Let him continue that. It might be the only way he can ever truly atone."
Enyos studied her carefully, his gaze hard, unyielding. The tension between them hung in the air, thick and oppressive. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed—a deep, disappointed sound, as if he had expected more from her. "You're a fool, Jenny," he said quietly, his voice laced with disappointment. "You let your heart cloud your judgment."
Ms. Calendar swallowed hard, the sting of his words cutting deeper than she had expected. But she had made her choice. "I'll do my duty," she promised again, though the words felt like chains.
Enyos turned to leave, his voice colder than before. "See that you do." He glanced back at her, his eyes sharp with a warning. "Or the clan will intervene." Without another word, he stepped out of the classroom, leaving her standing there, her heart heavy, her mind racing.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Ms. Calendar let out a shaky breath. She sank into her chair, her hands trembling slightly. The weight of the conversation still hung over her, an oppressive reminder of her divided loyalties. She stared at the door for a moment longer, knowing that the threat wasn't idle. The clan would be watching her. Watching Angel.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
Buffy strode purposefully into the library, her heart pounding with the urgency of what she'd just uncovered. The familiar smell of old books and the soft glow of the reading lamps brought her a small moment of calm before the storm. "Giles!" she called, her voice cutting through the quiet room.
Giles looked up from his research, his brow furrowing in that familiar, concerned way of his. He adjusted his glasses, the book he'd been absorbed in momentarily forgotten. "Hmm?" he responded, though the tone in her voice already had him on alert.
Buffy didn't waste a second. "We have to stop Spike and Drusilla," she said, her voice full of intensity. She crossed the room, her words hanging in the air like a foreboding cloud. "They're assembling the Judge."
The name hit Giles like a jolt, and his eyes widened as realization dawned. "The Judge," he murmured, almost to himself. His mind raced through the ancient texts, the stories of the fearsome demon who could not be slain by any mortal weapon. He had hoped he'd never have to hear that name spoken outside of the pages of a book. "Do they have all the parts?" he asked, dreading the answer.
Buffy shook her head, a spark of hope still lingering in her determined expression. "No, not yet," she said, her voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. "I know where the last one will be though."
Giles leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Where?" he asked, already preparing for the next step.
"Outside the Bronze," Buffy said, her voice filled with the certainty of someone who had seen it before. "In the other timeline, Ms. Calendar was driving me to my surprise party when I spotted them. If we can hide the arm…"
"We can stop them from reassembling the Judge," Giles finished, his mind already working through the logistics. The two of them shared a brief, determined look—both understanding the monumental task ahead of them. This was more than just stopping a demon; it was about preventing unimaginable devastation.
"How do we do that?" Giles asked, knowing there were still pieces of the plan that needed to fall into place.
Buffy's face set with determination, her jaw tightening as she outlined her plan. "I'll get the arm, and after my surprise party, I'll drive to L.A. and give it to Angel." Her voice was calm, but there was an edge of urgency beneath it. "With school and all, I can't just take off for an extended trip. If I give it to Angel, he should be able to get it out of the country."
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
Buffy made her way down the school hallway, her steps quick and purposeful. The weight of the plan to stop Spike and Drusilla still hung over her, but she was trying to push it to the back of her mind for the moment. Class after class, assignment after assignment, it was the normal routine that helped ground her amidst the chaos of being the Slayer. Still, the tension of the looming threat of the Judge buzzed beneath her calm exterior, making every noise and shadow feel sharper.
Just as she was about to round the corner toward her next class, she felt a hand on her arm, pulling her gently but firmly to the side.
"Buffy," Ms. Calendar's voice was soft but urgent.
Buffy turned, startled, her Slayer instincts kicking in for a split second before she realized who it was. Ms. Calendar stood there, her expression serious, her hand dropping from Buffy's arm as soon as she had her attention.
"Ms. Calendar? What's going on?" Buffy asked, glancing quickly down the hall to make sure no one else had noticed them.
"I need to talk to you," Ms. Calendar said, glancing around as well. Her voice was hushed, and there was an intensity in her eyes that Buffy hadn't seen before. "It's important."
Buffy's brow furrowed, her Slayer sense tingling with the shift in Ms. Calendar's tone. She followed her into the computer science classroom without another word, sensing this wasn't something casual. The door clicked shut behind them, and the low hum of the fluorescent lights filled the quiet room.
Ms. Calendar didn't waste time. She paced briefly in front of her desk, gathering her thoughts, before she finally turned to face Buffy, her expression conflicted. "My uncle came to see me," she began, her voice heavy with the weight of what she was about to reveal.
Buffy leaned back against one of the desks, crossing her arms, instantly alert. "The one from your clan?" she asked.
Ms. Calendar nodded; her eyes dark with concern. "Yes. He came to Sunnydale unexpectedly, and he's worried. The elders in my clan have sensed something… something wrong with Angel's curse." She paused, her hands tightening around the back of a chair, her fingers white-knuckled. "They believe his suffering is lessening."
Buffy felt her stomach drop, her breath catching in her throat. Angel. The curse that kept him from turning back into Angelus—the monster he had once been.
"They think he's in danger of losing his soul," Ms. Calendar said quietly, her words blunt, as if saying them plainly might make it less terrifying. "My uncle believes that something has changed. He came here to tell me to ensure that the curse is still holding, to make sure Angel continues to suffer." She hesitated, her voice wavering slightly. "But I told him… I told him Angel isn't here."
Buffy blinked, her heart pounding in her chest. She had expected a lot of things, but not that. "You told him he's not here?" Buffy repeated, unsure where this was going.
Ms. Calendar nodded, her gaze softening as she looked at Buffy. "I told him Angel left for L.A. after you told him about the clause in his curse. I thought it would be better if he knew Angel was out of Sunnydale, striving for redemption, far from whatever influence might cause him to lose his soul." She sighed, shaking her head. "But my uncle doesn't care about redemption. All he cares about is ensuring Angel's torment. That's why I had to warn you."
Buffy exhaled slowly, her mind racing. "So… what does this mean for us? For Angel?"
Ms. Calendar's expression was grim. "It means the elders won't stop watching. If they believe the curse is weakening, they'll find a way to make sure Angel suffers again. They might even take matters into their own hands. And if they find out you're connected to him..."
Buffy's chest tightened at the thought, dread swirling in her gut. "Then what?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"They could send someone to finish what the curse started. To make sure he can't lose his soul—by making sure he's gone for good." Ms. Calendar's voice was laced with regret, guilt etched into her features.
Buffy swallowed hard, her mind racing with the new threat. She straightened, her resolve hardening. "Thanks for telling me, Ms. Calendar," she said, her voice firm. "I'll handle it."
Ms. Calendar reached out, placing a hand on Buffy's arm, her face softening for a moment. "I didn't want it to come to this, Buffy. But I thought you should know."
Buffy nodded, her expression calm but determined. "I appreciate it." She turned toward the door, her heart heavy with the weight of yet another burden. "I need to get to class… but I'll take care of this."
The Bronze
That evening, Buffy's Mustang rolled to a halt in the darkened alley behind the Bronze. The hum of the engine faded as she cut the ignition, leaving only the muffled throb of music from inside the club, mixing with the distant sounds of the town. She sat there for a moment, her gaze locked on the shadowy figures moving around the loading dock just a few yards away. Several vampires, their movements sharp and furtive, were struggling to maneuver a large cast iron box onto the back of a truck. Her eyes narrowed.
Buffy quietly slipped out of the car, making sure her boots hit the pavement without a sound. The air was cool, and the alley was dimly lit, casting long, eerie shadows on the concrete walls. She stalked forward, her body low, her senses on high alert, creeping closer until one of the vampires turned around and spotted her.
"Hey," Buffy said casually, her voice breaking the silence, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
Before she could engage, whump!—she was hit from the side by a hulking vampire, his large frame barreling into her like a freight train. The force sent her staggering back, but she recovered quickly, her hands instinctively flying up to block his next blow. Her muscles coiled and tightened as they grappled, Buffy ducking and weaving, deflecting the vampire's heavy hits with practiced ease.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the truck. The engine roared to life, the vampire in the back struggling to close the cargo gate with the iron box still precariously balanced inside. Buffy's heart quickened—she couldn't let them drive off with the last piece of the Judge.
Abandoning the fight with the hulking vampire for a crucial moment, she leapt with the grace of a panther, her body a blur of speed and strength. Her feet hit the pavement near the truck just as the vampire behind the wheel slammed the door shut, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Buffy yanked the driver's side door open, her stake flashing through the air, and with one swift motion, she dusted him before he could even get the truck into gear. His scream was cut short as he exploded into ash.
Without wasting a second, she darted to the back of the truck, her breath steady despite the adrenaline pumping through her veins. The vampire that had been hauling the box had vanished into the night, abandoning the cargo in his haste to escape. Buffy reached for the box, her fingers grazing the cold, rough iron surface.
Crash!
The hulking vampire from before was on her again, his powerful arms slamming into her with the force of a battering ram. Buffy's body smashed through the window behind the stage inside the Bronze, shards of glass exploding around her as she landed hard on the stage, the vampire landing on top of her. The music inside the club screeched to a halt, the crowd gasping as they witnessed the spectacle. Buffy and the vampire rolled across the stage in a tangle of limbs, fists flying and grunts of exertion echoing through the stunned silence.
Buffy's vision sharpened as her Slayer instincts kicked in full throttle. She twisted, using the vampire's momentum against him, flipping him onto his back. Before he could recover, she drove her stake into his chest with finality, her eyes hard. The vampire let out a low growl as his body disintegrated into dust, the particles swirling in the stage lights before disappearing completely.
Breathing heavily, Buffy pushed herself to her feet, brushing glass from her clothes as she looked out over the crowd. Her gaze landed on her mom, Giles, Willow, Oz, Ms. Calendar, and Xander, all staring at her with a mix of surprise and concern.
Buffy flashed them a quick smile, raising her hand. "Be right back," she said, her tone breezy, as if she hadn't just fought for her life in front of half the town.
She ran back outside, her body still humming with energy. The box was right where she'd left it in the back of the truck. Buffy grabbed it, hefting its considerable weight with ease, and brought it back inside the Bronze, her arms straining slightly under the weight of the cursed artifact.
"Couldn't leave the arm out there in case they came back," she explained as she set the box down on the floor, looking to Giles with a grim expression.
Giles stepped forward, his brow furrowed in thought as he studied the box. "Buffy, are you okay?" Joyce's voice cut through the tension, her mother's concern evident.
Buffy turned to her mom, her expression softening. "I'm fine, Mom," she reassured her, the worry in Joyce's eyes tugging at Buffy's heart.
She then looked to Giles, who was still fixated on the box. "This is the Judge's arm. The last part they need to reassemble him," Buffy said, her voice serious. "I'll take it to Angel after the party. He'll know what to do."
Giles nodded in agreement, though his eyes still lingered on the ominous box. "Good," he said, his voice low.
Joyce, still not convinced, asked again, "You're sure you're okay?"
Buffy smiled at her, trying to ease her mother's worry. "I'm fine, Mom," she repeated, a little more firmly this time. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Oz staring at the stage, his eyes wide, fixated on the spot where she had just dusted the hulking vampire.
"Willow," Buffy said with a knowing smile, "you might want to fill Oz in."
Willow nodded; a bit flustered but eager to help. "Good idea," she said as she moved to stand beside Oz, ready to explain the world of vampires, Slayers, and everything in between.
Buffy exhaled slowly, the weight of the battle beginning to settle on her shoulders. But for now, there was still a party to get through—and after that, another mission. She had no time to rest.
Hyperion Hotel
Five hours later, Buffy's Mustang rolled to a stop outside the grand, art-deco facade of the Hyperion Hotel. The air in the city was cooler than Sunnydale's, the sky a deep indigo as the moon cast long shadows over the street. Buffy leaned back in her seat, taking a moment to appreciate the towering structure in front of her. "Dang, Angel," she muttered, eyeing the old, yet elegant building with a touch of awe. "You have nice digs."
Angel stepped out from the shadows of the hotel entrance, his tall figure blending seamlessly with the night. He moved with a quiet grace, his eyes warm as they settled on her. "Glad you like it," he replied with a soft smile, stepping forward to take the heavy iron box from her. His hands gripped the ancient metal easily, but his expression grew serious as he held it. "So, this is part of the Judge?"
"Yep," Buffy confirmed, crossing her arms as she watched him. The weight of the night's events lingered in her posture. "It's the last piece they needed. You'll need to hide it someplace safe."
Angel nodded, his brow furrowing as he thought about the implications. "For now, I'll keep it in the vault downstairs. Spike's desperate, but if we lay low, wait until he's forgotten about the Judge... then I'll take it out of the country."
"Good idea," Buffy agreed, her voice laced with relief. She trusted Angel's judgment, but knowing the box was going to be secured gave her a momentary sense of ease.
Angel's dark eyes shifted to her, concern etching his features as he picked up on the tension still humming under her calm exterior. Buffy hesitated for a beat, biting her lip before she continued, her tone more somber now. "There's something else, Angel."
Angel stilled, his focus sharpening. "What is it?"
Buffy exhaled softly, her expression tightening as she recalled the conversation from earlier. "Ms. Calendar... she had a visit from her uncle today. She said she told them about you—about how you're here, in L.A., trying to make amends by helping people. She told her uncle that you're fighting for redemption."
Angel's jaw clenched ever so slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. Redemption was a fragile thing for him, always precarious, always just out of reach.
"She said her uncle didn't care," Buffy went on, her voice lowering. "He doesn't believe in redemption. All he cares about is making sure your soul continues to torment you."
Angel remained silent, his gaze drifting to the box in his hands. The weight of his soul, that eternal curse, was something he carried every day, and Buffy's words only reaffirmed that it was never going to let him rest.
"And..." Buffy paused for a moment, meeting his eyes with a mixture of sympathy and seriousness. "Ms. Calendar said her clan is going to be watching. They're keeping an eye on you."
Angel's shoulders tensed, the full implication of those words sinking in. He knew the Romani clan had never intended for him to find any kind of peace. The curse wasn't just about punishment—it was about eternal suffering. Redemption was his own personal mission, but it wasn't something they believed in, or wanted for him.
"I figured I should warn you," Buffy added softly, her voice carrying a gentleness that was rare for the Slayer. She understood the burden Angel carried, even if she couldn't fully feel it herself. There was always a part of her that wanted to shield him from it, to find a way for him to feel some sense of light amidst the darkness.
Angel gave a slow nod, his face somber but resolved. "Thanks for telling me," he said quietly, his voice tinged with gratitude. "I'll have to be more careful."
Buffy smiled faintly, though the gravity of the situation still weighed heavy between them. "Careful is your middle name, right?"
Angel chuckled softly, a brief flicker of amusement breaking through the tension. "Something like that."
For a moment, the two of them stood there, in the quiet of the alley, their unspoken connection lingering in the air. Both knew the road ahead wasn't going to get any easier, but there was solace in the fact that they weren't walking it alone.
Finally, Angel shifted, adjusting the box in his hands. "I'll take care of this," he said, his tone returning to its usual steadiness. "You should get back."
Buffy nodded, stepping back toward her car but casting one last glance at Angel. "I'll check in on you soon."
As Buffy reached for the car door, her hand paused in mid-air at the sound of Angel's voice behind her. The low, gentle timbre in his voice tugged at something deep inside her, and she turned around, her blonde hair catching the soft glow of the streetlight.
"Buffy," Angel called out, his eyes softened with concern and something tender. He took a small step toward her, the ancient, tortured soul within him shining through for a brief moment as he spoke. "Did you have a happy birthday?"
For a split second, time seemed to slow down. Buffy felt the weight of the day's events press against her—fighting vampires in a dark alley, the heavy iron box she had just delivered, the ominous presence of the Judge looming in the back of her mind. But here, in the quiet of the night, with Angel standing just a few feet away, there was a pocket of something sweet, something normal, and it made her heart warm.
A soft smile broke across her face, lighting up her features in a way that almost erased the fatigue from her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, her expression softening as she let herself relax in his presence for just a moment.
"So far, it's been the best," she replied, her voice carrying a warmth and sincerity that made the weight of everything else seem distant, if only for a heartbeat. Her eyes met his, a brief but meaningful connection, one that transcended the chaos surrounding them.
Angel's expression remained neutral, but Buffy could sense the quiet satisfaction in his eyes, as if knowing that despite the darkness they constantly faced, he had played some part in giving her a moment of happiness. The faintest hint of a smile touched the corners of his lips, but he said nothing more. He didn't have to.
They stood there, both knowing that this fleeting sense of normalcy wouldn't last. But for now, it was enough. Buffy gave him one last look, her smile lingering, before finally getting into her Mustang and starting the engine. The night still held its dangers, but right now, as she drove away, she carried with her a small spark of light.
January 21, 1998 – Wednesday
Sunnydale High School
The next morning, the library was filled with a tense anticipation, the air thick with unspoken thoughts and heavy emotions. Buffy sat at the large wooden table; its surface scarred with the remnants of countless research sessions. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table as she spoke with Giles, her trusted mentor.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Giles asked, his voice laced with concern. He adjusted his glasses, the faint clink of metal echoing in the quiet room. "You didn't tell them for a reason."
"I'm sure," Buffy replied, her voice steady despite the weight of what she was about to share. The determination in her eyes shone through, a flicker of strength amidst the uncertainty. "I can't keep lying to them or Mom. Eventually, I would just push them away." The thought of isolation gnawed at her insides; she had fought too hard to forge connections with the people she loved.
Giles nodded, a slight frown creasing his brow as he processed her words. "Alright," he said, with an air of reluctant acceptance. He rose from his seat, the chair scraping against the floor as he walked toward the doors. With a purposeful motion, he opened them wide and beckoned for Willow, Ms. Calendar, Joyce, and Xander to enter.
"Hi guys, Mom, Ms. Calendar," Buffy greeted them, her heart pounding as she took in their curious expressions. "Why don't you guys have a seat? This is not going to be an easy discussion. And I am sure Mom at least might question my sanity." The corners of her mouth quirked up in a wry smile, attempting to lighten the mood.
"Your sanity?" Joyce echoed, her eyes narrowing slightly, a hint of worry lacing her tone.
"Please, Mom," Buffy said, and Joyce nodded, her expression shifting to one of concern. Buffy took a deep breath, the weight of the truth pressing against her chest like an anchor. "Five years from now, there will be a huge battle. We won, mostly. I didn't make it, though. As I tried to escape, I fell into the Hellmouth. The next thing I knew, it was six years earlier, and I was in the Master's cave. I'm from the future." The revelation hung in the air, heavy and palpable.
"Is that why you mentioned that vampire Spike and someone named Dawn?" Xander interjected, his brows furrowing in confusion yet curiosity sparkling in his eyes. Buffy smiled inwardly, knowing he would be the one to readily accept her story. "They were someone you knew in the future?"
"Yes," Buffy affirmed, her heart racing. "Ms. Calendar, the so-called Slayer dream I told you about with Spike being good and helping? It wasn't a Slayer dream; it was a memory. Spike was first chipped by a secret military operation beneath the University of Sunnydale. The chip would create pain in his head anytime he tried to bite anyone. Eventually, he started helping us. To make a long story short, he got his soul. And then I think he died helping us in the final battle." The weight of the memories washed over her like a tide, each word a reminder of the sacrifice and struggle that lay ahead.
"What about Willow?" Ms. Calendar asked, her voice gentle yet probing. "Was that…?"
"Memory," Buffy interjected, her gaze turning to Willow, whose face reflected a mixture of apprehension and understanding. "You went bad, real bad, when someone you loved was killed. I thought that if Ms. Calendar taught you about magic, you might not go bad. That's why I suggested to her to train you." The admission felt like a confession, a promise that she would do everything in her power to prevent the darkness that once engulfed her friend.
"Wow," Willow said, her eyes wide with astonishment as she processed the weight of Buffy's revelations. "Is that also why we've been training beside you when you train with Giles?"
"Pretty much," Buffy replied, her gaze shifting to her mother, who sat quietly, absorbing the information. The room felt heavy with anticipation, and Buffy could sense the tension radiating from Joyce. "Mom. Two things are going to shock you the most about what I know. First, you will be diagnosed with a brain tumor three years from now and die from complications resulting from the surgery."
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, and Joyce's expression shifted from surprise to a deep concern, her breath hitching slightly as she grappled with the foreboding news. "Oh," she said softly, her voice trembling at the realization that her own mortality was laid bare before her.
"But we can prevent it," Buffy insisted, her voice filled with urgency and determination. "If you can get treatment now, before you start seeing the symptoms. I don't want to lose you again." Her heart ached at the thought of her mother, so vibrant and full of life, facing an uncertain fate. Joyce simply nodded, her expression a mixture of fear and resolve.
"The other thing," Buffy continued, her voice steadier now but still charged with emotion. "I'm not your only daughter. A little over two years from now, these monks will create her from my blood. They'll send her to me to protect in the form of a sister. That is who Dawn is." The weight of the truth settled over the room, filling the silence with unspoken thoughts and emotions. "I promised her once that I would show her the world. I failed. I wasn't ready then. I think in part that is why I got a second chance, for her."
Tears began to fall from Buffy's eyes, glistening like morning dew as she continued to speak with raw vulnerability. Just in that pure emotion, Joyce could tell that what Buffy was saying was true. Each word resonated with sincerity and a profound love that transcended time and space.
"You didn't fail," Joyce said softly, her voice breaking slightly with emotion. She reached out, her hand finding Buffy's, offering comfort and strength.
'No, you didn't, Buffy,' Dawn's voice echoed in the back of Buffy's mind, a whisper of support that only she could hear. Buffy felt a swell of warmth and encouragement from her sister. 'You're the reason I am here, now.'
"If you had failed," Joyce continued, unaware of the silent communication taking place within her daughter's mind, "you wouldn't have gotten the chance to correct your mistakes. I believe that." Her words were a balm, soothing the wounds of past regrets and instilling a sense of hope for the future.