"Buffy?" Dawn pulls at her arm, trying to lead her the rest of the way into the Magic Box. It's a valiant effort, really, but there's no use to it - Buffy finds herself stuck in place, staring at the shop across the small alleyway from the Magic Box.
A majority of the shops in this area seem to have been closed for some time - what used to be a small alcove filled with little restaurants and knickknack shops is now a street lined with boarded up windows and shattered doors. It had been a disheartening sight on top of everything else Buffy had returned to, seeing the destruction that only five months of her absence had brought to her home.
But this shop. This one, she doesn't remember.
Dawn huffs next to her, giving up on trying to move her, and Buffy can just imagine the pouting glare she's giving her without even having to turn to see it.
"Has this always been here?" She asks, because maybe she's mistaken. But she thinks that even through her death and resurrection she'd probably remember a coffee shop across the street from the Magic Box. Especially if it was named the Big Bad Cafe.
The sign hanging over the doorway is clearly new - the wood is fresh and stained with a dark brown lacquer that makes the small likely hand-carved imperfections stand out against the light background. Inside the open window, Buffy can see a tidy row of tables with little paper menus and the beginnings of a countertop lined with a colorful variety of different bottles in the corner. It really seems like something she should remember -
"Oh, that?" Dawn says, her tone flippant, "That's Spike's place."
The first thing Buffy does when she's given a chance to sneak away from the Magic Box is stare blankly at the dead-end brick wall in the back alley for a few minutes, trying to figure out what, exactly, she's going to do with her life now that she's back in it.
The second thing she does is go to the cafe.
She's not really sure what she's expecting - maybe she's not expecting anything. How could she, really? The idea of Spike somehow, for some reason, opening a cafe in the five months she'd been dead seems so absurd that she almost questions whether she has actually been resurrected - or, if she's been resurrected into the correct timeline. Even more absurd is the fact that none of her friends even batted an eye at it when she'd brought it up.
"Oh yeah, I enchanted the menu for them a few weeks after they opened," Willow had said, moving on afterward as if this was just normal, everyday information, no further explanation given.
"Used to be a bookshop," Anya had said, "the previous owner was eaten by a pack of roving demon wolves about two months back, I think? And then no one wanted to rent it out, obviously. But it was good for us because rent for the building dropped 50%!"
Xander had just glared out toward the alleyway in the direction of the coffee shop and said, "Better than having him hanging around here all the time." Dawn had rolled her eyes at him and leaned in to whisper that Xander actually really liked the cherry pastries they made on Friday mornings, even if he wouldn't admit it.
Ultimately, sheer curiosity wins out in the end.
When she enters, the tiny bell over the door rings out through the shop - a bright tinkling noise that draws the barista's attention straight to her. He waves at her almost instantly, a smile lighting up his wrinkled face. And embarrassingly, it takes her a moment to recognize him.
Clem, luckily, doesn't seem to notice her hesitation as he greets her, "Welcome!"
She smiles back at him and walks up toward the counter, glad that business seems a bit slow this afternoon. There are a few customers sitting at tables in the front of the cafe, near the windows - mostly human, she notes, oddly - but no line to order.
It's all very…deceptively normal.
Clem grins at her as she looks over the menu on the wall behind him - a large chalkboard display outlining the cafe's offerings. For a moment, she considers ordering something, just to cut the awkward tension and give her a reason for being in here, but the first item on the drink menu is aptly titled "Pig Blood's Delight," so she almost cans that thought immediately.
But Clem is waiting on her, and he's never been anything but nice, so…
"Do you have anything not…bloody?" She asks.
Clem chuckles, confusion writing itself clearly on his face, "Most of our daytime menu is completely blood-free, I promise," he says.
Buffy looks at the menu again.
Sheep Intestine Smoothie stares back at her, written in neat pink chalk lines.
Clem points to the menu, "We've got espresso drinks and regular drip coffees too."
The line he's gesturing toward clearly says Kittenccino. Buffy can't quite tell if Clem is messing with her, or if he's just as confused as she is. She supposes it could be both, really.
When she doesn't answer him, Clem continues, his voice unsure, "I make a mean cappuccino, if you want to try one?"
Another moment of hesitation, and Clem adds, "On the house, of course."
Hours later, Buffy finds herself sitting at one of the back tables of the cafe with an empty mug settled in her hands. It turns out Clem does, in fact, make a mean cappuccino, menu weirdness aside.
And the cafe, despite being owned by one of the most annoying vampires she's ever met, is an oddly peaceful place to just sit and exist.
The few patrons that come in are quiet, usually busy with their own things. A few college girls with textbooks take up a larger table, talking amongst themselves about a midterm they're worried about. A neatly dressed man curls up in one of the corner loveseats with a copy of Dracula and a red-velvet flavored latte.
Buffy finds herself staying for longer than she'd originally intended. She stays well past lunch (Clem brings her a grilled cheese, also apparently on the house), and nurses a second cappuccino as she watches the sun set through the cafe's window.
For the first time in the…almost week since she'd been resurrected, Buffy feels oddly at peace. No one's come to bother her the entire time she's been here, hidden away in the back of the cafe as she is. And at the same time, she isn't quite alone like she is when she shuts herself in her room at home. There are other patrons sitting around the shop - and Clem, who she could talk to, if she wanted. But just hearing the bustle of people around…It's nice. It's…weirdly soothing, in a way.
The sun sets fully, disappearing behind the roof of the Magic Box. As the night blankets the city, the Big Bad Cafe's window lights up with a small neon sign that reads, "Now serving fresh Centaur Milk!"
Which is not quite concerning enough for Buffy to stop drinking her cappuccino, but it's a very near thing. She's 90% sure Clem would have told her if her cappuccino had Centaur Milk in it. Probably. Maybe. She keeps drinking it, regardless, and resumes her previous efforts of people-watching.
Now that it's dark, a few demons start to make their way into the shop. A young vampire enters with a few of her friends, each of them walking away from the counter with a mug filled to the brim with steam-frothed blood. A vengeance demon slinks in and orders a slice of in-house-made Centaur Milk cheesecake, which again, has Buffy questioning the integrity of the grilled cheese she'd been offered earlier that day.
A few older vampires spot her as they're waiting for their drinks, and promptly scuttle out the door the moment their paper travel cups are in their hands. Now that she thinks about it, she's probably bad for business this late at night, isn't she? And she should probably start patrolling anyway.
The last sip of her (maybe Centaur Milk) cappuccino swirls around the bottom of her mug, grossly cold now from how long she's let it sit. She should probably leave.
Buffy chances a glance at Clem, who just smiles at her when he notices her watching him. She wonders if she stays past dinner if he'll claim he made one too many grilled cheese sandwiches again, or if it'll be something different this time.
In the end, she never finds out - because the moment she decides to head home, the owner of the shop himself finally makes his appearance. There is a thrill that runs through her at seeing him - those intense dark eyes locking onto hers the moment the shop bell rings, announcing his arrival. And she thinks, somewhat bitterly to herself, that she might have stuck around all day just for the chance to see him. The uncertainty of her desire sits at odds with the warmth she feels, now that she's seen him. It's as discomforting as it is comforting, as she finds most things are with Spike.
His focus stays on her as he talks to Clem - she can tell by the way he glances over at her table every few moments. She can't quite hear what they're saying, but she supposes it doesn't matter - she's going to leave anyway.
Right?
She's going to leave, right?
The mug in her hands wobbles a bit when Spike sets another (new, fresh, heavenly-smelling) cappuccino on the table, and sits down at the chair across from her.
"Thought you'd be off making the streets a bit safer by now," Spike says, his voice a mix of amusement and something softer she can't quite place. A cheeky grin tugs at one corner of his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers. She should stop this, before it escalates. Before either one of them gets the wrong idea.
She must hesitate a bit too long, because Spike takes up his own drink and taps it lightly against hers in a mock toast.
"No harm in taking a night off, though. I imagine most everyone who'd cause you trouble has heard about you comin' back by now. Probably scared 'em off real quick." He says, and he takes a long drink from his mug. When he settles it back down on the table, his lips are still stained a faint red, and she watches intently as his tongue darts out to lick it away.
Spike huffs, "Serves 'em right, really. Causing trouble for all us respectable folk."
And Buffy can't help the soft laugh that escapes her.
"You're calling yourself respectable now?" she teases, setting down her own mug and leaning back a bit.
He indignantly puffs up in his chair, his posture straightening out into something resembling what she imagines a young noble's must have been like, back in the day. It makes her smile despite herself, a warm fondness edging into her chest.
"I'm plenty respectable," Spike assures her, as he cups his hands around his mug. It's a dime store find, she imagines, because the side of it bears a little speech bubble that, at one point clearly said, "Got Milk?" in large bold letters. Now, the "milk" text is obscured with dark red ceramic paint, altering it to read as "Got Blood?" in a cheeky hand-drawn print. For a moment, she questions if that's Spike's personal mug, or if it's in the rotation to give out to customers.
"Clem says you've been here all day," he says, after a while, and she wonders if he'll start pulling out the pitying 'I'm just concerned about you' tone she's been getting from everyone else in her life these past few days. She doesn't think she could handle it coming from him, of all people.
He watches her for a second longer, and then leans forward, his eyes narrowing, "Are you planning to stick around for supper?" He asks. And for a moment, she's so taken aback that she doesn't know what to say.
He looks so serious, asking her this. It's oddly endearing, in a way she doesn't quite want to think about.
In the end, she settles on a non-answer, "I don't have plans, I suppose." She says, and she watches as his eyes light up.
"Well," Spike grins, and really, if her heart could stop beating so fast every time she sees that? It would be great, thanks.
"You know how the Bronze stopped serving that fried onion a while back?" Spike says, downing the last dregs of his blood, "I figured out how to make it. Give me twenty minutes, I'll have one, hot and ready for you."
Her face softens into an unexpected smile, the kind that sneaks up on you when you're trying not to find someone charming. "Really?" She teases, but he just grins at her as he stands.
"Swear on my life," He replies, "Be back in two shakes, love."
And with that, he's gone, leaving her alone in the dimly lit room, surrounded by endearingly mismatched cafe furniture and the low hum of rain starting up against the front window. The smile lingers on her lips a bit too long, maybe. And if, at the end of the day, she finds herself absently tracing the rim of her own coffee mug, waiting patiently to see what he comes back with, well. That's no one's business but her own, for now.