As William started brushing his teeth he found himself replaying every moment of his entire acquaintance with Buffy Summers. Some things, like her unusual familiarity with the process of interrogation and police handling of criminal investigations became more obvious to him now, while others, like her reasons for intervening in Dashawn’s sentencing to begin with and for insisting on hearing Carlos’s account of the night of the murder appeared less clear, less credible, even, than they had previously. He spit into the sink and wracked his brains for more clues to explain her interest in the case. William suddenly cringed as he recalled how he had misinterpreted her comments about cops being bad with witnesses and nastily told her she didn’t belong in juvenile justice the week before. His words must have grated, even if they had only inadvertently alluded to whatever it was that had happened to make her leave the force. He guessed it must have been something big and possibly traumatic that had resulted in her ending up at a non-profit, independent agency somewhat at odds ideologically with the general tendency of law enforcement. The contradictory mixture of burning curiosity and bewildered fascination William felt settled into a deeply frustrating desire for answers. But he had painted himself into a corner in his interactions with her and it would be damn near impossible to get her to open up to him about it now, he figured. He paused to reconsider his last thought. Why did he want her to open up so badly? He stared at the mirror in horror.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, mate?”
Two days later, William was shuffling the deck of cards in preparation for the next round when Gunn unexpectedly broached the subject that had never been far from the forefront of his thoughts since Tuesday evening.
“So how’re things going with your newest nemesis, Spike?”
“Oh yeah,” Xander broke in with a smile. “We ran into her last weekend,” he told Gunn. “Betty.”
“Buffy,” William and Wesley corrected him simultaneously.
Gunn nodded. “She still trying to run the show?”
William absently continued moving the cards in his hands Hindu-style.
“Think we’ve both lost the plot,” he said cryptically, frowning to himself. His hands stilled. “I found out she’s an ex-cop,” he told the others.
“Are you serious? That tiny girl we met at the club?” Xander asked in disbelief.
“Apparently,” William replied with a shrug.
“Intriguing,” Wesley remarked.
“Don’t they have, like, size requirements for that job?” Xander asked, still surprised by William’s revelation.
Wesley took it upon himself to answer. “Yes, a few,” he agreed. “But most of the—ah—older guidelines profiling outsized males have been ruled discriminatory,” he explained delicately.
“So how did the ex part come about?” Gunn asked William curiously. He paused, adding, “And how did the cop part come about?”
“Yeah, well you see, she told me all about it ‘cause we’re best friends,” William responded with some hostility.
“Whoa, just asking,” Gunn laughed, immediately backing off. “Touchy,” he admonished with good humor.
“Maybe she had a hard time taking down the baddies,” Xander suggested, stuck on his theme. “You know, dealing with perps,” he said meaningfully, prompting the others to wonder if he had been watching too many Law and Order marathons again.
In his mind’s eye, William saw again how she had moved with startling speed and precise force to subdue Carlos’s attacker, vanquishing the foe like some warrior princess of medieval legend. “Really don’t think that was the problem,” he said quietly.
Then William slid the deck over to Gunn. “Cut,” he directed.
“I can’t hear you, Angel,” Buffy repeated for the third time.
“…in the city… try again,” the choppy voice on the other end of the line was saying.
“It doesn’t work on your cell. Call me tomorrow when you’re back at the hotel, okay? Bye. Goodbye.” Feeling stupid for talking to a phantom, Buffy nonetheless tried once more for good measure. “Bye, Angel,” she said loudly before hanging up her bedroom phone.
Flopping back onto her bed, Buffy stared at the sloped ceiling. She felt restless, and the failed connection with Angel only made her more so. She briefly thought about calling Willow and Tara but decided it was too late in the evening to disturb them. She then considered contacting Amy, who was a night owl, but nixed that idea when she reasoned she would have to spend at least fifteen minutes of the phone call trying to talk her out of coming over or going out and doing something silly like cruising Robertson Boulevard or checking out Venice boardwalk for a party.
Or worse, hitting up Hustler Hollywood again.
At least she had found something useful there last time as Amy eyed the giant dildos and the skeevy video assistant trailed them around the store, Buffy remembered with a smile. The penis wrapping paper alone, not to mention the ‘his ‘n’ hers plugs’ boxed inside it, had been great for shock value at her snobby cousin Celia’s sedate engagement party at the old Sunnydale country club. Being confronted with her father’s newest secretary slash girlfriend there had driven Buffy to accept more drinks than she was accustomed to consuming, and subsequently spilling one of those cocktails on her aunt had been the last straw. She hadn’t received another invite to a fussy family function since then, not even to Celia’s wedding. Calculating in her mind, Buffy barely reacted to the dull realization that that event over two years ago was the last time she had seen her father. Her eyes were momentarily drawn to the still unopened envelope on her nightstand.
Leaping up from the bed, Buffy started pacing her well-worn berber floor. Trader Joe’s was open for another half hour, she told herself. Her fridge was bare and she could stock up for the week. It was the most reasonable and productive course of action, but she knew it wouldn’t do anything to settle her edginess. The only viable solution was to go to the basement and hit her punching bag until she had worked off all her excess energy. Maybe it could help her clear her head of the case that she really had no business pursuing anymore but couldn’t let go of. She stopped short in front of her dresser in mid-pace. Standing stock still, her fingers tentatively reached out and grazed a small frame holding the old graduation picture she kept semi-hidden at the back behind the photos of her with Angel and her friends. In it, she was sandwiched between a brunette girl with dark eyes striking a shooter’s pose and a tall man with a guileless grin who towered over her. She smiled at the image, recalling that day, a day memorable both for the achievement it signaled and also for the promise it seemed to offer. A promise of permanence and belonging that was always doomed to splinter, she supposed now, as each one had before. As she pictured the familiar place she would return to the next week, Buffy felt her heart lurch. Tamping down her emotions, she tried to reason with herself. “Knew it’d happen sooner or later,” she whispered. Abruptly turning away from the relics of her past, she grabbed her gloves from her closet and headed for the stairs.