As Buffy approached her, a blonde woman in a bright pink suit with matching lipstick stationed at a circular desk in the waiting room looked up from her computer. After a moment of blankness, she suddenly flashed her a big smile. “Oh, hi. Buffy Summers, right?”
Startled, Buffy responded uncertainly, “Um, yeah. Do we know each other?”
“I’m Harmony Kendall. We went to UCLA together?” Harmony replied a bit too eagerly.
“Oh, I see,” Buffy said agreeably, but she was already wondering as she often did when an apparent stranger claimed to know her if it was because they knew who her father was.
“We were in the same psych class for a while. Freshman year?” Harmony reminded her in a leading tone.
“Uh-huh. Cool,” Buffy replied, feeling distinctly apprehensive now. References to that time in her life always made her stomach clench a little, especially when they were unexpected. Before Harmony could follow up her mention of their shared history with questions, Buffy quickly said, “It’s great to catch up. I’m, uh, here to see William Pratt today,” she said, pulling out a random folder as a prop and waving it.
Her attention diverted, Harmony nodded and said to Buffy, “I’ll just let Mr. Wells know you’re here first, ok? Mr. Pratt is strict about our process,” she confided, pronouncing the last word as if it were a foreign one as she picked up her phone.
“I’m not surprised,” Buffy muttered under her breath. In her view, the man was on a major power trip. She put the folder she was holding back in her bag and exchanged it for two others.
Not ten seconds after Harmony called him, Andrew Wells came rushing into the front office from a warren of connecting corridors. “Good morning, Miss Summers,” he greeted Buffy breathlessly.
“Hi, Andrew. You can call me Buffy.”
Andrew didn’t seem to absorb her comment. “Yes, Miss Summers. Can I get you a cup of coffee or something? If you’re here to talk about the Richards case, we can use one of the conference rooms,” he said, seemingly willing her to follow him as he jerked his shoulder in the direction of a hallway to his left.
Andrew’s jittery manner, which Buffy guessed was heightened even for him, made her suspicious. “No thanks, Andrew. I’m here to see your boss,” she said bluntly.
Andrew’s shoulders sank. “I’m so sorry. He’s preoccupied with an emergency. The Papazian case is about to blow up because the defense just got the judge to exclude some key inculpatory evidence,” he explained. “But I’ve been empowered to handle the Richards case,” he went on, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself rather than Buffy. “I’ve reviewed his file, and although he is only sixteen, this is his second arrest and our position is that no leniency is warranted,” he stated, his voice gaining in strength. “In fact, we had filed a waiver petition to get the juvenile court to forfeit their authority over his case,” he finished boldly.
“But it was denied,” Buffy said pointedly.
“Yes, that’s true,” Andrew said, deflating a little.
“So he falls within the jurisdiction of the agency. Even though he’s a repeat offender, he’s still a juvenile.” Buffy left out the detail that that fact alone would normally have disqualified him from being considered as a candidate for evaluation. “I interviewed him myself last week. And I’m actually here to report to the ADA that the circumstances of his plea have changed,” Buffy added.
“Oh,” said Andrew, losing confidence by the minute. “Um, what exactly has changed?”
“I’m sorry but I really can’t tell you about it first, Andrew.” Buffy cast about for a moment. “Process of authority. You understand?”
Andrew nodded, but still looked unsure.
Buffy paused, considering him carefully. “What did he tell you to do? Andrew?”
Andrew smiled with a mix of nervousness and relief. “His exact words were, ‘under no circumstances does that har—,” Andrew broke off, panicked, and then changed course, ‘—Miss Summers disturb me.’”
“Which one is his office?” she asked him calmly.
Andrew just looked at her like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Just point, Andrew,” Buffy said firmly.
Andrew complied.
“Thank you. I’ll take it from here.” She added, “You did a good job.”
Nodding at her, Andrew nonetheless remained standing frozen in his spot.
As she walked the few steps to the door in question, Buffy gird up her resolve. She rapped sharply on the door twice before turning the knob and walking right in.
“Andrew, unless it’s a question of where to bury Judge Nest’s body please figure out whatever it is on your own,” William growled from his seated position at his wide oak desk, eyes fixed on the pile of open files in disarray before him. He looked a lot less no-nonsense professional and a lot more bookish to Buffy today, dressed in a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched halfway down his nose. But as he looked up, she was met with the familiar pair of steely blue eyes. “Oh, it’s you. Color me unsurprised.” He tossed his glasses aside and stood up, rubbing his palm against his forehead as if to soothe away a headache.
Buffy opted to remain standing herself a safe distance away. “Yup. The harpy has landed,” Buffy said, doing her best to sound chipper, figuring that would annoy him the most. “That was a nice diversion tactic, by the way. But you were the one who said I had to meet you here. In your office,” she pointed out. She noted that he didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed for insulting her to his subordinate and trying to blow her off. If anything, a hint of amusement seemed to touch his eyes as he regarded her closely.
It vanished, however, as William let loose with his ranting. “I’m sure this will come as earth-shattering news, but the world doesn’t revolve around you, Summers. Things change. I’m managing a crisis so I have much higher priorities than the junkie ex-con who’s your charity case of the week.”
“Well, that’s changed too. And by the way? Real nice on the slandering of a juvenile just now,“ Buffy observed.
“Don’ have the time or the inclination for a moral lecture from you, missy,” he shot back, shaking his head.
“Well, do you have time to do your job? ‘Cause here’s the deal. You need to cancel the disposition hearing scheduled for this afternoon and get Dashawn Richards moved to a safe house as soon as possible.” “And,” Buffy went on before William could interrupt, “you need to do this because Dashawn can testify to the fact that he and his friend Carlos Trejo witnessed a murder by one of Dashawn’s suppliers. Marcus Hamilton? Ring a bell?” she asked.
William ran his hand through his hair as he tried to remember. “Fingered in Gavin’s big narcotics case. He’s the primary on that, but because I got Richards I’ve got something—,” he paused as he rifled through some papers on his desk. “Awaiting trial. He’s out on bail. How’s that possible?” He squinted at the page. “First time charged?”
“Possibly. These guys are scary good at staying under the radar,” Buffy commented.
“So what happened?”
“Dashawn and a friend of his saw Hamilton shoot and kill an unidentified man at close range in an alley about three blocks from Jordan Downs. They ran out of there and he swears that they weren’t seen but he’s not safe if he’s wrong about that,” Buffy related. “He thinks the body is boarded up in one of the abandoned units on Grape Street.”
“This happened out in the open? It sounds a bit far-fetched. He could be spinning you a story,” William countered.
“Why? To get himself hidden away?” Buffy asked. “What would be the point?”
“I don’t know, do I? But people don’t tend to roll over on their bosses unless there’s something in it for them,” William maintained.
“Maybe he was just horrified by what he saw,” Buffy suggested, remembering the look of abject fear on Dashawn’s face as he had recounted the events of that night to her.
“I’ll have to hear all of this from him directly.”
“His current detention address is in here with my write-up,” Buffy said, handing him one of the folders in her hand. “I told him to expect you,” she said peppily. “I’m sure VCU will want to talk to him too,” she added.
William sighed and furrowed his brow. “And his chum? Where’s Tweedle-Dum?”
Buffy handed him the other folder. “He’s in LA County right now on a possession charge.”
“Jail? Of course,” William concluded, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah,” Buffy sighed, missing William’s response. ”At least it’s the safest place for him right now. But he’s not in the game so he doesn’t know who any of the players are. Dashawn said he just came over to hang out when they walked in on it all going down.”
“He’ll still need to make a statement.”
Buffy nodded and then cleared her throat. “There’s one more thing,” she said determinedly. ”We’d like to see if we can get witness assistance for Dashawn’s family. He’s not just a dealer. He has a legitimate job too and he has an eleven-year old younger brother and a grandmother who—“
William held up a hand. “Oi, just spare me the sob story, all right?”
Buffy was appalled by his unfeeling attitude. “Fine,” she responded, biting her lip before she let slip something rude. “Please keep us posted on your progress, Mr. Pratt,” she reminded him tartly.
He just glared at her. “I’ll let Andrew see about assistance. I’m not gonna waste my time with that. Are there any other tasks you have for my office?” he asked snidely.
“You know, I only met your predecessor a few times, but Mr. McDonald never gave me a hard time for doing my job,” Buffy told William in a withering tone.
He snorted. “That’s probably because any bint in a skirt can push Lindsey around with a bat of her lashes.” His eyes lingered for a moment on what he could see of the pleated navy skirt that peaked out under the beige trenchcoat she wore. “But frankly, he’s a bit of a hack,” he said to her knees.
Better than a jerk, she mouthed silently to herself.
He contemplated her with narrowed eyes. “And you’re absolutely sure you’re not getting played by this boy?”
Once again, Buffy bit back a retort. “A hundred and ten percent,” she confirmed evenly.
He still looked unconvinced. “I don’t understand why this didn’t come out earlier?”
“Cops aren’t always good at getting intel out of witnesses,” she informed him with a shrug. “Believe me, I know.”
Her superior attitude irked him immensely. He couldn’t stop himself from lashing out. “Easy to be up on your high horse when you’re not working a crap job on the streets. You’ve got it made, haven’t you? A self-affirming position handed to you on a silver platter?” he challenged her.
Her eyes flashed fire with indignation. “You don’t know anything about me, or my life. So don’t pretend you do.” Buffy was so angry she was almost trembling.
“Well then, enlighten me. How did you end up in charge there? You’re clearly just slumming it—“
As William berated her, Buffy became aware of Andrew in her peripheral vision, hovering just outside the doorway. At war within herself, her devil finally won out. Her eyes on William, she gestured towards Andrew and practically yelled, “Hey, party of asshole? Your table’s ready.” She quickly exited the offices before she was tempted to apologize.
As she made her way back to work, Buffy kept thinking about William Pratt, chiding herself for allowing him to get to her. He’d clearly absorbed a great deal of rumor about her and although they were off the mark, his words still stung. She didn’t understand why he had it in for her so badly, especially when she had handed him a potentially huge conviction, but she knew that letting things devolve into acrimony each time she dealt with him risked distracting her from the case, which required her full vigilance.
Before returning to her private office, she made a quick round of the agency’s busy front room, going from desk to desk of her staff to check in on their individual progress and gauge their need for words of encouragement or caution, or more concrete aid for their work. Buffy didn’t like the seclusion of the manager’s office space, but there was no room to occupy in the main room and certainly no money to change things, so she relied on impromptu but regular contact to maintain more direct dialogue with the half-dozen caseworkers she supervised in addition to their bi-weekly full staff meetings.
Today she had to concentrate hard to focus on her conversations with her caseworkers, and was relieved that the issues they raised were all relatively uncomplicated. As she concluded her final overview, her caseworker Doris studied her with concern. “Are you all right, hon? You seem a little upset,” she noted sympathetically.
Buffy gave her a grateful smile. Since arriving at the agency as its newly-installed head four months ago, Buffy had found in Doris Kroeger not only a loyal employee but also something between a maternal figure and a girlfriend. She was devoted to her husband and her Siamese, childless but a natural mentor to young men and women, whether they were her clients or co-workers. In her fifties, she perfectly fit the image of the compassionate social services worker with her open, kindly countenance and her rather haplessly styled short brunette hair, dressed in her wardrobe of Chico’s mature separates. Although she had a retiring personality, she was a keen observer of others, which suited her well on the job. She also had vast reserves of patience, which made her a great listener. Buffy often wished that she could better emulate Doris’s strengths.
Doris was her most senior and experienced employee, and Buffy had initially been apprehensive that she would be wary of working under a woman much younger than herself with a complicated professional history, or worse, resentful that she herself had not been promoted to the head position when it had been vacated. Instead, Doris had given her full support to the vision that Buffy articulated of an empowered partner to the state organizations that it advised and set a welcoming and cooperative tone for the rest of the staff. Doris had moreover assured her that she had had no interest in handling the mediation responsibilities of the agency head, liaising with legal professionals and law enforcement on a regular basis. Buffy had lately come to recognize the wisdom in that reluctance.
“I’m just having some trouble communicating with—well, not so much communicating with as not killing—the ADA that replaced Lindsey McDonald,” Buffy ruefully admitted to Doris.
“Who is it?” Doris asked in a lowered voice.
“William Pratt. He’s English, I think,” Buffy said with a crinkle of her brow, as if the fact confused her.
Doris’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she in a hushed tone. “My friend Lorne started out as a paralegal for the white collar unit. He told me once that he’s a bear to work for,” Doris related to Buffy confidentially. “I’m sure it’s not you, hon.”
“He seems to think so. And I—may have lost my temper. Called him a name?” Seeing the look of increasing surprise on Doris’s face, Buffy lamented, “I’m supposed to be more diplomatic, huh? Like, that’s actually a non-minor part of my job description.“
“Just try to defuse the situation if it gets out of hand. Don’t escalate. Or just avoid him.” Doris adjusted her prescriptions downward as she watched Buffy’s doubtful expression deepen.
“Yeah,” Buffy responded to her last piece of advice. “That I can try to do.”
Late the next day, Buffy was sitting at her desk, playing a message on her answering machine. “Look Summers, this is William Pratt. I tried calling you yesterday but apparently you’re never at your desk. Anyway, we talked to the boy and the police think he’s legit. They’re gonna look for the body and I’ll confirm his story with his friend next week. Hamilton should be good and cooked. By the way Andrew made some arrangements or other for the Richards people.” There was the slightest pause before it ended, “Guess your work here is done. Congratulations.” As the deep voice echoed in her ear, a sense of dissatisfaction settled over her.
Several days later, Buffy was gazing sightlessly out her window, her mind turning over the facts of the Richards case yet again. She had that familiar feeling in her gut that always warned her when she was in danger of missing something crucial. She wished that she could talk it all over with someone to help her figure out how she should act on it. She glanced at the clock. “Too late to call,” she mused.
Standing in her foyer, Buffy looked at herself critically in the mirror above her side table. Her hair was crimped in a messy fashion and pulled up on one side. Her eyes were lined with smoky kohl and she had rubbed a little red gloss on her lips. She wore a strappy, dusky red moleskin tank with floral laser-cut outs along the neckline over a pair of skintight black pleather pants with pointy black ankle boots. The looser cut of the top lessened the overt sexiness of the rest of the outfit, or at least Buffy hoped so. She didn’t like to look like she was trying too hard but she was always a little nervous that she might not get in to a club or bar with a bouncer. And she had to admit it had been fun to pull out clothes that she didn’t often get to wear and go full out with her makeup and hair. Deciding to let all of her hair down, she reached for the pin when she heard Willow’s car honk outside. Instantly scuppering her plan, she grabbed her keys and darted outside.
Opening the backseat of her friend’s red Fiat 500, she excitedly greeted the two women in the front.
“Hi, guys. Thanks for the pick up.”
“No problem,” Willow called cheerily from the driver’s seat. “Just call me mistress of the car pool.”
“And how does my mistress like riding her shiny new chariot?” Buffy asked as she slid in, and then added, “okay, that sounded way dirtier than I meant.”
“The car is great,” Willow laughed. “Maybe I should name it the Italian stallion, what do you think?”
Tara groaned and shook her head. Turning back in her seat, she greeted Buffy with a smile. “Hi Buffy. You look really nice tonight,” she observed.
“So do you. You both look amazing,” Buffy replied, taking in her friends’s outfits.
“Angel’s gonna be sorry he missed you in this outfit,” Willow teased as she pulled out of Buffy’s driveway.
“Oh, this isn’t really Angel’s style,” Buffy confessed, a note of embarrassment creeping into her voice.
“No? Well then they might have to take his man card away, ‘cause I’m pretty sure ‘slutbomb’ is male fantasy number one,” Willow said mischievously, smiling back at a blushing Buffy in the rearview mirror.
“Not just male fantasy, sweetie,” Tara said, looking at her girlfriend pointedly. In stark contrast to her typical wardrobe of colorful print tops and long skirts, Willow was wearing a black miniskirt with a burgundy wrap top that exposed her creamy skin. Her red hair had been spiked with product and she had put on dramatic dark makeup in a style similar to Buffy. Tara sported a completely different, ethereal style that highlighted her soft beauty. She wore a sheer sequined top over an ivory camisole and mint silk skirt. Her lips were made up with pastel pink gloss and shimmery lavender eye shadow brought out her pale blue eyes.
Buffy giggled at the playful flirtation between her two best friends from the backseat and asked them about the club where they were headed. Willow explained that one of her patients who worked there as a waitress had recommended it to her as it was one of the few places in the city not overrun by shallow industry types. Not only that, but it had an extensive and upscale bar and the house DJ played retro music on Saturdays.
Arriving at Gem in Santa Monica half an hour later, they were waved in right away by the bouncer, much to Buffy’s relief. Entering the darkly-lit space, Buffy was impressed as she observed the chic white banquettes surrounding a lounge area, a central sunken dance space, and the glittery long bar that ran the length of one wall. People in designer styles ranging from Marni to Cavalli crowded every area of the club. The place clearly cultivated a sophisticated vibe but there was a softening element of whimsy as well, evident in the hanging crystal birds that served as light fixtures giving off a multicolor glow and the DJ frontboard that was made to look like a jeweled music box.
They grabbed drinks before heading to the lounge to perch themselves on an oversized ottoman. As they sipped their cocktails, they chatted over the skittering sounds of Radiohead about mutual friends and Willow and Tara’s upcoming vacation to Santa Barbara. Willow talked at length about the great success her still new alternative medicine practice was enjoying. She had decided to risk trading the safety of a joint-partnership with multiple other doctors for the luxury of exercising complete control over how she ran her own business, and her gamble had paid off. Even for California, the number of patients seeking acupuncture and ayurvedic treatments that continued to stream in day after day had been a welcome surprise. She was pleased to relate that she had been unable to personally address only a couple of cases, including a middle-aged man seeking an herbal Viagra and a young woman who was looking for a non-invasive colonic.
“A non-invasive colonic?” Buffy asked Willow, bewildered. “What did she expect or don’t I want to know?”
“She read something on the internet about an abdominal massage technique. I told her it was bogus. Then she asked for some healing stones.” Willow grinned. “And that’s why I referred her to you, sweetie,” she said to Tara. “She should be dropping by the Magic Box soon. Mr. Softy too.”
Tara raised her brows. “I’ll have to do some research for that,” she replied gamely. “Those crystals may be special order.”
Buffy laughed. “And do you get a kickback if she makes a sale?” Buffy asked Willow with an impish smile.
“Hey, yeah, we should negotiate terms,” Willow said to Tara teasingly.
“The power’s getting to your head, sweetie,” Tara teased back.
Willow surveyed the dance floor. “Hey, you guys wanna dance now?” she asked them eagerly as the synthesized beats of an Erol Alkan mashup unspooled.
“You guys go ahead. I’m gonna get something else to drink first. I’ll meet you down there, okay?” Leaving her friends, Buffy made her way alone back over to the other end of the club, changing her mind as she came upon a throng of people three deep swarming the long bar.
Noticing an irate man gesturing in a futile attempt to catch the attention of the bartender and then giving up in disgust, she inwardly groaned when she recognized William Pratt’s sharply defined profile and slightly curled, sandy brown hair. Steeling her resolve, she moved to intercept him as he stormed toward the tables of people seated near the bar.
She touched his arm to get his attention. “Hey there,” she said with forced brightness. “Small world, huh?”
Startled, he turned to her. “Buffy?” he frowned in surprise. William was thrown for a few moments by the unexpectedness of encountering her in a place so far removed from an office setting. He was distracted for several more by how incredible she looked, like some pixie rocker dream girl straight off the cover of a glossy indie music magazine. Then he realized she had been talking to him for some time already.
“—so that the agency can write up its own confirmation of Dashawn’s account,”
“Come again?” was all he could manage in response.
Buffy wondered if he was deliberately trying to antagonize her again. “I said,” she repeated a little louder in case it was the music, “so that we have our own confirmation of his account.” When he still looked confused, she said, “I’ll sit in? On Carlos’s interview?”
“You want to go to the jail?” William couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice. “It’s not some juvie hall, you know.”
Buffy scowled. “This isn’t my first time at the rodeo, ok?”
He looked incredulous but conceded, “All right, blondie, you’re on.”
Just as Buffy was about to give him a piece of her mind about his inappropriate nicknames, they were interrupted.
“Would you care to introduce us, Spike?” a pleasant English voice suddenly floated from somewhere behind William to fill the tension-filled air between them.
Turning around, William moved a few steps to the side, giving Buffy a full view of his friends at a nearby table. Though she and William remained standing next to each other, she was at eye level with the three of them seated in a semi-circle on their bar stools. William sighed. “Cordelia Chase, Xander Harris, and Wesley Wyndham-Price,” he indicated to her with a sweep of his hand. Regarding her askance, he added in a put-upon tone, “This is Buffy Summers. From juvenile justice via the ninth circle.”
Off her confused look, he said to her patronizingly, “Don’t they teach Dante at UCLA, love? Or didn’t you stay long enough to find out?”
“Well, I guess he’s not this charming all the time. Or does he pay you to spend time with him?” Buffy asked. Her demeanor was calm but her tone was caustic as she turned her eyes away from William to the table.
Xander guffawed. “No, but he really should. I am now accepting unmarked bills and pints of Guinness,” he replied merrily to William’s glare. “Nice to meet you,” he added with a broad smile to Buffy. Feeling her anger dissolve, she smiled back shyly, feeling instantly at ease with the jovial man with floppy dark hair and dancing brown eyes and drew a little closer to the table.
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Summers,” Wesley nodded at Buffy. He was closest to her, sitting to her right side. She acknowledged him in turn, noticing that his accent was refined and smooth in comparison to William’s rough and grating one. His perfectly groomed hair and tortoise-shell glasses further complemented his impeccable manners.
“Buffy Summers. Summers as in Sunnydale Industries?” Cordelia asked curiously, regarding Buffy with keen interest from across the table.
Buffy suddenly looked uncomfortable. ”I’m from Sunnydale,” she admitted. “And my father is head of SI, but I’m not involved in it,” she explained quickly. Buffy sensed that the striking brunette with a salon-finished hairstyle and wearing an expensive-looking tight sheath dress was a woman who prized status, a type that she was all too familiar with. In her slutty outfit with her bed head hair, Buffy suddenly felt distinctly ungroomed by comparison.
“Well, if you’re ever in need of a PR rep, you should know that I’m the best in the business. Here’s my card,” Cordelia offered, swiftly producing a beautifully patterned ecru business card from nowhere.
“That won’t be necessary, but thanks anyway,” Buffy replied graciously, pocketing the card quickly. “I really do work for a juvenile justice agency. And um, I keep a low profile—like, limbo low.”
“Pity,” Cordelia remarked, with a touch of condescension.
“Well, well, well. Secret’s out, Summers. Finally gonna own up to your privileged past?” William taunted her.
“There’s no secret,” Buffy protested, riled at his smug expression. Feeling several pairs of eyes on her, she took a breath and then spoke as if she had rehearsed the condensed speech many times before. “My family’s been in California a long time. My father runs Sunnydale Industries. It’s your typical big multinational transportation and energy company. And my great great great grandfather,” she recited, as if she were mentally counting, “founded a railway company with a few partners to finance what used to be the Central Pacific and Southern Pacific lines.”
“The Central Pacific was part of the first transcontinental line?” Wesley asked her for confirmation, sounding both excited and impressed, which typically meant that he was struggling internally to contain himself.
Buffy nodded.
“They built the bloody railroads?” William not so much asked as demanded in shock. Even with his experience with puffed-up brokers and slick bankers and the odd semi-powerful CEO here and there, the concept of a bona fide industrial giant was a daunting one.
“They?” Buffy repeated with a little snort. “I used to think so.” She clarified her meaning with a little shrug. “I just mean, mostly coolies actually built the railroads.”
“Ah yes,” Wesley chimed in again. “The immigrant Chinese labor force?”
A brief look of understanding seemed to pass between Wesley and Buffy.
Feeling annoyed that Wesley had become part of the conversation and was apparently better informed than him, William asked sharply, “And that bothers you? They were paid workers, weren’t they?”
“People do lots of things for money,” Buffy observed vaguely. “But it doesn’t always make it a good thing.”
“Yes, from slave labor to wage labor,” Wesley mused aloud, caught up in his own thoughts. ”The story of the nineteenth century. And the exclusion acts made naturalization and citizenship nearly impossible for the Chinese until after the Second World War, as I recall.”
Ignoring Wesley’s lecture, William pressed her, “That why you’re not in the family business? Too tainted for your precious conscience?” William didn’t know why he felt the need to insult her. He only knew that it infuriated him that she still seemed reluctant to disclose more about herself.
“I don’t have a head for business,” Buffy replied evasively.
“If I wanted to watch the History Channel I would have stayed home,” Cordelia interjected in a bored tone, much to Buffy’s relief. “Can we get back to gossiping about Gloria Allred?”
Xander, who had felt out of his depth during the conversation about Buffy’s family history between the others, welcomed the chance to reveal more details about his client’s home renovations to Cordelia and launched into a funny story about his attempt to dissuade her from installing ceramic tile on her bathroom ceiling. Meanwhile, the opening bars and verse of “I am the Resurrection” began to sound in the background. Both Buffy and William became distracted by the music, lost momentarily in their individual memories.
Down down, you bring me down
I hear you knocking down my door and I can’t sleep at night
Your face, it has no place
No room for you inside my house I need to be alone
“This is one of my favorite songs,” Buffy commented wistfully to no one in particular, a dreamy look coming into her eyes.
Staring at her, William scoffed disbelievingly. “This came out in ’89. You were probably still in your nappies, you couldn’t possibly have listened to them.”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “‘Cause there’s no such thing as CDs,” she shot back at him in an annoyed tone, “or, you know, the internet.” She felt the need to escape before she called him a name again. “I’d, uh, better get back to my friends,” she said hastily. “See you around.” Taking a breath, she looked away from William to his friends. “It was nice to meet you all,” she excused herself to the group, flashing a general smile in their direction before she turned around.
As she made her way to the dance floor, Wesley turned to him, not wanting to let the opportunity slip him by. “And you would know the date of a Stone Roses album because—?” he asked William, highly amused. “The same man who claims ‘Green Day wouldn’t know punk if it bit them in the ass’ is a fan of Brit pop?”
William shot him a dirty look. “They wouldn’t!” he said darkly. “And well, I was twelve,” he said defensively.
Wesley chuckled. “You never cease to surprise me, William.”
They both observed Buffy join two girls dancing with each other, a fuller-figured blond and slim redhead with choppy hair. They moved apart at her approach to form a triangle with her and she was turned towards William enough so that he could see her face. He could have sworn that she was looking directly at him in time as the next line played out.
I couldn’t stand another second in your company
“I realize that you’ve had your problems with Buffy but I have to say I think you were wrong about her. She seems—sincere,” Wesley commented thoughtfully.
Quickly casting a suspicious side-glance at Wesley that went unnoticed by his friend, William said nothing and resumed watching Buffy.
Don’t waste your words I don’t need anything from you
I don’t care where you’ve been or what you plan to do
I am the resurrection and I am the light
I couldn’t ever bring myself to hate you as I’d like
As the lyrics gave way to the extended psychedelic guitar solo, she became lost in the music, dancing with her eyes half-closed. Through the music’s many shifts and turns, her arms gracefully charted the rise and fall of the melody while her body moved sinuously to the back beat. When the song concluded they made their way over to the lounge on the far side of the club. William didn’t realize that he had been so absorbed by what was happening on the dance floor until his brain registered Wesley and Xander in heated mid-argument about whether archaeologists had the right to commandeer active building sites.
Turning his attention back to the table, he suddenly noticed Cordelia studying him with narrowed eyes and he raised his brows in silent question.
Regarding him with a pitying look, she asked, “Don’t you ever pick a battle you can win?”
He just returned her an expression of incomprehension.