Having known Fred less than twenty-four hours, it took surprisingly little for Buffy to deduce that her new acquaintance shared Willow’s view on playing hooky. One’s job was to be taken seriously; as seriously as homework and studying and separating one’s whites and coloreds. Therefore, Buffy was more than surprised when Fred announced over their breakfast of Frosted Flakes that she was calling in a sick day.
“You are?”
Fred nodded. “I have a lot of vacation days saved up and they go to waste eventually.”
“But you…enjoy work.” It was true; having listened to the girl ramble all night, Buffy had reached the startling conclusion that there was someone out there who was more library-dependent than Giles. She hesitated to think what would happen should her Watcher and her new friend ever find themselves in the same room. Or worse, in the same corner of the same library, desperately needing the same book.
“There’s more to life than work,” Fred countered, shrugging. “Besides…I don’t want to leave you by yourself.”
“You don’t even know me,” Buffy protested, forcing herself to her feet with a wince, jerking her empty bowl out of Fred’s reach. She might feel like an invalid but that didn’t mean she was going to let a virtual stranger wait on her hand and foot. Fred could remind her about the saving-of-her-life thing all she wanted; Buffy had been raised under the rules that when a guest in someone’s house, she was supposed to pick up after herself. And for whatever reason, she couldn’t stand the thought of doing her mother’s parentage injustice by ignoring it now…no matter how hard her body complained at movement.
And right on cue, Fred chirped in with what was now a familiar song. “You saved—”
“—your life. And as I explained again and again last night, it was…well I know it wasn’t nothing for you, but it’s just not that uncommon for me.”
“Do you know anyone in the city?”
Buffy blinked. “What?”
“You told me you’d lived in Los Angeles before. Do you know anyone in the city?”
The question took her completely off guard. Immediately, her mind flashed to the old Hemery yearbook buried in her closet back home, compiled with familiar faces and phone numbers from people she’d once called friends. People she could barely remember now. People who would laugh at her if she contacted them for help.
It didn’t help that almost everyone’s last memory of her involved arson.
The fact that she thought of her father after considering the list of nameless faces she’d once called friends drew upon itself how very much she couldn’t rely on him. Showing up on Hank Summers’s doorstep was as good as purchasing a bus-ticket home, and home was the last place she wanted to be.
The only place she wanted to be was with Spike. Spike could make everything all right again.
That ship has sailed.
“I…I know people,” Buffy replied, trying and failing to ignore how small her voice sounded. “I know them. My friend…Kimberly…she lives…somewhere. I’m sure she lives somewhere.”
Fred arched a brow. “Well, somewhere sounds a little ambiguous, especially when I’m right here,” she said. Then, with something resembling contrition, she added, “I know you don’t know me, but I’m nice and I shower every day and I have canned goods. Plus you—”
“Saved your life. I know.”
“I was gonna say…you have the super-strength going for you, so you could take me if you thought I was gonna axe-murder you.”
A wry smile tickled her mouth. The ache withering her muscles into complete uselessness begged to differ. “Well…I guess it’s to my advantage that you think that.”
“If what I saw last night was you when you’re not feeling good, I’d hate to be on your crap list when you’re at your best.”
Buffy withheld an incredulous snort. Either Fred’s imagination had run away with her, or she’d managed to keep herself from facing any real danger since moving to Los Angeles. Of the two possibilities, the first was the most likely. Buffy hadn’t encountered much hero-worship since she was called, but she was certainly familiar with the concept. All she’d done last night was tackle the poor girl to the floor and somehow Fred had concocted this miraculous image of the Slayer and her powers. Never mind the portal or what else—last night hadn’t been about being the Slayer; it had been about being human. Human and aware of the world. The true world. The face beneath the surface. Anyone with a heart would have done the same.
Still, undeserved hero-worship or not, Buffy couldn’t deny that it was nice having someone worry over her. Someone with whom to chat—someone who didn’t know her, who wouldn’t hold her to unrealistic expectations and glare at her disapprovingly when she proved to be as human as the next person. Someone unlike the friends waiting for her back home.
The only other face she could conjure who would meet these guidelines was Spike.
Buffy honestly had no idea how long she would be in Los Angeles. For the moment, the idea of getting anywhere near the vicinity of Sunnydale made her diseased bones feel damn near brittle, no matter that logic told her homesickness would invariably set in and send her home before the summer was over. Loneliness, however, was something she could control. Only a fool would reject an unsolicited offer of friendship.
She’d already proved herself a fool. She’d left Spike. God, it had seemed like such a good idea at the time. There had been a reason then. She was sure of it.
“I don’t want to be an inconvenience,” Buffy said, feeling, for reasons beyond her, very humble.
“And you’re not,” Fred replied brightly. “It’s pretty much a win/win all around. Plus, if you stayed with me, you’d save loads of money—”
Somehow, Buffy managed to keep from dropping her bowl into the sink. “St…stay with you?”
“Unless you don’t want to…but…”
“You don’t know me, Fred. This is insane.”
“I know,” Fred replied brightly. She didn’t have the appearance of one who knew. She looked too cheery—too friendly—for her own good. “But I’m a pretty good judge of character.”
“There’s a difference between being a good judge of character and inviting a stranger to stay with you.”
“If you wanted me dead, you wouldn’t have hurt yourself saving my life last night.” She batted a hand. “No matter how long I’m here, I can’t get rid of my darn southern hospitality. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want…but it’ll save you money and I could use the company…plus, if you’re looking to stay in town long, I can help you try and find a job.” She trailed off, her brow furrowing in thought. “Actually…how long are you planning on staying?”
Buffy blanked, her eyes going wide. It was easy to think of that question in the abstract; the last thing she’d ever thought she’d be asked to do was estimate a time-table. When the journey home was admittedly far away, but not so far she couldn’t see the finish line.
“I’m…I dunno,” Buffy answered lamely. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“Oh,” Fred replied, shrugging. “I only ask because my neighbor, Mr. Binns, is moving out. His wife’s sick and their insurance won’t allow them to stay in the city anymore. It’s sad, really…but he’s always been very nice to me, and he wanted to give me first dibs on the apartment because it’s so much bigger than mine. But honestly, I don’t need space like that and I was gonna…” She worried a lip between her teeth. “I guess a point would be nice, huh? The point is I could talk to him…if you’re thinking about staying for a while. It’s a nice apartment and from what he told me, not too expensive…just too much with medical bills piling up. I can see about getting you in before my landlord advertises a vacancy.”
The offer came from nowhere, thus it took Buffy a few long seconds to understand what Fred was saying. She didn’t know why, but she’d never imagined getting a place and paying actual rent. Rent for more than a room and a toilet and those funny chocolate mints housekeeping left on the pillow. Rent for a place to live.
A place to live.
In Los Angeles. In a city that wasn’t home.
“I’d…I’d need a job,” she said softly. “I…my…Spike, he left me money. A lot of money. More money than…well, I don’t wanna know where he got it. It’s not important. But he left it for me.”
Fred nodded and didn’t ask questions.
“It’ll run out, though,” Buffy concluded, subconsciously flattening a palm against her stomach. It didn’t help, pressing down upon her sore skin, but for whatever reason, touching where it hurt made her feel momentarily better. As though she were in charge. “Eventually it’ll run out.”
“I can get you a job,” Fred said again.
“Okay…so what are you, the Good Will Fairy?”
The girl’s cheeks flooded with red. “I…uhhh, sorry. But I can get you a job. Truly. Assuming you don’t mind libraries…”
Buffy couldn’t help it; she laughed. It hurt to laugh, but she laughed anyway. The past two years of her life had been spent in libraries. She knew the Dewey Decimal System by heart. If there was one place she felt at home, it was a library. “No,” she clarified, waving dismissively at Fred’s confused look. “No, I—ummm. I don’t mind libraries. Not at all. I just…this seems surreal, you know? I show up and…you think you can get me a decent place to live and a steady income? This sort of stuff never happens. Not in the world I live in, anyway.”
The brunette’s blush grew deeper. “I know it’s a logistical anomaly,” she replied self-consciously. “Even as I say this, my brain is scrambling to calculate the odds, and the probability is zero. And Buffy…if you’d rather not take the apartment or whatever job I can manage for you at the library, I won’t be offended. I know we just met and this is all very new for you. Or…no, it’s all very new for me. Not you. But I really do…want to help. In any way I can. I can’t promise the job at the library would be anything exciting or beyond re-shelving misplaced books, but it’s better than flipping burgers, in my opinion.”
“Seconded.”
“A-and the room…well, like I said, it’s bigger than my place…not that I live in the best neighborhood, but—”
“I’m sure it’s perfect.”
Fred flashed a bright, sincere smile and nodded enthusiastically. “It’s big,” she said again, as though that was the main selling point. “He had me over for tea once and it’s—”
“Big,” Buffy finished for her, warding off a flinch. Her legs didn’t seem to want to stand.
“Yes. And nice.”
“It’ll only be me, if I get the place.” But already, Buffy was envisioning hanging up punching bags and setting mats along the floor—making the space she’d never seen livable for someone like her. Someone who would need the extra room for stretching and aerobics. For keeping herself in shape even if she didn’t plan to actively patrol while living in Los Angeles. Something told her she would need to exert at least a little energy while she was here, lest she go mad with inactivity.
Her muscles, however, whined at the thought of exertion, and her stomach felt prone to chuck out the cereal she’d just finished eating.
Though it went against every natural instinct, not to mention what she’d told Fred last night, Buffy began to consider the wisdom of avoiding the doctor’s office, especially while she had money. She was damn near certain her body was betraying her on grounds of a mystical level, but there was ostensibly no harm in seeing if human pain killers could do any good.
However, this line of thought likely meant the hospital, and Buffy hated hospitals. The last one in which she’d been had nearly killed her, that being literally, thanks to Der Kindestod. Were she home and surrounded by familiarity, she was certain she would fight to her last breath before succumbing to medical care. But here, there was no mom to worry over her or friends to annoy her or watcher to clean his glasses. She was in an unfamiliar place with a person she’d only just met. A person who was defying the convention that the inherent root to humanity was wickedness and cruelty. Fred only had a sincere desire to help.
“I’ll talk to my landlord,” Fred offered. “He likes me. I’m sure I can get you in.”
Buffy nodded and forced a smile to her lips. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. You—”
“Saved your life.”
Fred grinned. “I’ve been saying that a lot, huh?”
“It’s no big. I just…” Another wave of nausea crashed over her. Buffy bit her lip, willing her eyes shut as she rode it out. “I…”
“Buffy?” The smile was gone from the girl’s face. “What is it? Are you okay? Is it…is there something I can get you?”
I need Spike.
These weren’t the words she said, however. Every nerve in her body screamed for him, but she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t make out why. Only that she needed him. She needed him now, and desperately. Spike would make everything better.
God, just thinking of him hurt. What had he done to her?
“I…”
“Okay, that’s it,” Fred said suddenly, her voice hardened with resolve. “I didn’t say anything all night or this morning, but this…this just isn’t normal. I’m taking you to the doctor.”
Even though Buffy had just reached the same conclusion, it was her instinct to protest.
“Ah, ah,” Fred cut Buffy off before she even had a chance to object, miming zipped lips with a stern, almost maternal look in her eyes. “No fightsies. We’re going to the doctor.”
The girl could give Willow a run for her money when it came to Resolve Face.
“Okay,” Buffy agreed. “Okay.”
Her consent was the cue her body needed. She felt the floor slip from under her, felt cool ceramic tile beneath her hands, and watched the world spiral into an endless twist of color before blacking out completely.
Were Buffy in less pain, there was every chance she would have found Fred’s incredibly-tame-but-very-heartfelt curses even more amusing than she already did. As it was, the fact that it hurt to laugh took some of the merriment out—some, but not much. She refused to keep from giggling where giggling was appropriate. If this affliction took her mirth away, she would surely wither to nothing.
“Stupid, lousy, good-for-nothing doctors,” Fred cursed, seizing Buffy’s arm on a whim and dragging it around her neck. “Here…lean on me.”
Right, because I didn’t feel pitiful enough.
However, Buffy didn’t argue. She was grateful for the aid. Her legs felt as though they were about to give out.
The trip to the hospital had consumed the day, eating away at sunlight and casting the veil of night upon them before the staff ultimately decided there was nothing medically wrong with her and showed her the door. Without insurance or anything except the cold cash in Buffy’s pocket and what meager earnings Fred immediately offered to put forward, ignoring Buffy’s protests, there was no logical reason to keep her overnight.
“All in your head, my butt,” Fred all but snarled. “I swear, I have half a mind to go back there and give Dr. Jenkins a…piece of my mind.”
“That’s a lot of your mind going around,” Buffy observed. “Oh—ouch!”
“What?” the girl demanded, panicked. “What? Did I run you into something? I’m sorry—”
“No…it’s just…God, this thing is getting worse.”
“Are you okay? Should we go back?”
Going back wasn’t really an option. They’d already deduced her problem wasn’t a medical one, and after getting into some sticky questions about family history, had told her they were very sorry, but there was nothing they could do.
She was homeless, after all. Another teen walking the street. Why should they worry about her?
“You wanna try the free clinic?” Fred asked. “We might—”
“No,” Buffy replied, sharper than she intended. “I…”
It was fitting, she supposed, that she only become truly aware of her surroundings when there was nothing to do about it. Her slayer senses were so fogged, it would take the world’s largest defroster to get her seeing clearly again. Otherwise, Buffy was certain she wouldn’t have allowed Fred to drag her down a poorly-lit street on a side of town which looked less than reputable.
This was bad.
“Oh God,” Buffy said.
“What?”
“Where are we?”
“Not far. About three blocks from the metro rail. We’ll be home soon.”
“We didn’t come this way.”
“Shortcut.”
Shortcuts. Always the shortcuts. Vamps dug the shortcuts; it was how most stragglers ended up dead.
“Fred…” Buffy sucked in a deep breath, summoned all her strength, and shoved the girl away. “Run.”
“What?”
“Run!”
The command was punctuated with a timely, familiar roar, and then the world around her fell to chaos. Buffy fell face-first onto the cement, her palms bracing her fall but her lack of vigor doing little to cushion her as she rolled into a useless lump beside the curb.
The sound of Fred’s screams filled the air. The dumb girl wasn’t running.
“GET OUT OF HERE!”
“Buffy—”
Another vampiric snarl tore through the night. Buffy forced herself onto her back and attempted a flip-up to her feet. Every nerve in her body screamed in protest, but she forced herself to ignore the pain. She shoved everything aside—forced her exhausted mind to focus. To regroup.
“Yes, yes, run,” a particularly nasty voice said encouragingly. “We’ll help your friend, here, home.”
“You sonofa—”
“Fred!”
Then something amazing happened. It was, perhaps, the most welcome feeling in the world. One second her body was about to collapse inward, and the next thing she knew, the pain began to recede. Not gone entirely, but the strain on her insides softened and the brittle feebleness of her aching muscles hardened with familiar strength and resolution. Buffy seized it, grasped it, and held on. She was on her feet in an instant, delivering a swift kick to the vamp charging at her left while rounding the other vamp with a punch strong enough to send him into the nearest waste-bin.
Perhaps she was in so much pain she could no longer feel it; she didn’t know. All Buffy knew was she had to get Fred out of there.
Now.
“Oh my God,” the girl said. “Buffy…are you…?”
“I swear, if you don’t run, I will personally break all your bones so leaving the house is not an option.” Buffy pointed and flicked her brows meaningfully. “Run. Don’t stop running.”
“I can’t leave you—”
“Did you not hear the ‘breaking your bones’ thing? I’m fine.” This last point she demonstrated by kicking her leg backward just in time to send the vamp who had been creeping up on her back into the waste-bin. “Run.”
Buffy didn’t have time to dissect whether the look on Fred’s face was relief at her apparent resurgence of strength or hurt at her callousness, and though it bothered her, she didn’t let herself dwell. There would be time to apologize later.
“Dayum,” one of the vamps drawled, climbing wearily to his feet. “See that, Frank? She sent yours off runnin’.”
The vamp in the waste-bin said nothing, but he didn’t look pleased.
“All right, boys,” she said, “step on up. I’ve been itching for a good fight.”
And then everything around her fell deathly still, and the world became unglued.
“Be careful what you wish for.”
A hand seized her wrist and suddenly she was jerked around, tumbling hard and fast into familiar arms, her breasts suddenly pressed against a chest she knew well. She felt him gasp at the contact, felt his pleasured sigh along with the tremble she knew so well. And the second his eyes crashed with hers, every cell in her weary body burst into song.
“Spike…”
“Careful what you wish for,” he said again, his eyes lingering for a moment on her mouth. “’Cause if it’s a fight you’re itchin’ for, pet, I’d be more ‘n happy to oblige.”
Then his lips crashed upon hers, and everything around her melted away.
TBC