Union Station – Portland, Maine – Just past midnight

The train station certainly looked empty from the outside.  Not a light winking from even the most obscure window.  But someone was inside, for Miss Edith had told Dru of him (Miss Edith was never wrong).

“Just try the door by the alcove, Mummy,” her darling baby instructed from where she lay tucked under Dru’s arm.  Miss Edith was a little worse for wear following their voyage – her sausage curls now flattened and brittle.  But her eyes still shone with cruel intent. 

Dru twisted the door handle to find it locked. 

“The station master has fallen asleep on his paperwork, drunk again.”  Miss Edith’s tone was chiding.  “If you pound on the door, you’ll wake him.”

Dru smacked the door with her flattened hand.  (Station Master, come out and play!)  When the sound was less than impressive, she kicked at the thing; the thud-thud of it reverberated through the door.  She saw a weak light flicker from beneath the doorframe, and Miss Edith let a satisfied cackle escape.

After a brief moment, Dru heard a jangling of keys and the door opened a crack.  But a crack was all she needed.  She shoved the door wide and thrust the man back into the room as she swept inside.

“I … you …” the portly man stammered.

(No talking!)  Dru shushed him by pressing her index finger to his trembling lips.  “Just looking, my dear.  Watch my eyes.”

And he did.  For what choice did he have?  He fell down into her thrall in short seconds (his mind a quivering pudding), staring at her gape-mouthed, as a small rivulet of drool making its way down his chin.

“He needs to bring us to the shipping area.  Business before dining, Mummy,” Miss Edith reminded her in an increasingly familiar parental tone.  (Bossy dolly)

“To the shipping area,” Dru instructed the drooling man, and he wended a path to a large storage area in the back of the building.

“This will do very nicely!”  Miss Edith’s doll eyes gleamed dully in the faint moonlight that crept in from the windows.  “Now we set to work.

Two hours later, Dru surveyed their handiwork while picking bits of station master from between her teeth.  His blood had been thick and tasted like gravy.  The old, fat ones always did.  Following dinner, she’d drug the corpse (bloated bag) into a shed and covered it with an old blanket, upon Miss Edith’s instructions.

“All that’s left for you to do is to climb inside, my Mummy.”

“I know that.”  Dru felt cross, petulant. 

The crate itself was a great improvement over the one the Shining Man had devised.  While the station master had had still been under service to Dru, he’d lined it in black cloth which her clever darling had procured from a shipment to a dressmaker.  The (corpulent, soon-to-be-a-corpse) man attached a line of latches that locked from the inside, to make it easier for her to feed en route.

If one had to travel for weeks in a crate, her conveyance was as comfortable as humanly possible.  Inhumanly possible too, come to think of it, she thought with a smirk.

Still, Dru stalled, crossing her arms and looking at the crate stubbornly.  (Wood-lined, like a coffin, it is.)

“Come now Mother.  It won’t be so bad.  You know I always take care of you.”

Dru sighed, placing a dainty foot inside the box.

“Such a brave girl you are,” Miss Edith encouraged.  “And your William waits for you.  Little lost lamb, with his own Mummy dead of consumption.  Needs my Mummy’s kiss for his new life.”

Before closing the lid, Dru’s fingers lingered on the shipping label which was neatly affixed to the lid.  ‘Expedited shipment!  Fragile!’  And just below that, in Dru’s own spidery script, ‘Recipient: Buffy Summers, Denver, Colorado – Will call.’  Miss Edith had gotten a severe case of the giggles while instructing Dru how to fill out that last bit of the label.

“That’s it then, Mummy.  Now shut the lid and first thing in the morning, we’re on our way.”  The doll’s voice echoed in Dru’s mind, almost as if the tiny dear had a thrall of her own.

Dru closed the lid and fastened the latches, ever the obedient one.

(Patience, my Dark Prince. Mummy’s on her way)

~*~

William’s Wooing:  Day Two

Buffy woke up alone.  Strange that such a small bed could seem so empty without him. A note lay on his pillow, just above the indentation his head had made.

Darling, I’ve gone out to make a few more preparations.  Courting is a troublesome business when it causes me to spend time away from your side.  I shall return as soon as possible.  Looking very much forward to our day together, I remain, as ever, yours, William.

Allowing herself a moment of sentimentality before dressing, she traced his neat, backwards script with her fingertip.  ‘Yours, William.’ 

She climbed out of bed and flexed her injured hand.  Though it was still a bit stiff, she could make a fist now.  She’d managed to use a knife and fork at dinner last night and had been able to undress herself for bed, smiling a little as she remembered the hopeful look in William’s eyes when he asked if he could assist her.

Yesterday they’d retreated to the hotel to escape Central Park’s mid afternoon heat.  He’d snuck out for a few hours in the late afternoon, claiming he had important ‘husbandly’ errands with an irresistible grin.  It would be so much easier to protect her heart if the man hadn’t been so damned charming.

Standing before her trunk, she reluctantly dressed for the day, selecting a blue cotton dress.  Wearing these clothes, she felt like such an imposter; it never failed to feel as though she were putting on a costume.  As she fastened a line of buttons, it was as if she were latching down the persona of Elizabeth, the good wife, and tucking Buffy neatly away.

When William looked at her, she knew who he saw:  Elizabeth - the woman he’d fallen in love with. That woman wasn’t her – wasn’t Buffy.  Buffy, the ex-slayer.  Buffy, the now-nothing.  Buffy of the two and one forth failed relationships, if you counted Parker.

How did the old saying go?  The only common denominator in all your past failed relationships is you.

If there was a part of her that wanted to keep William at arm’s length for her own good, there was an even bigger part that wanted him to stay away for his.

~*~

“Forgive me, love!  I’ve made it back just by ten o’clock, haven’t I?”  William burst into the room – a flurry of packages and enthusiasm.  

“It’s okay, William.”  She couldn’t help but laugh.

He beamed a smile at her.  “The good news is that I’ve got the last of it sorted.  No more mysterious errands.”

She nodded.  “That’s nice.”

He dropped the bundle of packages on the bed and carefully cradled her right hand in his, lifting it to his mouth to kiss the back of it.  “Forgive me, love. You look absolutely beautiful.”

“So …” she said awkwardly, “Big plans for today?”

William’s response was to sort through the packages on the bed and hand her one of the larger parcels with a goofy grin.

“Ah, you’re giving me a clue?”

He nodded and began to nervously tug on his hair.

She unwrapped the brown paper to reveal a strange woolen outfit in two pieces.  The top looked like a black sailor suit with white trim and sleeves reaching to the elbow.  The bottom was a pair of loose pants with a skirt attached, although the skirt was quite short, times being what they were, and looked as if it would go just past her knees. 

“Ice skating?”  She blurted the first thing that came to her mind.

His blue eyes crinkled up in laughter.  “No, not quite dear.  It’s a swimmer.”

“No way.  Like a swimsuit?”

“Exactly like one!  I’ve purchased one for myself as well.”  He tucked a smaller parcel into a cloth day bag before reaching over to tuck her suit in as well.  She was still recovering from the suit being far more wooly and voluminous than anything that was designed for water had a right to be, and her skepticism must have been evident, because when he looked at her his grin slid from his face.

“It’s just that … you seemed to feel, well, a bit disappointed with America so far.  I thought perhaps you just needed to see a different aspect of it.  And when you used to speak of California, you seemed so fond of the beach that I thought Coney Island would be the perfect remedy.”

“It’s a wonderful idea William.  Very thoughtful.”  She reached over and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

“We’ll just collect our hats and be on our way.  It’s only a short trolley ride and then a ferry across the bay.  We shall be basking on the beach in no time.”

After she’d unearthed a slightly bent straw hat with a wide brim, she turned to find William wearing a white straw hat with a bright blue band.  He looked adorably dorky in it, and she couldn’t suppress a little laugh.

“The beach agrees with you then?”  He looked so pleased with himself, and she was surprised to discover that she was actually kind of excited about being able to hit the beach – even if she had to wear half a sheep to do it.

“Yes, William.  It’s going to be awesome.”

The trolley ride was crowded and sweaty, though they were lucky enough to find a seat in the corner.  By the time they got in line for the ferry, a slight breeze had kicked up over the surface of the bay, providing a cool relief from the heat.

William suggested they stay at the front of the ferry, and so they remained outside.  A few wandering musicians strolled about the deck trying to drown out the vendors who hawked ‘freshly popped corn.’  The carnival-like atmosphere was infectious, and Buffy caught herself grinning like a fool at nothing in particular.

By the time they arrived at Coney Island, it was nearly noon, although it was not nearly as insufferably hot as it had been the previous day.  The beach itself was long and sand-covered and that was about all it had in common with California.  Set back up from the coastline were several enormous hotels with giant pavilions, surrounded by large, elaborate gardens.  The long stretch of sand was dotted with hundreds of little striped tents and populated with people wearing far too much clothing.

As they walked down the pier, William asked, “Would you rather get lunch first or…”

“Hit the beach,” she interrupted without apology.

He led them into one of the first buildings they came to, Ravenhall’s Bathing House – a squat monstrosity of a building that boasted steam rooms, a luncheon counter and the largest salt water pool on the beach.  William paid an attendant, then gave Buffy her suit and she slipped into the women’s changing room, agreeing to meet him by the front counter after she’d changed.

After wrestling the suit on, she decided that the thing wasn’t half bad – it was all bad.  It bunched in awkward places and itched everywhere.  Still, a beach was a beach, and she set her mind to enjoy it despite her hatred for the costume she had to wear.  Copying what the other women in the changing room were doing, she braided her hair down the back, securing the end with a black ribbon that a young girl was kind enough to give her.

William was already waiting for her at the counter. He was dressed in a blue and white striped sleeveless shirt that resembled an old fashioned tank top and his bottoms looked very similar to board shorts, coming down just to his knees.  It reminded her of a child’s onesie, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

“You are rockin’ that suit William.”

He flashed a nervous grin, a telltale blush creeping up his cheeks.

“It leaves rather a large area of a person exposed, doesn’t it?

“Yeah.  Flaunting your arms and calves!  The scandal of it!”  She was just getting started, but when she noticed the growing look of discomfort on his face, she stopped short and gave him a reassuring smile.

After checking their clothes with the attendant, William rented an umbrella and beach blanket.  He tucked them under one arm and offered her the other.

Since the pier area was so crowded, they walked down the shoreline to the far end, threading their way amongst beach goers and slowly making their way towards the water’s edge.  When her toes first felt the water, she was pleasantly surprised; it was much warmer than the Pacific. 

“Have you and I gone to the beach before?  I mean, when I was her, Elizabeth?  Is this my first time in the Atlantic?”

“You’ve always just been you, darling.  But no, we’ve not been to the beach before today.”

“But you’ve been to a beach before.  You can swim, right?”

“Yes, well, probably.  My parents took me to Spain on holiday when I was younger.  I think I could still manage it.”

“Oh, I could so kick your ass swimming.”

He chuckled and kicked water on her legs as they continued a winding path up the shore.

After a long walk, they found a relatively unpopulated bit of sand and William staked out their claim, driving the umbrella deeply into the sand and spreading out the blanket beneath it.

Buffy shook her head.  “Coming to the beach to hide under an umbrella.  Your people’s ways are mysterious to me.”  Still, considering the intense whiteness of his calves and arms she felt a little grateful for the shade.

“Water first?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Last one all the way under’s a rotten egg!”  She dashed off, kicking sand in her wake.

“Perhaps we could test the water?  Wade in and gauge how…”  The rest was lost beneath the sound of the surf. 

Once she’d waded in up to her hips, her suit began to soak up water, pulling at her legs and waist.  Having gone this far, she plunged under the surface, kicking her legs away from the shore.  Despite the fifteen pounds of weight the suit added, it felt very liberating to be in the ocean again.

She popped her head above the surface to see William standing just behind her in chest-high water.  He was surprisingly fast.   Looking around, she was startled how far out she was – father than any women she could see.  Though the shocked expressions of the other swimmers were sadly easy to read, William did not appear to share their concern.  He laughed and splashed a little water on her playfully.

“I won!  Your hair’s not even wet,” she crowed.

“What was the prize for winning?”  He moved toward her, grinning like a shark.

“All the lemon ice you can eat.”

“I don’t think so, Buffy.”

“I don’t think the loser of the bet gets to determine what the bet is!  Retroactively!”

He moved a step closer to her, and she felt his hands grip her hips firmly.

“William, this seems like a kind of risqué touching for respectable society,” she chided.

He tugged her closer to him.  “I’m perfectly respectable above the water line, wife of mine.”  He nudged her calf with his toe, sliding a line down her leg.  It should have been a terrifically unsexy gesture, so it was unsettling to feel a strange warmth uncurl from her stomach.

Diving down beneath the waves, she escaped his hold on her hips.  She reached out and gave one of his feet a quick yank, sending him down beneath the waves before she quickly kicked away.

It took a long while before Buffy had enough of the water.  When they finally dragged themselves out of the surf, she wrung her suit out as best she could before joining him on the blanket beneath the umbrella.  He lay on his back, watching her silently.  Now that his suit was damp, it molded tightly to his muscled chest, causing him to look less like a man in child’s playwear and more like an ad for a Victorian gym.  His wet curls glistened in the sun, begging her to smooth them but she ignored their evil pleas.

Flopping down on the blanket next to him, she said, “I had my doubts about swimming in this contraption, but I gotta hand it to you William.  This was a great idea.”

He looked so delighted that it was almost embarrassing.  His total lack of guile tugged at something deep inside her chest and she found it far more comfortable to look away at people playing in the surf.

“Were bathing suits really all that different in your time?”  He asked.

Buffy snorted in response.  “You don’t have any paper on you, do ya?”

“Paper?  I, well … no.”

Buffy turned onto her stomach and wiped her hand over a bit of sand.  “This will work.  Nature’s Etch-A-Sketch.”

“Our suits looked something like this …”   She drew the outline of a female form, complete with ponytail, then added three triangles to the sketch.

“The triangles are …?”  William stammered.

“A bikini.  What you’d call a bathing suit.  Those triangles are attached with string.”

“And you wore this?”

She nodded.

“At a public beach?  Amongst … other people?”

“I had several of them, in lots of different colors.”

“Good god in heaven.  I cannot imagine.  Did men in your time manage to get any work done with California beaches full of women in biknees?”

He’d been so boggled by the amount of skin, that his usually sharp mind had missed the nuances of the word.  She didn’t have the heart to point out his mispronunciation. 

“I was wondering – could you sketch the back view of it?”

Buffy complied with a grin.  He cocked his head before shaking it from side to side in wonder.  “Another triangle and the rest is just string?”

“Yuppers.”

He sank back onto the blanket with a sigh.  “When we arrive in California, I should think we will need to arrange for a dressmaker as a top priority.  Now that I’ve been made aware of the existence of biknees, I should insist upon accommodating your fondness for them.  I’m fantastically interested in seeing you in them, from a purely engineering standpoint of course.”

He kept his eyes closed but grinned wickedly at her general direction.

Damn, but the man was just about irresistible.

~*~

After a few hours of lounging peacefully and soaking up the sounds of the surf, Buffy’s tummy began making uncomfortable rumblings, one of which was loud enough to rouse William.  Leaving their umbrella and blanket in the sand, they wandered up towards the line of hotels and shops.

Since the hotel restaurants looked very expensive and, in full beach gear, they were in no way dressed for the scene, they made their way toward the pier, where every square bit of free sand was crowded with a food stand or performer of some kind.  The air was filled with spicy scents and competing musical sounds. 

There was a long line around one food booth in particular – a new food that was all the rage, apparently.  ‘Feltman’s Famous Hot Dogs.’

“No way!” Buffy gasped, tugging William into line behind her.

“You’re familiar with this?” 

“Very.  It’s totally California beach food.” 

“The name isn’t particularly appetizing, but I trust you, love.”

“Overpriced hot dogs, the sun, the surf.   Throw a homeless guy and a drug bust into the mix and I’d swear we were at the Santa Monica Pier.”

He smiled at her and his adoration was so bright it was almost like looking into the face of the sun. It blinded her, and made her feel the slightest bit out of control – her old slayer instincts rising up to warn her that being blind had her at a disadvantage.

After hot dogs and lemonade, they wandered back through the booths, stopping to look at the various attractions trying desperately to get their attention and money.  William seemed charmed by it all.

These loud Americans, shouting at him, trying to con him out of money, must have been so different from his bookish existence in London – yet he took it all completely in stride.    He gave teasing responses or laughed good-naturedly, no matter their level of bawdiness. 

And throughout it all, he kept her in his vision.  Not as a watcher or as someone who hovered out of worry.  He watched her as a lover, as a man who wanted to know if she was happy, glancing over to see her enjoying her day as much as he hoped she would.

After nearly two hours, they returned to their little staked out corner of the beach and decided to wade back in before the sun sank too low on the horizon.  It was late afternoon and the crowds were already thinning.

Once they were in the water again, he began to play with her like a boy in junior high.  Splashing her face and ducking under the water so she couldn’t strike back.  There was something in the air between them that crackled and popped in a way it hadn’t earlier.  He looked at her just a little more boldly, a little more hungrily.

Feeling uncomfortable, feeling like a failure, she retreated to their blanket like a big coward, laying on her tummy, her head away from the surf.  When he joined her, a long while later, he didn’t say anything.  She was grateful that he wordlessly respected the space she was creating between them.

Eventually he broke the silence, his voice pleasant and conversational. “Shall we return to the bath house?”

“Sure,” she replied.  She hopped to her feet and folded up the blanket while he dug the umbrella out of the sand.

They wove their way through the shouting children and sun-bloated beachgoers, arriving back to the bath house just as the sun was beginning to set.  William spoke to the attendant who retrieved their clothing, and they went to their respective changing rooms.

He was waiting at the attendant’s desk when she emerged.  He’d rinsed his hair out, and it was damp and curling against his neckline.  She felt grubby and sandy, and more than a little foolish that the idea of rinsing out her hair hadn’t even crossed her mind.

“We could stay for the fireworks, if you like.  Or perhaps watch them from the ferry?”

“Let’s go home … or, to the hotel, I mean,” she replied.

“That sounds perfect.  I’m quite done in by all the sun, I must confess.”

The pier was wonderfully uncrowded, as was the ferry – most of the people apparently preferred to watch the fireworks from Coney Island.  Apart from an older couple standing a few dozen yards away, Buffy and William had the deck to themselves.  Shortly after the ship cast off, the fireworks began, their rainbow reflection lighting up the surface of the water with a cozy glow.

William, standing behind her, wove his fingers through her hair with one hand, while his other hand slid about her waist, gently pulling her close to him.

He leaned down, his lip next to her ear, and murmured, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For a perfect day, love.  I shall remember it always.”

He traced his index finger down the line of her neck, before pulling her hair aside and giving a soft kiss to the side of her throat.

She felt a shiver run though her core as though he’d just done something terribly erotic.  His hand that had been holding her waist nudged her, so that she’d turn to look at him.

Tucking a hand just beneath her chin, he lifted her face.  His blue eyes reflected the fireworks behind her, and he gave her that utterly honest look that had a way of undoing her like nothing else.

He leaned down, as if he were about to kiss her, then, just before their mouths met, he stopped.  His lips were so close to hers that she could feel them brush against her mouth as he spoke.  “May I kiss you?  Please, Buffy?”

What could she say?  He didn’t have to ask to kiss her, did he?  But then again, she was giving off so many mixed signals, even she didn’t know what she felt about him from one moment to the next.  Eroticism, terror, tenderness.

Before she could decide which emotion she was feeling at that moment, she closed the infinitesimally small distance between their lips – claiming his mouth with her own.  Her fingers wove through his still damp curls that she’d been longing to toy with all day.

“Mmm,” was all she could say.

He deepened the kiss, alternately nibbling and licking along the edge of her bottom lip, before his tongue dipped into her mouth and teased her.

She sighed and pressed herself against his chest as she tasted him, drawing out their kiss while pulling him as close to her as she could manage.

Her legs felt odd – as if her knees weren’t entirely capable of supporting her.  His kisses made her weak in the knees?  She broke the embrace, embarrassed by her body’s reaction.

He watched her with an earnest expression.

“You’re a … a good kisser,” she stammered, trying desperately to bring a lighter touch to the situation.  “Where’d you learn to kiss like that?”

His expression did not change.  “You taught me.  You’re the only woman I’ve ever kissed, love.

“Well, damn.  I wonder where I learned to kiss like that then,” she muttered.

He smiled at her, tenderly.  “You used to tell me that I taught you.  Well, that Spike did.”  He waited a beat. 

“It’s lovely, really,” he continued, “if you look at it in the right light.  I don’t mind having been a self I don’t have knowledge of.  That kind of thing doesn’t have to bother a person – doesn’t have to come between us.”

Leaning down, he brushed another kiss against her lips.  “I love you, Buffy,” he breathed into her mouth.

She could say nothing in return.

-----

Author’s notes:  They just missed a roller coaster on Coney Island by a few years!   They did catch the beginnings of the hot dog craze, however.  They used to have fireworks on Coney Island on weekends, so we’re going to assume they were there on a Saturday night.  Here’s a photo of Coney Island beachgoers in 1880.  See that pier behind them?  Yeah!  Bathing suits?  Heinous! 

A pic from Sweeny Todd because ... do you need a because?