The DeSoto roared to life, engine blanketing a peace made of cricket chirps and windy fields. Spike's heart muffled by sound, the whipping of fresh, fresh air beating against his cheek like playful slaps kept him grounded. A lonely drive, a fast one, and his mind blessedly denied a single moment to think; no detour, no pause.
For a few minutes anyhow.
He couldn't remember a time his gut felt this tight, or the last Spike thought he might hurl without alcohol in his system. She started asking the wrong questions, trying to know his life, know what he did. The next step was clear. He'd give her one answer, then another, and another, until finally she questioned so much he lost her because of it.
Spike wouldn't get that close again. Dreams couldn't gain impact. Fairytales had to remain just that. Buffy would leave if they didn't; eventually, sooner or later. She'd go and hide. She would have earned every right to, and the girl would just be... gone.
He couldn't lose her, and God knew he could never keep her.
If he stuck with his routine, by following hers, everything would be... well, terrible, but that was better than the alternative. Better than falling to the ground with broken wishes and broken bones. It had to be. He wasn't close enough for Buffy's tea breaks and homey invites, wasn't right, wasn't good enough to entertain her for long at all. Hell, he was lucky this latest crack in his dull reality hadn't shattered the rest of it. Things had to return to normal.
Spike knew it the second he stepped through her front door, trying not to swallow his own tongue and fighting an endless war against bursting nerves. None of that heart stopping bliss and anxiety did a thing to soften the harsh edges of understanding. He had one gifted minute, one moment, and that was it.
Every bloody second was more surreal than the last. Bliss in a small kitchen between hot mugs and one friendly cat. Every heartbeat was unforgettable.
He sighed. Spike pulled up to familiar wrought iron gates. His rumbling car went silent, and he hopped out with keys in hand. This job, while only a perfunctory sort of thing, was one of two that kept him out of the house. Kept him busy, even if busy consisted of strolling through a dark cemetery, and remaining locked inside a stone guard house until daylight sliced the sky like a knife.
This cool building welcomed Spike with open arms, the sort that squeezed so tightly you could suffocate. One more lonesome space, kept company by Spike and the ghosts people said walked the cemetery. He knew the only ghosts around were his own, even if they neglected to remind him of their presence half the time. They liked to hide in his thoughts, and all he noticed were the feelings that came along, the whispers, but not the faces.
Ghosts indeed.
He threw himself into the roller chair. Hands up and over, running across his hot cheeks. The mist in the black air did nothing to calm a person, not a bloody thing to quell the angry waves in heart and head. Something synonymous with pain writhed under his skin, self inflicted yet irredeemable.
And something about the cold walls around him, they acted more like a cocoon than a cage, but Spike wasn't sure they didn't represent both. He was huddled inside this empty room just as he was in his head, securing heart to his bones so it would never again govern what he did.
Spike couldn't tell her no, but he'd never encounter the opportunity again. He also couldn't say the last half hour spent with Buffy hadn't been the best of his thirty-seven years. He was too bloody elated at the time, too grateful now. The aftermath, though... That was something else. Something equal to carving one's skin open with stars.
Frustration gathered in the form of tears, puddles lining his smudged coal eyes. He was sure his heart was about to cave in. Spike let a pale fist rest on the desk, jaw working, teeth rubbing.
What did he want to do?
*Dyin' to go back.* But he wouldn't. He would stay here until it was time to go home. He'd sleep off a bottle of JD and wake up tomorrow afternoon, go to the high school to clean the halls and bathroom stalls like usual. Then, return and do it the next day, and meet with the cemetery again later Monday night. He'd keep the routine, he'd follow his schedule.
He'd go to a bar, outside of town, if pain persisted. Oral medication; booze. Dosage; imbibe as needed. If his chest continued to feel like it was wedged underneath an anvil, this sickening sensation, then there was only one thing for it. One night, one remedy.
Spike sucked in a breath. Find a girl, take her to the nearest motel or vacant restroom, and get lost in borrowed pleasure. That's what he'd do.
That's what Spike told himself he would do. Exactly what was needed, and though he knew it was futile to stay away forever, he'd try, for as long as he could. A meaningless fuck would take the edge off. He'd lock his eyes on anything, on anyone, but her.
Shaky hands stole a sheet of paper from the messy pile on the desk, then reached for a pencil. His fingers did what they were seemingly best at these days, graphite blending shadows from memory, a picture of a face taking shape. Line by line, eyelash for eyelash. This one was going to be the best he'd ever drawn, Spike would find, but it was to be marred with wrinkles and erasure marks; he'd try and make it perfect, thus damaging the paper.
He would take it home in the end. And for as long as he could, he'd starve on the images in his mind and on pieces of paper, before letting this familiar ache guide his feet once again.
***
Buffy woke up the next morning from a dream, her mind filled to the brim with a new face, blonde hair and blue steam eyes. She barely remembered it after finding her bedroom ceiling, no matter how hard she fought with the memory. There were some things that just couldn't be held onto for long, if at all.
The wind flowing through her screened window; billowing white lace curtains, and a cat who didn't want to be caught. Trying to grasp the images her subconscious gifted in sleep but morning reclaimed was next to impossible.
With the hope that she might remember later, despite the improbability, Buffy rose from bed and got dressed. She had a late start, her own reward for working six days a week was she didn't open the store until eleven on Sundays.
She couldn't settle in last night, her ears humming with the ever fading noise of a car's roaring engine. When drowsiness finally came, she slept like a rock. The night was spotted with Tabitha's contented purrs and a nervous man's stuttering; Buffy woke in a much pleasanter mood than the one she'd gone to bed with.
Her eyes were devoid of bags underneath. She lined them with light black color, rosy shadow and mascara. Her lips tinted apple red and glossy, cheeks dusted with peony blush. Buffy pulled open the heavy wooden doors that closeted a majority of her wardrobe, and donned her striped cashmere sweater, softer than a cloud, and black miniskirt.
It had been a while since this outfit saw the light of day, but something felt right about it. She chose a favored pair of boots to complete, and made herself some coffee.
Tabitha requested her breakfast, then, and Buffy ran a brush through her hair one last time before heading out the door with a thermos and car keys. As usual, the drive into town was dicey, made two times worse by the fact she was taking bites out of a banana at red lights.
Fellow drivers made way when they spotted the familiar cherry red Jeep, and soon, Buffy was parking expertly quick in front of her store. It was no secret that she was a bad driver, and she'd long since stopped trying to convince herself otherwise. Buffy could manage the wheel all right, it was all those other things like using one foot for the pedals and flipping your turn signal on that caused issues. Trips to work were as far as she pushed her luck. Most destinations in this area were kept within walking distance, thankfully.
Buffy locked the doors and walked inside with her purse, coffee thermos, and one banana peel. The sight of her boxy, four-wheel-drive car, perfectly in line with the curb and no more than twelve inches away from it, made several viewers release audible sighs of relief.
Despite everything else, she really was a good parallel parker.
Buffy plopped her things behind the counter and turned on every light in the store. She grabbed a bottle of glass cleaner, and two rags that used to be T-shirts before tearing through her merchandise with the plucky energy of a well rested housewife.
Thoughts tried to spiral into her head like raindrops from a cloud, and she let them come, let them play out and take their time before eventually rolling down an unseen hillside. Her hectic mood turned downright caffeinated as cleaning, online shopping, and customers kept her busy for hours. A neighbor brought over lemon iced tea and offered to get her lunch since Buffy seemed so distracted, they figured she hadn't eaten.
A whirlwind of activity, and Buffy was the storm. It had been a long, long time since she felt this energized, this ready for anything. A woman prepared to take on the day, and whatever came with it.
Her mind was nearly as much a roadrunner as her feet and hands. Constant contemplation, wandering concerns about last night. She kept asking the same question over and over again: Why did William leave when he did? She reassured herself silly, tried to shake the thoughts off completely like loose snow, hoping they would melt away, but it never worked.
So, she worked. She dusted until wood polish and orange oil were imbedding into the lines of her palms, watched mindless television before landing sadly on the Soap Opera channel, turned up the radio, and reassured, and reassured, and reassured.
It wasn't her fault she couldn't stop thinking about him. William was strange, in a cute way. Seven years ago, she might have overlooked the shy behavior and timid sentences, but last night, if he wasn't just heartthrob charming, then her name wasn't Buffy Summers.
He acted like a stammering man who'd lost his courage, but walked with purpose, as if there was a cocky swagger buried beneath the thin surface of those hesitant footsteps. His ocean, coal lined eyes looked right through you when he had the guts to lift them. That hair was like nothing else, a punch line to numerous unsaid jokes, and yet somehow, it worked on him.
Everything about William was akin to an unanswered riddle, and she had long since outgrown the need to figure people out, so that wasn't what kept her thinking about him. It was like she'd been put on a roller coaster ride, and was finally reaching the peak of the climb. This man's behavior wasn't something Buffy needed to understand, she simply liked him, was encouraged to know the way things would look once she made it to the top.
Buffy glanced out the windows a lot, too, peering across the street. William's face ought to be familiar now, what with how often it was running through her head.
He told her he was a local. He'd lived here since he was twelve, how come she couldn't find him when she wanted? How often had William passed her by, with neither of them aware of it? How come no one spoke of him? How come he wasn't around?
As if the world were repaying an undetermined debt for some unknown good deed, long time friend Xander Harris walked into the shop right then, his hand raised in a cheerful hello.
Buffy jerked from her chin in palm, elbow on counter position, and blinked at him. "Hey, Buff, what's cookin'?" Her eyes lit up with a focalized smile. Xander frowned, dark brows slanting at the same instant he stopped walking. "What?"
He knew that look. He'd seen it on his friend enough times. She was thinking, possibly planning, which likely meant Trouble with a capital T.
Xander Harris was a kind man, tall and not overly bulked with muscle, but certainly strong. With short brown hair and unassuming eyes, he had earned star status in this town, loved by all who knew him. He had a keen knowledge on war tactics and things that shot bullets, even if he didn't own a gun, and nothing kept him down. He was as loyal as a knight to his king, and more lighthearted than a clown.
So when Buffy stared at him with bright determination like this, Xander knew he was going to cave and provide the lady with anything she asked for.
And Buffy knew it, too; or, at least, she hoped he would help. "All I have are some questions."
Another frown, this one deeper. "Questions?"
"Yeah." She nodded in a perky kind of way. "About a person."
Xander groaned, rather flopping his feet than walking the remaining few steps to the counter. "Gossip is not my friend, Buffster, you know that."
Yes, she did. Everyone did. Her friend learned a valuable lesson about keeping his lips locked after that beating from an upperclassman in high school. Xander had adopted a serious distaste for the nasty business of gossip. "I know. But it's not anything bad, and there are no cheating boyfriends to speak of," Buffy swore.
He gave her a dubious look. "Promise?"
She nodded again. "Promise."
He sighed, but waved a hand as if to say, All right, give it to me.
"I just want to know more about somebody." She bit her lip as she recalled everything that happened the night before. "He says his name is William. I met him last night."
"Ah, so it's a guy." Xander rested his shoulder against the higher portion of a display box, that which sat beside the low gap in the counter. "And pray tell why you can't just ask him these mysterious questions yourself?"
She sighed now, deep and impatient. "Because I don't know if I- if I'm going to see him again."
"Does he live in town?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll see him again." Xander spoke with dry certainty.
"But he says he's lived here since he was twelve, and now he's thirty-seven!" Buffy took a breath to calm her inner teenager climbing to the surface. She felt like Penny. "I've never seen him until... now, and I- Well, that's just a little strange, isn't it?"
Xander rubbed two fingers over the tip of his chin, thinking on what she said, as well as a few curiosities of his own. He pushed the latter aside for now. "Sure, I guess. Maybe he's busy, doesn't come into town a lot. Or maybe he lives somewhere else most of the year."
She scowled briefly, memories flipping back. "I don't think so. He... He seems to know his way around." Buffy wasn't sure about that, but for the sake of being hypothetical she went with it. "And he's really not- Really not your average Joe, ya know? This guy sticks out."
Xander was looking at her like she may have just tumbled out of Wonderland, the Mad Hatter having served up some very special tea while she was there. "Yeah... Maybe it's someone you know, but he's just, I don't know, dressing up?"
"Xander, c'mon."
"Well, he's older than you." The man offered a careless shrug. "It's possible."
She sent him a gentle glare, and it did the trick.
Xander's hands went up, palms facing out. "All right, okay." He sighed quietly. "What's he look like?"
She flashed a smile. *Grateful blue eyes that make you feel like you're being stripped bare. A shy mouth, with its tendency to smirk. Bad fashion sense, except for that coat he wears. Nice big hands, and cheekbones any model would kill for.* Buffy blushed strawberry red, but kept her inner catalogue of thoughts and opinions to herself. Instead, Xander got the abridged version, tame descriptions of a leather duster, bleached hair, smoking habits and a beat up old car. By the end of it, he was looking at her like she was wonderful Alice again.
“Never seen anyone like that around here before, which means he probably doesn’t exist.”
“I’m not a loony, Xander. I didn’t dream up a guy!”
He released a tempered chuckle. “Okay, Buffy, I know. I’m just sayin’, I don’t think this person lives in town. Someone that… unique, would- like you said –stick out around this place. Anyone would notice him.”
She firmed her lips, glancing at the floor. “I don’t think he was lying. I mean, why would someone lie about living here? I could see someone lying about not living here, but…”
All of a sudden, Xander’s brown eyes lit up like bicycle flashers, and he snapped his fingers. “Hey wait! There is a guy!”
Her heart did a little skip. “Really?”
“I’m serious, hang on… Oh c’mon brain, do your thing here!” Another snap of the fingers. “Right! Okay, I’ve never seen him for longer than a minute, but he- he works the graveyard shift. Name is… Will, I think. Will Pratt.”
Buffy didn’t try to stop her grin. “That’s him! Well... I mean, I think. He told me his name was William, last night.”
“Yeah, yeah, bleached hair, doesn’t talk, lives in a huge house on the west side of town. He’s like... that guy in that book.” At Buffy’s confused frown, Xander tried to elaborate. “You know, the one everyone was forced to read in school. The one about that kid, Scout or- The movie with Gregory Peck!”
“To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“Yeah! That one! And the weird guy who never left the house?”
Her frown switched to a scowl. “Boo Radley?”
“Yes! Him!" There was much excited finger pointing aimed her way. "He’s like that.”
It was sad to admit Buffy could recognize the similarities. William was nervous around her last night, as much as one might imagine any known recluse ought to be. He took a liking to cats, though, which she knew was not supposedly a characteristic of the aforementioned fictional Arthur Radley.
Still... Was Xander right? “William Pratt, huh?” He nodded, and Buffy hummed quietly, turning around. Could the stuttering and quick smiles have been courtesy of a mouth that barely spoke? Was the hesitancy to choose his own seat due to the fact William was never welcomed inside anyone else's home? Barely-there blushes and a habit of constant graciousness for something as small as a cup of tea, downcast eyes...
The perfect small town loner; always hiding.
Buffy found herself wanting desperately to keep William company.
She shook her head hard, facing Xander again when he slashed the quiet. "How'd you meet this guy?"
She crossed her arms, looking down. "Oh. Well, he had some car trouble outside my house, so I invited him in." Lord knew how badly she wished the same situation would present itself again; maybe she wouldn't screw things up this time.
God, him leaving made so much sense now.
"That was nice of you," Xander said, and quickly jarred her right out of her own head. A thoughtful expression reentered his eyes, something almost suspicious. "Not that I'm not thrilled you seem to be moving on, but... what about Angel?"
She couldn't help the immediacy of her reaction. The shock, the annoyance, the guard that went up- All of it snaked into her voice. "Angel's gone. He has been for a while."
He had been gone for so long, yet her heart hung on like a survivor might a sinking ship; Xander was close enough to see it. Things finally changed, at some point she couldn't recognize or remember. Any future with Angel was now just a relationship long dead, as it had probably been for years.
"Wow," Xander murmured, impressed. Her flinty gaze subdued him, but only marginally. "And this isn't a rebound thing?" He had to ask.
Buffy forced away the urge to shake her head like a wet dog. Her brow pinched. "No, Xander. I- I don't even-" If Buffy was really honest with herself, she'd admit she had done the rebound thing already. Twice. She was over it.
There was no telling whether she would ever see William again. You couldn't possibly expect a crush to develop overnight, though, even if the gentleman in question was very attractive. "I don't even know if I like this guy, Xand," she admitted, feeling suddenly deflated. "He's just... He makes me wonder."
Her friend shrugged casually. "Careful. Those mysterious types'll get ya." It was a joke, but there was an air of seriousness around it.
She gave a perfunctory nod. Right. Those mysterious types. She'd rather not think of William like that. Something told her he wasn't the sort, to hide, to keep someone guessing on purpose, leave them in a box made with question marks.
*And why am I thinking so much about him again?* Buffy shook off the irritation almost immediately. Xander spun the conversation in another direction, for which she was grateful. The wheels of everyday life kept turning.
Evidently, her friend had not come in on a spur of the moment visit. He was looking for a gift.
The following congratulations on his mother-in-law's upcoming arrival went by with a dull thud. A banging of Xander's head against a support beam, precisely. Buffy listened to his grievances that gave a heartfelt description of the "determined old bat" who was both colorblind and infuriating.
Anya, love of his life, was a wonderfully strange person, with a tendency to exercise her right to be blunt. Xander would do anything for her. The man claimed he would never understand how someone so sweet and vibrant could be related to the one and only Emma Jenkins. Anya's mother was mostly vengeful towards her ex-husband, Anya's father, but if letting the shrew stay at their house for a week would please his wife, then Xander would shampoo the rugs in preparation.
He would also buy a welcome present for the intolerable guest, even if he hated to, because Anya told him "Mother would be very upset" if she received nothing upon her arrival.
It was apparent from this point on, Xander had met with Buffy to both search for a gift, and complain. What kind of person expects a present when they're invading someone else's territory? Buffy took a minute to explain to Xander a house wasn't exactly a dog park, and sure, maybe it was frivolous, but wouldn't this vase make a decent offering?
It was blue, it was old, and it was fairly cheap with the Friends and Family discount Buffy offered to a very, very select few. After all, in a town of this size, nearly everybody would call themselves your friends, and a few too many your family, if you let them.
Xander nodded distractedly to convey approval, so she rung it up. Bubble wrap and a cardboard box to protect, plus the free inclusion of gift wrap. He thanked her repeatedly as Buffy tied an expert bow around the parcel. "Careful," she advised when handing it to him.
"Hey, Butterfingers Harris may have been my nickname in high school, but I'm over that now."
When he pointed a finger at her to provide mock emphasis, one hand letting go of the box, the pretty pink square made a dive for the floor. He hastily grappled then caught it while kneeling halfway to his shoes. Buffy leaned over the counter with a look of horror on her face.
Xander blinked, his eyes twice their normal size. "Never could let things go."
She snickered quietly. "Actually, I think that's exactly what you're good at."
He rose and gave her an abashed smile. "Thanks again, Buff."
"Think Anya's mom will like it?"
"Who knows. I'll ask her, see what she thinks." He headed for the door. "And if she doesn't like the idea, then I'll be back for something else." He paused, eyeing the package in his hands thoughtfully. "This would look good in our dining room anyway. Anya likes blue glass."
Buffy smiled. She could never quite get over that. How Xander froze at a seemingly trivial moment, right before a spark lightened those brown eyes. He was so in love with his wife that it nearly brought jealousy into the hearts of women he passed on the street who had a thing for carpenters. It was an odd day, or perhaps just a weekend, when you didn't see Xander Harris wearing dirty jeans and a wife-beater. Buffy used to know him as the messy teenager with a fondness for Hawaiian print shirts, but after meeting Anya, things changed quite drastically. The floppy hair was cut short, and while he was still a bit messy, Xander's aim for maturity gained momentum and accuracy upon stumbling into his first real adult relationship.
The man loved with his whole, flawed heart, and every time Buffy caught a glimpse of what he felt for his wife, she could ask only one question: *When will I get that?*
The brunette by the exit tucked his package underneath one arm, facing her. "Oh, and by the way, if I hear anything about that guy, I promise I'll report back within record time. Gossip is allowed for family matters alone these day."
She rolled her eyes in a magically easy way, despite how she was feeling inside. "Thanks, Xand, but it's okay."
He frowned softly. "So wait, if I discover that he's building a rocket ship to launch himself into space, you don't want to know about it?"
Her lips pursed. *Some things never change.* "Stuff below a certain level of weirdness, you can keep to yourself."
He grinned largely and waved, almost saluting her. "Your loyal spy, my majesty."
Buffy found a laugh and gave in, but a gasp soon followed as Xander was about to step outside. "Oh wait! Can you fix my door?"
He stopped, turned, and eyed the paneled piece of wood in question. Swinging the door with his hand, back and forth for a moment, Xander said, "WD-40. Or something else slippery, like Vaseline. Just put it on the hinges, should do the trick."
Buffy's wide eyes conveyed both sincere appreciation, and embarrassment once the squeaking stopped. "Don't tell anyone I didn't know that."
"Don't tell Anya I called you 'my majesty' and it's a deal."
"Deal."
***
An hour later, Buffy managed to find- nearly on accident -a brand new container of WD-40. Funny, when Giles first packed the "Smart to Have on Hand" goody box and left it underneath the counter, Buffy never thought she'd use a single thing inside.
Now, as she stood next to the front door, ready to be Miss Fix It, Buffy made a mental note to call later and issue a long overdue thank you.
Cloth in hand, the other aiming the sprayer, it took only a few exact shots to the top and bottom hinges to vanquish that infernal creaking. She was dabbing the excess off when she noticed the scene outside.
Across the street there was a group of boys, and Buffy had the distinct memory of watching West Side Story with her mom years and years ago. There were five in total, none of them possibly older than seventeen, piled into a cloud of denim jackets and fisted hands.
Buffy dropped her tools and ran out before a single thought could cross her mind. She barely remembered to check for traffic and ignored the surrounding faces, people frozen in place as if the current proceedings were a very perplexing manner and they didn't quite know what to do.
Most of them were tourists, but a few weren't. Some were locals, who did nothing but gawk during the same five seconds it took Buffy to barrel into the fray of angry teenagers and start yelling. She tugged at backpacks and cotton hoodies, shoving, screaming over their ugly cursing.
She felt perhaps what was a misaimed punch to the side and barely spared a wince. "Enough!" The piercing order stilled them, and Buffy was finally able to maneuver the kids apart just as another authoritative voice rang through the air.
Five gasping, bruised, disheveled young men glared at each other through a shared haze of anger, and one blonde in a skirt.
Buffy fumed, her eyes sparkling with ferocity like a mother tigress. She acknowledged the fact every one of them was taller than her, and it inspired more irritation. "I don't know why you were fighting, and I don't care." She glanced around at the decoration of scowls and cuts marring their petulant faces. "All of you, across the street, inside my store. Now."
One of them spoke up, his shaggy brown hair and green eyes flinty but respectful at once. He stood on the edge with his partners, while the other two faced off from her left. "They were talkin' about Jim's sister-"
"I just said I don't care why you were fighting!" Buffy yelled. "If you want to tell me, then you will do so inside. Now go!"
That familiar voice echoed again, this time closer, harsher. "You heard her." Buffy glanced behind her, and found the stern face of the high school principal at her shoulder. "Get inside. All of you. We'll be calling your parents from Ms. Summers' store."
Five backs all hunched beneath denim jackets and gray sweaters, their faces set and resigned. A look of agitated understanding passed between foes, joint groans, then a masterful collection of humorless eye rolls.
Buffy watched carefully as they trudged, a set of two, and a set of three, morosely across the street. She followed quickly, and spoke off handed to the man behind her. "You arrived almost in the nick of time."
"Good to see you, too, Buffy."
She placed a hand on her hip as she walked, angry strides trampling pavement. General awareness seeped back in, and she noted avid viewers standing on every corner, still taking in the scene as it fell to a close. Buffy grit her teeth. "You'd think they could find something better to watch."
Robin Wood, tall, professional, handsome and patient, let out a tired sigh that could move ships. "People don't know how to handle teenagers. They figure they're their parents responsibility most of the time."
Buffy hauled in the urge to snap. Really, she shouldn't be mad at Robin. At least he'd come to help. "They are. Too bad their parents don't know that."
He shot her a look, and Buffy glanced away. "I'm just angry."
"I feel ya," he said, casting a paternal focus on the boys parading into her place of business. "You sure you want them in your store?"
Buffy nodded. They reached the open door and Robin held it for her. "I'm going to try and patch them up. I have a first aid kit, some ice in the fridge." She paused, meeting his eyes dead on. "I don't know if calling their parents is necessary."
He was quiet, seemingly considering her words, before ultimately disagreeing with the implied notion. "I have to. It's my job. Even when they're not in class, I'm still their principal."
She sighed, nodding resignedly. "Figured you'd say that."
"Then why'd you ask?"
"Just had to try."
He offered no more before following Buffy inside.
She made quick work of separating the quarrelsome group, three on stools in one corner, two on a couch in the opposite. Buffy accepted the proffered can of WD-40 she'd left to get kicked around from one of the boys. She knew Lance fairly well, he was a junior at the high school, as were three others; only one was a sophomore.
She began with the ice and antiseptic, treating just the visible wounds on knuckles and cheeks. Each hiss of pain after alcohol wipes and cotton ball dabbing was punctuated with a snicker of derision from a fellow teenager, then Buffy started on them with the nursemaid act and the insults quit.
She did not quit, however, and neither did Robin Wood. While she doctored and explained just how badly she'd beat up each of them herself if they started fighting again, or broke one thing in her store, Robin crossed his arms and gave a lecture. It was filled with bits like "You should be embarrassed," and "Isn't there a lick of sense between the five of you?"
Jim, Lance and Harry tried hard to get their points across. The other two boys fumed and yelled how they weren't talking smack about anyone's sister, they were just minding their own business when punches started flying. Buffy advised they cut the crap as she handed out sodas, but none would admit to starting the fight, or encouraging one verbally.
"Were not getting anywhere here," Robin grumbled. He played his final card. "You can all expect detention on your next three Saturdays, beginning at nine o'clock."
Patrick, the redhead who played on the football team cried, "I have practice on Saturdays! The coach will cut me if I miss any of 'em!"
Buffy slanted Robin a look. The principal sighed. "Your detentions will all end half an hour before team practices start."
A tremendous breath of relief left Patrick's chest.
Robin's lips firmed. "What you should be worried about is which one of your parents I'll be calling first."
The group tensed as one, their eyes shifting back and forth between each other. Still, they remained brazenly tightlipped, and even Buffy had to roll her eyes at their stubbornness. She was a woman who knew something about that particular characteristic, yet these kids managed to portray themselves as bullheaded in the extreme.
Robin turned to her. "May I use your phone?"
"Uh, sure. Behind the counter." Buffy crossed her arms and started tapping her foot, anxiety creeping up her neck. Biting her bottom lip, she tamped down the urge to stop Robin from calling anyone. He'd issued detention, and as much as she believed the boys deserved to be taught a lesson, she wasn't so sure contacting their parents wasn't overkill. But, like he'd said, he had a responsibility; their hands were all tied.
She eyed the boys with maternal disdain, the kind of concerned agitation that occasionally filled any mother's eyes, especially when she had a son. "Guys are really dumb, aren't they?"
They looked at her in shock, but said nothing.
"Overall. Like, the male population in general." Buffy continued doggedly. "You all love to fight. Someone can say the littlest thing and it just sets you off. What is with that?"
A few of them gulped, all of them looked down in shame at their soda pops. She dropped an alcohol wipe and placed her hands on her hips. "I think you should apologize to each other."
At that, there was instantaneous protest. Lance and Patrick were united by identical expressions of dismay, while the rest simply shouted things like, "No way!" and "Are you crazy?!"
"Quiet!" Robin bellowed from his position by the phone.
Buffy crossed her arms. "You guys have done enough to hurt each other today, okay? Now you're all in equal trouble, and I want you to apologize before your parents get here."
One boy, Sam if she was remembering correctly, had the audacity to lean backward with his hands linked behind his head and say, "My dad's at work. He won't answer."
Buffy blinked, stare focusing. "Then I'm sure Mr. Wood will be happy to contact him another time, when he is home." A thought occurred to her. "What kind of job does your dad have that requires he work on Sunday?"
Sam's self assurance vanished, his back slouching. "Uh... He- He-"
"Give it a rest," Patrick groaned. "They're not going to buy it."
"No," Buffy said distinctly. "We're not." She glanced over at a professional Robin Wood talking quietly to someone on the other line, before facing the teenagers once more. "Now, about that apology..."
***
The whole thing ended with all five boys getting picked up by their parents. It was a somewhat awkward affair, with many grateful acknowledgements and embarrassed apologies thrown around.
No one asked Buffy why she'd gotten involved. Robin Wood had a reason, while she honestly didn't. There was no explanation other than she just couldn't stand by and watch the kids fight. If there was a way to help, or prevent harm from coming to one of the many teenagers in this town, then she would do what she could to lend a hand. It didn't sit well with Buffy that when adults were goggling fights, watching sports or playing with babies, the middle groupers were ignored.
Perhaps she was meddlesome. It didn't mean she'd quit anytime soon.
The last of the kids trudged out at the side of his angry mother, head down and shoulders slumped as the woman alternated between scolding and tilting his chin up so she could get a better look at his black eye. Buffy watched in tired fascination.
As the door clinked closed, no creak to be heard, the shopkeeper released a pent up sigh. "It's amazing they didn't leave the second you told them you'd be calling their parents."
Robin shrugged, but she didn't see it. "They know I would've called them whether they were here or not, and I would have added another detention."
Buffy smirked sardonically to herself, arms crossing. "You like giving those out, huh?"
He was quiet, then suddenly, something totally unpredictable came out of the principal's mouth. "Not really, but maybe if I had someone they could talk to, I wouldn't need to 'give out' so many."
She spun slowly around. "Huh?"
"A guidance counselor. The one we had- Well, the kids couldn't relate to her very much."
"Okay..." Buffy frowned. "That's tough."
"She quit a month ago."
Another frown, this one edged with suspicion.
Robin Wood inclined his head, looking at her with a glint in his eye Buffy wasn't totally sure she could find appropriate. "How would you like the job?"
"What?"
"I haven't filled the position yet. I've been looking for the right person, and I think you might be it." He crossed his arms to mimic her last stance; now, Ms. Summers' arms and jaw were slack with shock. "I know you have the store, so it would only be maybe two, three days a week..."
He went on, and she listened with unwavering attention, but Buffy still couldn't believe he was serious. The very notion she could do a job like that was bewildering. It was something to require complete and total dedication to others' thoughts and emotions. Take into account their fears, their hopes, listen avidly to everything, and bear the brunt of guilt each time something went sour under her own advice... Robin's voice struck her like harsh gust of wind. "You already pay closer attention than most of the parents I deal with," he said. "I know some of the kids come and talk to you after school, when you're here." He gestured to the shop around them. "And the way you handled things today... I think you would make a great addition to the school, Buffy. If you want it, the job is yours."
She was frozen. What did one say to all that?
Words miraculously took shape. "Three days a week?"
He nodded. "It can be two, if that makes the transition easier for you. At least to start."
Buffy chewed on her lip, looking down and then up at the ceiling. Everything was quiet. She could practically hear her own heart beating. The radio was off for the first time in ages; she had turned it down when the parents started to arrive.
She made her decision. "I'll take it."
_________________________________
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