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“I’m telling you, Partytown is the place to go,” Cordelia tells her as Buffy examines the costumes in Ethan’s Costume Shop carefully. “Especially if you want to find something sexy enough to knock Angel’s socks off.”
“I’m not looking for sexy,” Buffy insists, grimacing as she comes across a furry gorilla costume— definitely not. “Trust me, if that’s what I wanted, I could find something from my closet. I want something… classy. Pretty.”
“Why?” Cordelia asks, confused.
Buffy shrugs. “I just…” She chews on her bottom lip, turns to face her friend. “Willow and I stumbled across this book the other day and there was this drawing of what a lady from back when he was human would’ve looked like and… Well, her dress was really pretty. I just thought it would be nice, you know? A blast from his past.”
Cordelia shrugs. “I guess you know him best. I don’t know, I just think if Angel were my boyfriend, I’d want to make sure his eyes stayed on me,” she says in a sing-song voice.
Buffy glowers at her. She’s known Cordy long enough to know she’d never violate the girl-code, but she also has been upfront about how attractive she finds Angel. “What? I’m not allowed to look? It’s not my fault your boyfriend is one of the only good-looking guys left in this town.”
“They will,” Buffy replies tersely, browsing the other costumes on the rack. Witch, bunny (of the fluffy and Playboy varieties), nurse… a vampire cape. Okay, if all else fails, that could be kinda funny. Buffy keeps it in mind before sighing, just as Willow rejoins them. “Hey, you find anything?”
Willow holds up… “A time honored classic!” The stereotypical ghost costume.
Buffy bites her lip, wonders if she should say anything. Her brain is in Cordelia-mode, which includes a lot of catty sniping to disguise their compliments and impart wisdom, so she’s worried that whatever comes out of her mouth will sound a little bitchy. On the other hand, if she says nothing… “Willow, can I give you some friendly advice?”
“What? Not spooky enough?” Willow asks.
“Not slutty enough, more like,” Cordelia pipes up, voicing Buffy’s thoughts for her… albeit not in the way she would’ve phrased it. “If you ever want Xander to notice you, you need to stop hiding behind the fuzzy sweaters.”
Willow looks a little wounded. “I don’t know. I’m… It just seems kinda scary, you know?” She gnaws nervously on her bottom lip.
“That’s scary to you?” Cordelia asks, incredulous. “You slay vampires every night but wearing a short skirt is just too much?”
Willow’s turning pink, embarrassed. Buffy sighs, side-eyeing Cordelia. Cordy might be Buffy’s friend, but she’s not really so sure that she’s Willow’s, especially since Buffy knows Cordy was kind of— well, actually, she was really mean to Willow until she found out that Willow was the Slayer and the only reason she wasn’t currently residing six feet under in one of Sunnydale’s many, many cemeteries. So she’s probably not the best person to be giving Willow advice, no matter how well-intentioned it may be.
“Willow, it’s just… Until you put yourself out there, Xander’s not gonna have any idea you’re interested in him,” Buffy tells her. “You guys have been friends since, what? Kindergarten?”
“The first day,” says Willow, with one of her wistful, crooked smiles. “He comforted me after I accidentally broke the yellow crayon.”
Buffy smiles too, because it really is sweet. “You’ve been friends so long that… Well, it might take a whole new look to make him see you in a different light.” Willow listens, intent, but still squirmy. “How about this?” Buffy proposes. “You buy the ghost costume as a backup, but on Halloween itself, you’ll come over to my house and I’ll lend you some clothes and do your hair and makeup, okay?”
Willow still seems uncertain, but reluctantly agrees, “Okay.”
“Great!” Buffy beams, already contemplating how she might help Willow show off her wild side.
Just then, Xander joins them, a plastic bag in his hands. Buffy wonders if his ears were ringing. “How goes the shopping, ladies? Find anything yet?”
“Willow has, but Buffy’s being picky,” Cordelia answers.
“What’d you find?” Willow asks, excited and practically lighting up now that he’s with them. It’s cute; Buffy hopes that it works out for them… Now that she and Angel are officially together and doing dately things, it would be fun to have another couple to hang out with. They could go on double dates, even! Except Xander doesn’t like Angel that much…
Xander brandishes a plastic toy gun— a plastic toy military rifle, to be precise. “That’s not a costume,” Cordelia says bluntly, once again echoing Buffy’s sentiments, if not her tone.
His eyes narrow. “I have some fatigues at home from the army surplus and this only cost $2. I’m not itching to spend lots of money on a stupid costume that I’m only gonna wear this once.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” Cordelia shoots back.
“Xander,” Willow pipes up, almost desperately, “I’m really sorry about what happened earlier today— you know, with Larry?”
“Willow, if it’s alright with you, I’d rather just repress, okay?” Xander says, conversationally enough, but Buffy can hear that slight edge in his voice. Uh oh. She quickly diverts her attention back to the costume racks. An Egyptian goddess, an angel— okay, that one would be kinda funny, too— an aviatrix…
“Well, I just— I wasn’t trying emasculate you or anything— it’s just that I hate seeing anyone pushing you around like—“
“Emasculate? Who said anything about emasculation here?”
“Oh… you didn’t say anything like that?”
“Is that what the word on the street is? That— that I’ve been emasculated?” Xander’s voice takes on a hysterical note and Buffy redoubles her search for a costume while noting the irony— fairy, nope, chef, nuh uh, clown, no thank you…
“Are you talking about how Willow slammed Larry into that vending machine because he was making fun of you?” Cordelia asks, clearly eating this up and not even pretending otherwise. “Because if so, that shirt was doing way more in terms of emasculating you before she even had a chance to.”
“Cordelia, do you mind?” Xander snaps.
Buffy shoots a silent, chastising glare at Cordelia, who shamelessly smirks. “Come on, Buffy,” she says. “Let’s face it: there’s nothing good here. Let’s just go to Partytown and—“
“Miss?” Someone taps her on the shoulder.
Buffy turns around, finds a man roughly her mom’s age standing behind her, holding the most beautiful dress she’s ever seen in her entire life. It’s a pink gown, with billowy skirts and… “I couldn’t help but overhear that you were in search of a dress,” he says with a warm smile… and a British accent. Huh. There seem to be a lot of those cropping up in Sunnydale lately. Did Southern California suddenly get an English enclave or something? “Is this something like what you were thinking of?”
“Yes,” breathes Buffy, absolutely in love with it already. But… “I… I don’t think I’ll be able to afford it, though,” She tells the man— Ethan, presumably— with regret.
“Nonsense,” he says, leaning her over to one of the many mirrors in the shop, letting her hold it up to herself. “I feel quite moved to make you a deal you can’t refuse.”
Buffy holds the dress close to her, spins slightly in place, thinking of when she was a little girl playing dress-up with princess dresses and tea parties and stuffed animals with Celia. She feels a pang of sadness mixed with nostalgia before shoving those memories away, focusing on the dress again. It’s exactly what she was looking for…
Emboldened, she turns to him and asks, “How much?”
“Rewind it again,” Spike orders, eyes glued to television set. His lackey obliges, rewinding the footage until Spike commands him to, “Stop.” He presses play again, and Spike watches the fight again.
The Slayer kicks the minion hard in the jaw, sending him falling backwards. She grips her stake tightly, only for the prone vampire to kick her fist, sending the stake flying in the air. Weaponless, she panics, looking around until…
“Willow, catch!” The camera jerks, focuses on Buffy, who’s sitting with one leg crossed over the other, tossing a stake in the air. It whirls and twirls until Willow jumps up and catches it. Pleased, Buffy turns back to her book—
“Pause,” Spike orders, and the frame freezes over Buffy as she reads… The Great Gatsby. He recognizes the eyes of TJ Eckleburg well. Is it for school? Or is she just a big reader? Granted, being a bookworm wouldn’t exactly fit in with the whole stereotypical cheerleader thing, if what Spike’s learned from the flicks and telly have been any indication… But something tells him she’s not exactly your typical cheerleader. No, there’s more to her, and even if she isn’t a proper bookworm, she’s still—
“Spike?” His dark princess calls out.
“Rewind,” her barks out immediately. He stops the same place he did last time just as Dru sidles up next to him, cooing and stroking his shoulder.
“I woke up alone,” Drusilla says with a pout.
“Sorry, baby,” Spike says sincerely if a little distractedly, pressing a kiss to her temple before wrapping his arm around her, pulling her close before diverting his attention back to the screen. “I’m just trying to study up on this Slayer.”
Spike’s too absorbed in watching that moment again, the moment where Buffy tosses her the stake. He wonders if it’s something they’ve worked on, a skill they’d perfected together, or if it was sheer dumb luck. The spin on the stake, though, that makes him think of a baton— do they use batons in cheerleading, he wonders? Keeps meaning to go to one of them football games, but—
“Ow!” Spike exclaims, more out of surprise than pain, turning to Dru with wounded eyes, though hers are full of a fire he hasn’t seen in a while… after she just flicked him in the ear. “What’d you do that for?”
Drusilla pouts, says, “You’d rather spend your time with these two—“ she nods up at the screen, “— than with me.”
“Not true,” Spike insists, lovingly taking her face between his hands. In a way, he’s encouraged to see her eyes full of that icy fire. She looks more lively than she has in… months, really. “Doing all this for you, pet. To get you healthy again.”
She blinks at him, softening. “Do you still love me, then, my William?”
“Always have, princess. Always will,” he promises, bestowing a gentle, almost reverent kiss to her forehead.
“You’re not ready to leave me yet, are you?”
“Never leave you,” he vows, wondering where all this doubt is coming from. He’s always been there for her, through thick and thin, when she’s too lost in her own mind to remember to eat and when she’s been joyfully dancing on tabletops, lips stained scarlet with blood. “Only way I ever will is if the Slayer stakes me good an’ proper… Which I don’t think I have to worry about unless she keeps bringing her little pals along with her,” he says, scowling up at the screen, just in time to watch Willow quite expertly stake her vamp from behind, lips twisting into a smile of savage victory. She’s a bit bloodthirsty, ain’t she? Maybe he has been underestimating the girl.
Drusilla hums beside him. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs. “You’ll have your chance. Soon. Everything’s switching, outside to inside…” She breathes against his neck, a soft, cool zephyr that makes those little hairs stand on end, makes his skin hum in excitement. “She’ll be ripe for the taking, then, my darling.”
Spike turns his attentions back to her. “Did you have a vision, my sweet?” He asks, thrumming with electricity in his veins. Dru’s premonitions are dead useful; this could just be the thing he needs.
“Do you know what I miss? Leeches,” says Dru, attentions flickering elsewhere until Spike grabs her by the hips, angles her so she’s facing him. He’s touch rougher than he means to be, especially with her being so weak and all, but she likes that. Her eyes sparkle, lips curving into one of her dark, deadly smile.
“What is it, love? What did you see?” Spike asks gently, seeing her game. His girl’s feeling a touch neglected, wants every bit of his attention devoted to her. Fair point. He needs to pay more consideration to her, especially when she’s awake. He reaches up to stroke her cheek, brushing against her pretty ringlets hanging down. “The thing that makes the Slayer weak, when is it?”
“Tomorrow night,” she tells him, rubbing her hand up his chest, beneath his duster but over his heart. “She’ll be out… and then we can have our moonlight and shall make merry.”
“Tomorrow?” He frown, more confused about the day than her riddles— those he can parse out later. “Dru, tomorrow’s Halloween. Nothing ever happens on Halloween.”
“Someone’s come to change it all,” she tells him. “Someone new.” Then she tilts her head to the side, tells him, “Miss Edith is ready for tea time, only she doesn’t have any cake for everyone at the party.”
A laugh rumbles in his chest. Translation: Dru’s hungry and she’d like some company. “Alright, love. Let’s see if we can’t scrounge something up for you.” He folds her close to him, letting her hum contentedly. He turns to the lackies, orders, “This is enough for now. Go out and fetch me and my girl some dinner.” He turns back to Dru, asks softly, “What’re you in the mood for tonight, sweetness?”
She hums again before saying, “Something… fresh.”
“The younger, the better. Check out the playgrounds first,” he tacks on, before orienting him and Dru back towards the bedroom so she can get some more rest ‘til dinner’s delivered to them.
“Tada!” says Buffy, turning Willow around so she can face the mirror and see the finished product.
Willow’s eyes almost pop out of her head. “Wow.”
“Good wow or bad wow?” Buffy asks with a frown, concerned.
“Good wow,” Willow reassures her, eyes still fixed on the girl in the mirror. Buffy loaned her a midriff-baring top, a black choker, and a leather miniskirt before doing her hair and her makeup. “It’s just… it doesn’t feel very… me,” she admits.
Buffy grins. “That’s kinda the point of Halloween, Will. To be someone you’re not, just for the night. Tomorrow you can wear whatever you want… but tonight, this is you.” And tonight? Willow’s a total babe. Buffy’s pretty proud of herself, to be honest. She feels like she brought out the Slayer from within, making Willow look as dangerous and sexy as she always knew she could be.
“Yeah,” says Willow, nodding, almost as if she’s trying to hype herself up. “Yeah. I can… I can do this.”
“You can,” Buffy encourages. “You’re a total dish. Xander won’t know what hit him.”
“If he even notices,” mutters Willow, turning around. “He might still be mad about the thing with Larry—“
“Trust me, Willow,” Buffy says, hands on either shoulder. “There’s no way he won’t notice you if you’re dressed like that.”
Speak of the devil… There’s a knock from downstairs. “That’s probably Xander,” Buffy says, almost squealing in excitement. She all but pushes Willow out of her bedroom. “Go down there, let him in!”
“Me?” squeaks Willow. “But— I mean— What about you? This is your—“
“I still need to put my wig on,” Buffy reminds her. Ethan offered it to her for just $15 more and it just completed the look. She winks before adding, “Besides, I don’t want to feel too third wheely.”
“Buffy,” Willow says, half a groan of embarrassment, half laughing.
“Go on!” Buffy encourages her, practically shooing her out when Xander starts knocking again.
Buffy gets to work with the wig. This is gonna be great for Willow… and for her, indirectly. Ever since she moved to Sunnydale, Xander’s had a crush on her, which she’s done her best to ignore. But… Well, she’s just never been interested in him like that. He’s a nice guy, funny, a great friend… By all accounts, he’d be a great boyfriend to someone. Just… not her. Part of it might be because she knew Willow liked him from the very start, but with Angel being in the picture… It’s just not gonna happen.
So, see, it’ll be good for Xander, too. Goodness all around.
Buffy adds the tiara carefully, completes her last minute adjustments, then gathers up her poofy skirts and leaves her room, heading to the stairs. “Hey, Xan!” She calls out as she concentrates on not falling down the stairs. “Sorry I’m running behind, I just—“
“No worries, fair lady,” Xander says with a grin, dressed in his fatigues. “Is the Lady of Buffdom, Duchess of Buffonia ready to be escorted to the high school?”
And Willow’s in the ghost costume.
Buffy bites back a sigh. Oh, well. She tried her best. If Willow’s not feeling it, she won’t force her. Still, she makes sure to say in the snootiest, Britishiest voice possible, “Thank you, gentle sir. Me and my dear friend here would be honored to be accompanied by such a gallant soldier.”
Xander grins, offering her his arm… then offering his other to Willow almost as an afterthought.
Dammit.
It happens all sudden-like. One minute, Spike’s strolling down the street, hands in his pockets, whistling a jaunty little tune to himself when a wind starts rustling the tree branches. It’s nothing that could be quite described as a gust, but it’s strong. No… powerful. That’s the word.
And then things get real interesting. Cause, see, then Spike starts seeing a bunch of demons running about with those smiley Jack-O-Lantern buckets. They’re wreaking havoc, breaking into houses and smashing windows. There’s a few snarling vampires running about, fangs glistening with blood… And there’s no little kiddies to be found anywhere. Come to think of it, lot of these demons running about, they’re awfully… short.
Cause the trick-or-treaters are the monsters.
“Well,” marvels Spike, almost in awe of what he’s seeing, “this is just… neat!”
“What wrong with them?” The woman standing before her wears the strangest garb. It looks as if it’s fashioned out of animal furs, only it’s molded to her body like a second skin. It’s scandalous, really. The whiskers painted on her face as well as the headdress with ears almost indicate that she’s trying to look like some sort of a fierce jungle cat… though what kind, she’s uncertain. Something spotted. “Do they have amnesia or something?”
“It’s a spell of some sort,” the red-haired woman who helped her into this house, this haven from the horrible demons running amok outdoors, tells her. She, too, is dressed strangely. Like… like a lady of the night. Regardless, she is grateful for the help, even if she is very confused. The lady of the night claims this house belongs to herself… only she has no memory of this place. It certainly cannot be her home. Home is… Well, she’s not certain where home is, exactly, but it’s far grander than this place, with servants to attend her every need. “It turned everyone into their costumes… except you, for some reason. And me.” She pauses. “Kinda.”
“What do you mean?” The cat-woman asks.
The… promiscuous woman offers explanation by reaching out to touch the other woman, only for her hand to pass through her. She can’t help but gasp in fear. A spirit. Oh, dear. Was she slaughtered out on the streets, her soul unable to pass onto the next realm, so she does her best to prevent other women from succumbing to the same fate? She feels quite sorry for her now, however distasteful her profession was in life.
The cat-lady, meanwhile, lets out a sound of revulsion. “Oh my God! You’re dead? Again?”
“Looks like it,” says the promiscuous woman. “I think it’s just temporary, though. Hopefully, anyway.”
“Uh, yeah, I hope so, too! What good is a Slayer who can’t fight demons?” says the cat-lady.
“I need to find Giles,” continues the redheaded streetwalker. “Can you just— keep an eye on these two? Please?”
“Fine, but you owe me.”
“Well, how about I get this spell reversed so you and everyone else don’t die? Let’s call ourselves even, then,” snarks the redheaded streetwalker before walking through a wall. She can’t help but shudder at the sight, still disconcerted.
The cat-woman sighs, turns to her. “So you really
don’t remember anything?”
She shakes her head.
“Well, my name is Cordelia,” she says, placing a hand between her bosoms. “And your name—“ she points to her, “— is Buffy, and I’m your best friend. And that—“ she points to the young man dressed a strange green uniform who’s standing guard beside the window, holding onto his gun, “— is Xander, and he’s a total loser. I’m not sure why you hang out with him, to be honest. Maybe it’s because he and Willow are kind of a package deal.”
“Willow?”
“Oh, right. You forgot that, too. She’s the girl who just left.”
“The… the prostitute?” Buffy— as she supposes her name is— whispers.
Cordelia blinks, mouth falling open with a smile slowly forming. “Oh, you really don’t have any idea what’s going on, do you?” She laughs.
Buffy shakes her head, feeling tears welling up in her eyes. Her lips start trembling as she starts sniffling.
“Buffy?” Cordelia asks, confused before burst into tears. She’s just— she’s so confused. Nothing here is familiar to her, there’s frightful demons running about everywhere, and she just— She wants to go home.
Cordelia looks both panicked and uneasy as says, “Hey, don’t cry! It’s okay! Willow will figure this out, she’s super smart! And she’s only died once— well, twice now, but I don’t think this time really counts!”
Cordelia claims to be her best friend— and by that, Buffy presumes she means she must be her dearest and closest companion— so Buffy figures that it is perfectly acceptable to throw her arms around the other girl and shield her tears. Cordelia returns the embrace, patting her back and saying, “There, there! It’s okay, Buffy!”
“Buffy?” Another voice says from behind. A male voice. “Buffy, are you alright?”
She— Buffy— turns around, catching a glimpse of a tall man with dark hair… which, perplexingly, sticks straight up. He’s… Well, he is rather handsome, even if his hair is oddly styled.
“Back away from the women and put your hands in the air!” Xander barks out, a musket of some kind aimed at the new man.
The new man reacts with alarm, freezing in place but not putting his hands in the air like Xander told him to. “Oh my God, put down the gun!” Cordelia exclaims, irate. “Angel’s our friend.” Xander seems wary, but lowers his musket. “Thank God you’re here!” She gushes to the new man… Angel? “These two have like amnesia or something.”
“Amnesia?” echoes the handsome man— Angel, Cordelia called him, and she finds the name to suit him— softly.
It’s only now Buffy manages to find her voice. “Oh, I don’t think I have amnesia… whatever that may be. I bathe quite often,” she insists to the handsome man, not wanting him to think her uncleanly— or even worse, horribly common.
“They got turned into their Halloween costumes,” Cordelia explains. “Xander thinks he’s supposed to be saving Private Ryan and Buffy’s some ye old noblewoman.”
“A noblewoman?” repeats Angel.
“Yeah, that’s what I just said! Why are you so big with the parrot impersonation tonight?” demands Cordelia.
“But you’re not affected.”
“Um, obviously not? Do you see me walking around on four legs and hissing at everybody?”
“But why?”
“Beats me,” says Cordelia with a shrug. “Willow went to go find Giles and figure out what’s going on.”
“She wasn’t affected, either?”
“She didn’t have amnesia like these two, if that’s what you’re asking… but I guess she did die.”
“What?” Angel asks, quite loud and incredulous just as the lights flicker out, plunging them into darkness. Buffy shrieks and cowers reflexively, throwing her arms around Cordelia, more frightened and confused than she already was.
“Hey, Buffy, it’s okay,” Cordelia says soothingly, patting her shoulders. Then she turns to Angel, asks, “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” he says grimly. “But probably nothing good.”
“We should split up,” decides Xander. “Catwoman, are you sure we can trust this guy?”
“Absolutely,” says Cordelia, solemn. “He has a soul and everything.”
Xander looks as confused as Buffy does. Why wouldn’t this man have a soul? “Alright,” he says, warily. “Then you come with me. You take the princess,” he tells Angel.
It takes Buffy a moment to realize the princess in question is her… what a silly man! Her, a princess? Why, her father is only a… Well, she doesn’t remember exactly, but she’s quite certain if she was the daughter of a king or a prince, she would remember. He’s probably a baron or something respectable like that. “What? But I want to go with you!” She tells him, panicked at the prospect of being alone with this new man. Handsome though he is, her parents and society surely shall be scandalized to learn she’s been in the company of this strange man, unchaperoned no less! There is something thrilling about the prospect, though she’ll not admit it. But the most important reason is— “You have a musket!”
“Look, you and me clearly have some gaps in out memories,” says Xander, matter-of-factly. “These two seem to know what’s going on. I can protect her… and he can protect you. Right?” The way he cradles his musket is almost threatening.
“I won’t let anything harm her,” vows Angel, before reaching for Buffy’s arm. She starts at the contact. She’s never been alone with a man like this, let alone touched by one, apart from her father… she thinks. Begrudgingly, she accedes Xander must be right. She does seem to have some gaps in her recollections.
So stunned is she by everything that doesn’t protest any further when Angel leads her into what appears to be a darkened kitchen. She cowers behind him, heart racing fast. Perhaps there’s some kind of criminal lurking about in her here, unable to be seen in the darkness, or perhaps it’s one of those horrible demons that were running about the streets.
“I didn’t leave that open,” Angel states quietly, his grasp on her arm tightening ever so slightly. Buffy wonders what he means until she too notices the door leading to the outside, which has been left open. He walks over to it, closing it just as Buffy hears another door open—
Buffy screams as something grabs her from behind, tearing her from Angel’s hold. It’s a most hideous, frightful creature, fangs protruding from its mouth and yellow eyes glowing. She tries to squirm away, but it’s futile, at least until Angel tackles him, tearing him away. Buffy marvels at his bravery for a moment as he wrestles the creature to the floor. “A stake!”
“A what?” asks Buffy, not quite understanding.
“Get me a stake!”
A stake? Why on Earth should there be a stake here? Buffy searches the kitchen for some weapon of some sort nonetheless, only to find a knife. That ought to do it, shouldn’t it? It will at least maim the beast. “Hurry up!” Angel calls out, turning around over his shoulder—
Buffy screams again. He looks exactly like the monster that he’s battling. Cordelia must not have known he was a monster, either that or she’s a liar. Who’s to say she’s even Buffy’s friend? She has no intentions of staying long enough to find out. She drops the knife, gathers up her skirts, and runs for the door, ignoring Angel’s protests, fleeing into the night.
No Slayer mucking about, chaos in the streets… It’s hard to believe unlife can get any better.
At least, that’s what Spike thinks until some brunette chit runs into him— quite literally. “Steady on!” He says, game-face melting away with surprise, reaching out to take her by the shoulders…
Only to realize it’s the Slayer’s best mate. Buffy. She seems to have had a bit of a makeover, what with her hair being quite a bit darker and longer than he remembers, but he recognizes the pretty face. Probably a wig, he thinks, to go along with the frilly dress. “Bit old for trick-or-treating, aren’t you, love?” He asks, fingers twitching up to touch her darkened locks, tugging at them slightly. How on Earth did she get caught up in this spell?
“What?” She looks up at him with tear-filled eyes, shaking like a leaf.
“You cold, pet?”
“I— Please, you have to let me go! There’s a man— only he isn’t a man! He— A vampire!”
“A vampire?” Spike asks, somewhat amused. “Really?”
She nods frantically. “Sir, you need to let me go—“
“What did he look like?”
“Horrible! He— he had these bumps on his face and— and there horrible fangs and— and his hair stuck straight up!”
It takes everything in Spike not to laugh. Oh, this was too good! Peaches’s girl went running from him, only to run right into his arms. It was too delicious for words…
And it could get even better, Spike realizes, as Buffy looks over her shoulder. She doesn’t know who she is… or how important she is. The cogs in his brain start to whir. If he could get her to the factory, hold her for ransom… He could solve his Slayer problem, easily.
And who knows? Maybe Dru wants a new dolly. Spike admires the girl. She’d be a hellcat, that’s for sure. Got plenty of fire, she does. And it would be a nice surprise for Peaches, too…
But Spike banishes the thought quickly. A lot can go wrong during the changing process. He’s never sired a vamp that he didn’t dust within a day of rising for one reason or another and Dru… Well, sometimes she forgets her limits, drains ‘em dry. That’s not the way Buffy Summers ought to go, especially when you factor in the spell-induced amnesia. Nah. He’ll just hold her hostage until the Slayer comes to face him, then he’ll let her go, feed the Slayer to Dru, then they’ll get the hell out of town and back to their unlives, far away from bloody Angel… and far away from her.
“Well, it’s a very good thing you managed to escape him, milady,” Spike says, briefly putting away the Cockney and trotting out his old, nancy boy accent. He watches with amusement as she balks. “He’s quite a savage creature.”
Buffy blinks at him. “You know him?”
“Too well, unfortunately.” He releases her, then offers her his arm.
She eyes him nervously. Smart bird, even if she seems to not be completely with it right now. “Who are you?”
“William Pratt, Viscount Lundy,” he introduces himself, hoping that she doesn’t have a false set of memories that have her remembering his great-great grandfather or sommat. Way she’s dressed suggests she’s supposed to be from before his time.
Buffy blinks at him, eyes roving over him, before saying, “You don’t look like any viscount I’ve ever met.”
Spike chuckles. “That I don’t, sweet,” he says, already forgetting to sound like the posh boy he was. He corrects himself quickly, though, tells her, “It’s all part of a disguise.”
Her eyes glimmer with curiosity. “A disguise? Whatever for?”
“To blend in with these vulgarians running about,” Spike lies, not intending on revealing that he’s one of the things she ought to be fearing… not that he has to worry. He has no quarrel with this girl, just that her mate’s the Slayer, and keeping her safe is the best bet. “I can escort you home, if you’d like?”
“My home?” asks Buffy, confused. “You… you know where it is? My real home?”
“Course,” Spike says, though he feels a stab of regret already at having deceived her. She sounds so lost and scared… and she’ll probably feel even more afraid once they get to the warehouse, realizing he’s tricked her. Shoulda offered to take her back to his home, that way she wouldn’t grow suspicious when she didn’t recognize her surroundings, grow afraid of him…
It takes him entirely too long to realize he’s being daft. Why does he care if some silly chit gets frightened of him? He’s a vampire, for crying out loud! It’s what he’s supposed to do! But there’s something about Buffy Summers, something that makes him forget himself… or maybe, more aptly, remember himself, his former self, all too vividly.
“Viscount Lundy—“ Buffy begins, and as soon as Spike realizes she’s addressing him, he hastily starts to correct with,
“Spi—“ Then, realizing that would be even worse, “William, please, milady. I… I cannot stand such formalities.” When she give him a quizzical look, he explains, “Only I am so used to the title belonging to my grandfather. It… it has become mine only recently.” It was… somewhat truthful. Grandfather’d died only a few months before his twenty seventh birthday, then William himself died a few months after… never did get used to the title.
“Oh,” says Buffy softly. “I’m so terribly sorry. William, then… May I ask how you know that loathsome creature that I stumbled upon?”
Loathsome, was he? Spike bites back a grin. He knows he’s enjoying this all a bit too much, but he can’t help it. It’s too good, Angel’s new honey hating his guts, running to Spike for help… Course, remembering it’s all a spell is almost enough to make his good mood go away, so he tries not to focus on that.
Furthermore, Buffy’s waiting for an answer, emerald eyes of hers were shining, imploring him to tell her the truth… or a version of it, anyway. So finally, Spike clears his throat and says, “He… A great many year ago, this man… Vampire,” he corrects, trying remember his façade, “committed a great wrong against my wife.”
“Your wife?” Is he mistaken, or does she sound… disappointed?
“Are you surprised?”
“No!” insists Buffy, who then immediately contradicts herself with, “Yes? I suppose I… You seem young to be married.”
“I’m older than I look.” That’s not a lie, at least.
Buffy nods. “When you say… a great wrong… what do you mean?”
“Nothing I should fill your ears with, miss.” Were they back in his day, Spike would never have dreamt of discussing any of the things Angel liked to do for fun with anybody, much less a lady. He figures either Buffy will accept his answer and move on or she’ll press him about it… in which case, he’ll let her know exactly what sort of a man her honey really is.
Thank God, Buffy’s the latter. “Please, sir. Tell me.”
“Very well. But I am only telling you this for your safety,” says Spike with a mock solemnity… or is he? How many young girls just like Buffy did Spike watch Angel seduce then destroy over the twenty years they spent together? Only difference between them and Buffy is that for reasons Spike can’t seem to put a name to, Spike actually gives a damn about this girl. “My wife… When she was living with her family, Angel developed a fascination of sorts with her. An obsession.” He tells Buffy the whole sordid tale— how he murdered her priest, her parents, her sisters, anyone she held dear, really, how she tried to escape by seeking solace in a convent—
“That was not enough to keep him away?” asks Buffy, voice hushed and full of horror. They’ve traveled several blocks by now, in a more isolated part of town. “But I thought vampires could not step foot on holy ground.”
Spike scoffs out of reflex. “Only if they’re a bunch of wusses,” he says derisively. It’s only after sparing a glance to Buffy and her questioning frown that he amends it to, “Very few vampires are frightened by such things. Crucifixes will wound them, as does Holy Water and the Bible… but I’m afraid you shall not find sanctuary on church grounds. My Drusilla certainly didn’t.” Belatedly, Spike wonders if he misstepped, telling her this, then waves it off. Girl’s best mates with the Slayer, isn’t she? This stuff is common knowledge to anyone in their world… and even if some of the finer points aren’t, the Watcher would certainly know it, pass it on— or he should, if he’s any good at his job.
“What happened to her?” Buffy asks, hushed.
“He caught up with her,” Spike tells her gravely. “He murdered all the sisters at the convent. He tortured her. He…” The words dry up in his throat.
“What?” Buffy prompts.
Spike swallows. Before this, all he could think about was getting one over on Angel, poison his girl’s mind against him. But now… Using Dru’s past, the things Angel did as a ‘gotcha’… it doesn’t feel right.
“William?” Buffy prompts him.
Spike is jerked back into reality. He looks at her, sees how young she is, how… how innocent (though he’s sure much of it is thanks to this little debutante getup), but it inexplicably reminds him of the fear written in her eyes when Angelus used her as bait that night at the school. Sure, he’s got the soul and all, and yeah, maybe he does feel bad now for all the rot he did back then, but it was still the same bloke. He’s still in there… and he still risked his little girlfriend’s life. What if Spike hadn’t known about the sodding soul? What if he had bit the girl? Angel’s putting her at risk and he’s supposed to be one of the White Hats.
And besides… Slipping back into William’s skin (or at least his voice, some of his mannerisms) have reminded Spike of his old self. And yeah, William was pathetic. Weak. But he believed himself to be noble. And something tells him that, at least for Buffy’s own sake, he ought to warn her about Angel. What he’s capable of at his very worst… Because if he knows that tight-lipped old sod (and he does), he hasn’t breathed a word to her about what he did to Dru. “He tortured her,” he tells Buffy, keeping it succinct, leaving out the gory, grisly, and graphic descriptions of how creative he got with melting candle wax and crucifixes, “and he took her virtue. I’ll spare you the finer details, but… She hasn’t been the same quite since.”
Buffy gasps. He spares at glance to her, sees the shock written in her eyes. Good. He hopes that sharing the sordid secrets of his dark princess’s past are enough scare her far, far away from the big lout and to a happily ever after with some Prince Charming instead. Someone… normal. Though probably not the bloke who hangs out with them. Seems like he’s got a thing for that brunette. “The poor dear,” she says with sympathy. Then, “And… you accepted her? Even knowing her past?”
“It wasn’t her fault!” Spike says, more violently than he intends to. Buffy starts but Spike can’t being himself to care. He’s tired of everyone judging Dru, looking down on her when it isn’t any of her doing. Not like she asked for any of that, is it? “She did everything she bloody could to stop it from happenin’ to her, didn’t she? Didn’t do her a damn bit of good, but she fought! Fought and clawed and survived! And so what if she’s a bit barmy in the head now? I’d like to see anybody go through what she did and come through it without a few screws loose! So no, I don’t sodding care! I love her all the same!” By now his voice has risen to a shout and Buffy’s cowering, hiding her face from him. Inexplicably (and perhaps ironically), she reminds him of Dru in this moment, the way she gets sometimes when the voices in her head grow too loud or he gets too cross with her… taking out his black moods on her, the scorn meant for the unforgiving world out on her, just like he did now with Buffy.
Spike takes a deep breath, sighing. “‘M sorry, milady,” he says. “It’s only that… people are unkind. To Drusilla. About… how she is now. They call her mad.” Then, after a moment’s consideration, he admits, “And she is.”
Buffy is looking at him now, seeming to realize his temper has abated, though her eyes are shiny with unshed tears that she seems to desperately be trying be blinking back. The sight of it tugs at Spike’s dead heart. “But you love her?”
“I do.”
“Why?” She asks. Then, quickly, “I don’t— I’m only trying to understand. How… how you fell in love with a mad woman.”
“Because she saw who I really was. Beneath…” he swallows. “I used to be a very different man, milady. Not one worth knowing at all.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” says Buffy immediately, almost gently.
Spike can’t help but laugh. “Trust me. You and your… companions would have laughed me out of any ballroom. I was a poor excuse of a man.” Before she can ask any questions, Spike tells her, “But she saw through all that. She saw the real me, beneath it all. She could see all that I could be capable of, before even I could.”
A small smile tugs at Buffy’s lips, though there’s something melancholy to it as well. “It sounds as though she loves you very much as well.”
“I think she does,” Spike says automatically, without thinking. Then, correcting himself, “I know she does. We… It’s not to say we haven’t gone through our rough patches, our trials and tribulations. It’s all part of a marriage, is it not?” He finds himself rambling without really meaning to, his words tasting bitter. Never could marry Dru. Not like he hadn’t entertained it… but it wasn’t how it was done, not according to her precious Daddy, and of course, his word was bloody gospel, wasn’t it? He was the ultimate authority on all things vampire, despite only being a hundred years old— practically a baby in vamp years. Those longing thoughts had returned to Spike knew Angel split from them for good, all spelled up proper, but they were just dreams. Even though the stupid sod was undead and well, Dru was acting as if he was dead and gone, grieving him and everything. She mourned him like a widow mourned her husband…
And wasn’t that just ironic?
Bile (or some other substance— Spike wasn’t exactly certain if he had bile anymore, being dead and all) churned inside of him, threatening to rise in the back of his throat, nauseous even though he’d lost the ability to vomit some hundred odd years ago. “Well, then she is very lucky,” Buffy says, smiling at Spike with a look in her eyes so soft and kind that he wants to run and hide, he feels so unworthy of it. He suddenly wishes he’d never run into this girl at all, never come up with this harebrained scheme of his. Shoulda let her go on her merry way…
Only then she mighta been snatched up by some other beastie. One of them trick-or-treaters, dressed up with plastic fangs and grown a set of the real things, sinking them into her pretty neck, draining her of all of that sumptuous blood… At least he’ll not let any harm come to her. Plan doesn’t bloody work if she’s not alive and Spike doesn’t want the girl to really get hurt… Just for the Slayer to come and face off against him. Then he can kill her, feed Dru her blood… with any luck, Slayer’s blood and its healing properties’ll be enough to fix her up good and proper, and they can be out of town and as soon as possible. Even if it doesn’t, at least she’ll be out of their hair. With any luck, the next Chosen One’ll be on the other side of the world, and of no concern to Spike while he words out a cure for his beloved.
‘Sides, he reminds himself, squelching all fondness for the girl walking beside him, this isn’t who she really is. It’s the costume. She doesn’t remember her own sodding boyfriend, let alone what Spike really is. If she did, she wouldn’t be smiling at him or trusting him so easily. He hopes for her sake that she’ll listen to his warnings when it comes to Angel, but she’ll probably just brush it all off. She probably hates him as much as the Slayer does. There’s no need for him to feel this… this feeling.
“Not many women are fortunate enough to find a love match,” Buffy continues, training her gaze forward, glancing at him through her eyelashes through her peripheral vision. “And not many men are as… kind as you are.”
Spike can’t stop himself from laughing. “What’s so funny?” Buffy asks, genuinely taken aback. It’s so endearing and… well, bloody cute.
“I can’t think of many people who works describe me as kind,” Spike tells her, beyond amused.
Buffy seems surprised, before earnestly informing him, “Oh, but you are! What you did, rescuing me, what you’ve done for your wife… I think it is very gallant indeed! I would feel fortunate if my parents were find me a husband as generous and as sensitive as yoursel— oof!” Buffy nearly trips over an abandoned trick-or-treating bucket in the middle of the alley, the classic orange ones with that look like the jack-o-lanterns, wobbling in her heels.
Spike reaches out to steady her, with a force perhaps more bruising than necessary, but he’s too worried about her falling on her pretty face or breaking her arm trying to stop herself to worry about that. “You alright?”
“Peachy,” she breathes out, winded. “Uh, might you help me up?” Her heart races fast.
“Of course, milady.” He jumps into action immediately, where she thanks him politely. She glares at the bucket, as if it personally offended her, then kicks it. Spike can’t help but chuckle. Christ, but she is cute. His mind wanders, thinking of what she was just saying, about hoping her “parents” finding her a bloke as “kind” as him… Granted, she’d’ve been too young for him then, but if she had been born a little over a century earlier and they’d grown up together, Spike has a feeling that he’d never’ve set his cap at bloody Cecily Underwood if he’d known a girl like Buffy Summers. She’d’ve been just his type: beautiful, exuberant, beguiling…
Course, it was a good thing she hadn’t been. Otherwise, he’d never have met his dark princess, never become all he was meant to be.
“Um, how much farther will it be? Until I’m home?” Buffy asks.
“Not too much longer,” he assures her… which isn’t a complete lie. Well, it is. They’re in the opposite direction of her home, if that’s where she fled from, but they’re maybe five minutes away from the factory.
Her pink tongue darts out between her lips, wetting them, before asking, “Might we stop? I… My legs. I’m not used to walking such… distances.”
Spike doesn’t want to stop— they’re so close and who knows how much longer it’ll be ‘fore the Slayer can gather up her troops and come after them?— but one glance at the girl and her imploring gaze tugs at his heartstrings. “One minute,” he warns. She shoots him a smile of gratitude which he relishes before searching for a spot for her to rest. There’s a crate next to a dumpster down the alley… which is no place for a lady to sit, but it’ll have to do. But he won’t have her next to that garbage. Spike tells her to wait there, then jogs down the alley, collects the crate, then hurries back to her. She hasn’t moved a single muscle, which pleases him. Good girl. He sets it down beside her, then removes his duster, setting it atop the crate. “There you go, milady. Don’t want you getting your pretty dress dirty.”
“That’s… Thank you,” she says, tongue-tied at first then composing her thoughts, smoothing out her skirt once she takes her seat atop her makeshift throne. She doesn’t sit there with the ramrod posture of the ladies of his day, belying that she’s very much a girl of this day and age (and that her costume doesn’t come complete with a corset), despite what her memories tell her… and though she makes a pretty picture, Spike can’t help but be glad of it for her sake. Something as young and vibrant as this girl deserves to be free…
And the thought of what might be in store for her once they get to the warehouse makes him feel sick.
It’s like the second she trips, she jostles her memories loose. She’s not sure if she did or if whatever wacky spell they were under just broke at that exact moment but she does know two things: Spike is not taking her home and letting him know she’s totally onto him is not going to end well for her.
But he’s been nice. Ish. Well. It’s not that he hasn’t been nice to her. But it’s obviously an act, right? He not a viscount or whatever… right? At least, that’s not what Giles’ book said… but maybe she should do some reading. And the thing he said about Angel couldn’t have been real, right? And Drusilla… she remembers that name. Wasn’t she one of the vampires who used to travel with Spike and Angel back in the day, according to that old Watcher’s Council book? Spike said they were married but is that even true? Do vampires even get married? Probably not, right? Suddenly Buffy’s realizing she doesn’t know much about vampires… Well, apart from what they eat and how to kill them.
But while she’s here… She might as well try and get as much info out of him as she can. And one thing she’s learned tonight? Spike likes to talk. Like… he really likes to talk. When she was all 1700s girl, she was all for it, because she thought he was like her: part of the genteel upperclass, someone who she could associate with (and this is the wiggy part)… she thought he was hot. Of course, with her 1700s brain, she would have described him as having handsome features or having a striking countenance, but either way, what it meant it is that she was clinging onto his every word because she thought he was a honey… which is something she plans on taking to her grave.
“Where ever did you get this coat?” Buffy asks him, gesturing to the leather duster that Spike let her sit on. It seems like a regular part of his ensemble— like seriously, every time she’s seen him, which has been three whole times now, he’s been wearing this exact outfit: tight jeans, a black tee shirt, a red button up which is hanging open, almost as an accent piece to add some color to what’s almost a monochrome, and this leather duster. Apart from his boots, they’re the only things with any real personality… aside from his hair, but she’d argue it’s more Billy Idol’s personality than Spike’s own. It’s like he’s trying hard to look like some kind of generic 80s bad boy. When Spike arches one of his eyebrows at her (the one with the scar— seriously, how did her noblewoman self seriously believe he was one of the gentry? God, she was so stupid and… totally hormonal), she elaborates, “Only it seems so… strange a garment for a nobleman to own.”
For a brief moment, Buffy worries she’s screwed up and blown her cover, that Spike is questioning just how influenced by a spell she is, but he just ruminates over her question, then tells her, “It’s an interesting story, milady, but not one I’m sure I ought to be telling you. To make a long story short, I won it in a duel.”
Her eyebrows itch up. “A duel?”
“Against a great warrior,” he says solemnly, to the point where Buffy is tempted to believe he is telling her the truth. “The best I ever fought against.”
A Slayer? Buffy wonders, but she can’t ask, not without giving herself away… though the thought of him taking this coat off the body of a Slayer he killed makes her stomach turn. “Do you always claim a trophy from those you defeat?”
Spike chuckles. “Not always intentionally, no. Though the two best I’ve faced, the best fighters… I’ve been fortunate enough to walk away with physical memories. The first was this scar—“ He points to his eyebrow, the white scar from earlier, “— and then the coat.”
“So you lost the first fight?”
“On the contrary. Won, actually. Sh— That first fighter, wasn’t so impressive as the second. Not as seasoned.”
He almost slipped up. He almost said she. He is talking about the Slayers. Bile practically rises in the back of Buffy’s throat. What sort of trophy is he hoping to claim from Willow? Her school notes? A lock of her pretty red hair? Or maybe something even something grosser and more overtly… vampier. Like… one of her fingers. Or a vial of her blood. You know, if he doesn’t drink all her blood first. She’s probably on par with poor Xin Rong, the first Slayer he ever killed. Which means this coat… it would’ve belonged to Nikki Wood, the second Slayer.
Buffy can’t listen to this any longer. Instead, she asks about, “And what does your wife your think of it? Your dueling?”
Spike smiles— it would be a cute sight if he weren’t, you know, Spike. He just seems so dopey and in love. It had made 1700s Buffy all jealous, knowing he was taken, but 90s Buffy? Is more than happy to know he’s very much not interested in her, especially since she herself is happily in a relationship. Especially since Spike seemed so weirdly fixated with her at the school… and the fact that he decided to essentially try and kidnap her tonight really isn’t reassuring, either. But the fact that he seems so devoted and genuinely in love with Drusilla— which Buffy didn’t even realize was possible for soulless vampires, since they’re supposed to be all with the ‘grr’ and the ‘arr’— she’s reassured he’s probably not luring her back to his lair for pervy purposes… unless he and Drusilla are into that, in which case, maybe she should start panicking. “She doesn’t mind it,” he says. “In fact, she finds it rather… erm…”
Oh, gross. She totally gets off on it, doesn’t she? Buffy should have totally known, what with Drusilla being a vampire and everything. Only Spike’s trying to come up with a gentlemanly way of wording it, right? Finally, he decides on, “She’s fond of sports, my Drusilla.”
“I see,” says Buffy, uncomfortably, shifting her weight on the uneven crate. It teeters back slightly. Then, “But does she not worry for your safety?” At the word worry, Buffy herself gets concerned at how easy it is to still talk like 1700s girl. It’s very much with the wigginess.
A little line forms between Spike’s eyebrows, reminding her of what his face like all bumpy, his already kinda pouty lips pouting more. “Of course she does,” Spike says, but he almost sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than he is her. It makes Buffy feel kinda sad. “But she trusts that I am able to take care of myself.”
Realizing that idiot, 1700s Buffy would be all with the simpering and apologies, Buffy quickly babbles, “Oh, I was not trying to insinuate that you could not, sir! I was merely—“
He cuts her off with a smile and a, “I know you didn’t mean anything by it, sweetness,” that makes her stomach flutter and her thighs clench. She hates the effect the little slip of a pet-name has on her, how pretty his voice sounds now that he sounds like Colin Firth from the Pride and Prejudice adaptation Mom recorded when it was on A&E instead of one of Cruella de Vil’s henchmen, the way her mouth gods dry while other parts of her are decidedly… not. Oh, God. She’s such a bad girlfriend. Not only did she run away from her boyfriend when he was being attacked by a vampire, she got turned on by another guy… his mortal enemy/family member, as matter of fact. After she got her memory back.
And as if this couldn’t get any worse, Spike’s nostrils flare slightly as he breathes in deep. That line forms between his eyebrows again, more inquisitive…
“So,” Buffy says, pressing her legs tighter together, hoping that the motion dampens the smell… if there is any smell. She hopes there isn’t any. The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes how profoundly gross it is. Can he smell other bodily functions, too? Like… does she majorly smell of B.O. right now? She applied deodorant before she left but given that she’s had more than few scares tonight and been running away from all kinds of scary monsters, Buffy thinks she may have sweat through it… which is disappointing. “Your wife won’t be jealous that you were accompanying me home, will she?”
Spike freezes. “Of course not. Why should she?”
Crap. Why did she say that? “She shouldn’t!” Buffy practically squeaks out. “Obviously! It’s… only that I know some wives are rather possessive of their husbands.”
“Dru doesn’t need to worry about me,” Spike says with a wan smile. “I’m the faithful sort.”
“Oh, I wasn’t implying otherwise!” Buffy hastily reassures him. “Anyone who hears you talk about her can tell just how much you love her.” Which was one of the weirder revelations of the night, because Buffy’s pretty sure she’s not lying… except vampires can’t love. Not those of the soulless variety, anyway. They’re supposed to be all with the killing and maiming and… well, devoid of anything resembling goodness. They’re not capable of it. But…
Ugh, what is she even thinking? Obviously, it was all part of Spike’s story, like the part about Drusilla being his wife. It wasn’t real.
Before Spike can say anything or Buffy can has to come up with another question to ask him, a blur of motion appears from behind Spike. Her first, knee-jerk instinct is to warn him that something is behind him… only to realize that blur is none other than Willow tackling him to the ground, ghost costume gone, and—
Oh, God, someone’s grabbing her! She opens her mouth to scream when— “It’s alright, it’s just me!”
Angel! Buffy turns herself around, looks up to see the concern written all his face. “Angel!” She gasps out, relieved, heart pounding. Then, “Oh, thank God!” She hugs him, buries her face in his chest, breathing in his scent— he kinda smells like a combination of dryer sheets and Tom Ford cologne at all times, so it’s nice to know he has a good sense of hygiene, even with the being dead and all. “Sorry about… running away on you.”
“It’s alright,” he says, and Buffy realizes that he’s tugging her away from where Willow and Spike are now fighting, knocking her wig slightly askew in the process. She hears all kinds of grunts and snarls. “I’m just glad you were safe. When I smelled Spike… I got worried.”
Smelled? He smelled Spike? Oh, God, what else does he smell? Buffy’s mortification fades when she hears Willow cry out, turning around just in time to see Spike and Willow are on the opposite side of the alley now… or they were, until Spike throws Willow across it and into the crate that he retrieved as Buffy’s seat. Willow groans as the crate easily breaks beneath her and Buffy…
Well, it hurts. Which is stupid. Vampire, right? Evil vampire who was just telling her in veiled terms that he got elements of his wardrobe from dead slayers, to be exact. Not exactly a nice guy. But… still. It just really sucks, seeing concretely that the nice guy thing was an act. It’s not like she didn’t know already but…
“I’m fine,” she hears herself tell Angel, her voice far away and cold. “Go help Willow. Please,” he adds, almost an afterthought. If Spike had wanted to hurt her, he would have long before now, right? It’s Willow he wanted. She was just the bait. It all seems to apparent now and she feels so, so stupid for not seeing it before, even when she was little Miss 1700s, scared and lost and willing to accept help from strange men with silver tongues.
She promises not to make that mistake twice as embarrassment burns red hot through her.
Angel seems conflicted, but lets her go, acting as a barrier between herself and Spike as he goes to rip Spike off of Willow. Willow gets back up to her feet in an instant, strands of her hair fallen loose from her updo in a way that would be very sexy and vixeny if she weren’t, you know, in a fight for her life, grabbing a piece of the broken crate as a makeshift stake. Angel does the same and the turn to face Spike in unison, stakes poised and ready, threatening them.
Buffy has a hard time seeing Spike over Angel’s towering frame, but she the top of his platinum blond head, the shine from his rippling leather duster— he must have somehow found time during the fight to grab it. Damn, he must really love that thing. Buffy’s torn between being amused and repulsed in equal measure at how much value he places on a coat, of all things, rather than the woman it belonged to. Angel takes a step to the right, enough so that Buffy can see Spike’s fangs bared, the bumpies visible— his true face visible. Just like her, he was in costume tonight. The only difference tonight is that his shift in personality was not the act of a spell: he was willingly deceiving her. Only now are they able to see each other’s true selves at last.
Spike’s eyes meet her, eyes no longer the pretty blue that had made her 1700s counterpart’s heart flutter, but yellow and glowing, like a wild animal. It makes her heart race, her confusion growing. Why is he looking at her? Shouldn’t he be trying to fight off Willow and Angel? She removes her wig, showing off her shorter, blonde hair, hardening her gaze, just so he knows he’s not going to find any kind of sympathy or an ally of any sort in her. The spell is broken; she’s not some little girl he can trick anymore. Embarrassment burns in her at how easily he was able to in the first place.
Spike lets out a growl then slinks away, retreating into the shadows. Willow looks ready to take off after him, but she’s stopped by Angel’s hand on her shoulder. “Don’t,” he advises. “You’re not ready yet.”
Willow looks like she wants to protest, but just sighs, stashing the makeshift stake in the waistband of her (well, actually, Buffy’s) skirt, then walks over. “Are you okay, Buffy? Did he hurt you?”
Buffy plasters a smile on her face. It feels like it’s stretched there with saran wrap or duct tape, unnatural and forced. “I’m fine, Will. No boo-boos upon me. See?” Inwardly, she winces at her choice of words, the almost childish boo-boos juxtaposed against upon. Still, she holds out her arms for Willow, shows off her uninjured neck, lets her friend fuss over her like mother hen until she’s satisfied Buffy’s safe and crushing her into a hug.
“Oh, God, Buffy, we were so worried! I popped back into my body and ended up back near your house and— and you weren’t there, and then I caught up with Angel and—“
“Spike had gotten to you by then,” Angel says grimly.
“He really didn’t hurt you?” Willow checks again, disbelieving.
“He didn’t,” Buffy assures, though it pains her to admit it. Probably because it was all fake. “I don’t know why, but… he didn’t.”
“He was probably going to keep you hostage,” Angel surmises… and he comes up with that answer quickly. It makes Buffy feel uneasy. Even though she’s still pretty sure Spike was lying about most of what he said, there’s still that tiny chance he could have been telling a smidgen of truth. After all, there’s still a lot she doesn’t know about Angel, especially when it comes to his past. Was this something he used to do? Trick young girls into thinking he was walking them home and take them prisoner? But she doesn’t want to ask: not because she doesn’t want to know, but because she’s determined not to let Spike get in her head.
“Maybe,” Willow says, eyeing Angel uncertainly. But she smiles at Buffy reassuringly then says, “We should probably head back to your house to make sure Xander and Cordelia haven’t killed each other yet.”
“Good idea,” Buffy agrees, nodding sagely. Wow, she really was out of it, agreeing to let them pair up together… but hey, at least Army Guy Xander let her pair up with Angel, right?
She, Angel, and Willow walk back towards her house, with Willow explaining what she and Giles were up to while Buffy was all hapless maiden. Angel’s cool hand almost shyly brushes against her own and Buffy takes it almost out of instinct.
It’s not until almost ready to cross the street that Buffy gasps, smacks Willow’s arm, and exclaims, “Willow! You’re wearing the costume I picked out for you!”
“Oh. Yeah.” Willow looks shy but cute in her Willow-y way, cheeks pink and head ducking down, smiling as she bites at her bottom lip. It’s all very endearing and Buffy is so annoyed Xander is not here to see her in all her sexy/adorable glory.
“What happened to your ghost costume?” Buffy all but demands, grinning from ear to ear because she is so glad that thing is gone.
“Well, when the spell kicked in, it kinda went away. You know, cause that was the part of the costume I bought at the shop. So… Well, having Giles see me like this all nice was pretty much a good way to get over the embarrassment quick,” Willow says, though Buffy knows she’s for sure still a little scarred over the Giles thing. Buffy knows there’s no way she’d be able to cope if she was more scantily clad than normal in front of Giles. “I figured I didn’t really need it anymore.”
“Well, I’m proud of you,” Buffy says. “And I—“
“Buffy, Willow, look out!” Angel barks, grabbing Buffy roughly by the arm and pulling her back. She lets out a cry of alarm which dies in her throat as they’re blinded by a pair of bright, yellowed headlights. There’s the smell of burnt rubber, the squeak of breaks stopping. Buffy squints, brings her free arm to her eyebrows, and sees the dim outline of the driver— a guy with spiky hair. He waves them along. Buffy waves to him and Willow must see it, too, because she also waves back, albeit timidly, her cool girl confidence retreating and turning back into her cutesy, shy girl charm as she hurries across the street. Buffy squeezes Angel’s hand hard as she hastens her gait as well, grateful he doesn’t have circulation for her to cut off.
“Gee, that was close,” she says, laughing nervously as the van zooms forward.
“I’m sorry,” Angel apologizes, massaging Buffy’s fingers with his other hand. “I just… I panicked.”
“No, it’s fine,” Buffy reassures him, giving him a small smile. She realizes it’s the first time she’s actually met his eyes tonight since she was all spell-girl… and the concern, the worry she finds in his eyes obliterates whatever anxieties Spike’s stories might have awakened within her. That’s not to say she’ll ignore them, per say, but whoever Spike knew? That’s not who Angel is now. He’s… kind. Sweet. Considerate. He’s good. Which is more than Spike can say about himself. “I wasn’t paying attention,” she continues, squeezing his hand, eyes never leaving his face.
Angel’s eye’s widen slightly, lips parting slightly, but when he squeezes her hand again, Buffy feels those familiar butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
The sound of the slap rings out throughout the factory. Spike turns his head with it, smelling the blood before feeling it trickle down from the marks Dru created. “Bad doggy,” she says, sounding truly disappointed. Her voice trembles, like she’s close to crying. “You ruined Mummy’s plans.”
“‘m sorry, pet,” Spike says wearily, turning to face her. “I—“
“Hush!” She cuts him off, her voice rising loudly to a volume he didn’t know she was capable of in her frail state. “This was our chance, my William. Our only chance… and now you’ve ruined it.” Her lips wobble, face looking so close to crumbling that it breaks Spike’s heart. He hates himself for disappointing her so. If he hadn’t been such a ponce… if he hadn’t let Buffy rest… if he hadn’t been such a git and just taken on Angel and the Slayer— after all, he reckons he still he still knows Angel’s old tricks and it’s not like the Slayer’s any great fighter yet…
But it was that coldness in the girl’s eyes— Buffy’s— that made him falter. Such a contrast from the warmth he’d seen earlier… He knew there was little chance she harbored any fondness for him at all, but he knew that she’d hate him forever if he knocked out her hulking git of a boyfriend, then took off with her best mate so his girl could drain her dry and be cured, and leave this rotten little town for good.
Even worse, he knows he ought to regret it. Knows he should have done it anyway, sod what Buffy bloody well thinks. Drusilla’s the center of his universe, his salvation, the goddess he’s worshipped for over a century… Nothing, certainly not the opinion of a high school girl, should stand between restoring her to her full health… and even if Slayer’s blood isn’t a cure to Dru’s condition, getting rid of the Slayer’ll certainly make things a lot easier for him in the long run, and if he’d’ve just brought the chit back—
But doesn’t. Not fully. Yeah, he’s not pleased to be on Dru’s bad side, but he can’t get that look on Buffy’s face out of his mind. Her eyes, blazing and burning and indicting all at once, like what Lady Justice herself would look like if anyone ever bothered to untie that blindfold from around her eyes. The spell’d clearly broken earlier than Spike’d realized and she’d cottoned on to what he was doing, realized she was a piece of the puzzle, and she didn’t fancy it one bit, and that that glare she shot him over Angel’s shoulder told him that and more.
But it doesn’t matter, Spike reminds himself, what some high school girl thinks. What matters most is Dru and her health. And he buggered magnificently up tonight.
Dru clutches her head with both hands. Every atoms in Spike’s body screams at him to go to her side, to comfort her, as she breathes out, “I… I must retire. Miss Edith, she calls to me. Says it’s past my bedtime.”
“Course,” murmurs Spike, striding across the room. “Lemme help you—“
“No.” She speaks clearly, strangely lucidly, even though she was just talking about that damnable doll, her eyes sad and cold at once, blue fire as she all but glares at Spike with tears in her eyes. “I will sleep alone tonight.”
“You’re not well, Dru,” he insists, even though being rebuffed and dismissed feels like a wooden stake to the heart, even if he deserves it. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. You’re weak.”
“I’ll find someone else to help me,” she tells him cooly before walking away, hardly sparing him a second glance. He knows who she’ll pick. Not who in particular, but he knows exactly the sort. A bloke, probably a handsome one. Taller that Spike, muscled and handsome, virile and dumb, but appealing in a way. Dru hasn’t been well enough for shagging, of course, so if Spike hears anything resembling a moan or a sigh come from their bed chamber, the bloke’ll get staked, Dru’s edict on him being allowed in the bedchamber tonight be be damned. Actually, regardless of what happens in there, no matter how chaste they keep it, he plans he kill whatever bloke helps Dru change into her nightgown, if only so he can take out his aggression, jealousy, and frustration out on somebody. He’ll be down one minion and she knows it and he knows full well he deserves it but it doesn’t make him any less mad at the bloke, at Dru, at the Slayer, but most of all himself.
And to make matters worse… her scent surrounds him. The sumptuous, cloying Buffy scent, her natural perfume permeating him, embracing him… even the smell of her arousal lingers behind, something he’d pretended not to notice, especially since he playing the part of the gentleman and all, but fuck… If he’d had a little more time with the girl, he would have had fun playing with her just for the sake of playing, trying to figure out ways to get her all hot and bothered. He wonders if it was little petname that did it; what had he called her again? Was it sweetheart? No, wait. Sweetness. Cause she’d been too damned sweet, she was nearly giving him cavities, but he’d damn well lapped up every bit of it she was willing to give him, so starved for it, he was…
And it had been his downfall, because the damned bitch of a Slayer and fucking Angel showed up right after. He wondered how long the spell had been over; it couldn’t have been long. He wondered if it was the prim, proper gentlewoman or the Valley Girl he’d had been the one he’d gotten all hot…
Not that it mattered. Either way, he’d buggered up splendidly. Buffy’d ran off into the arms of sodding Angel, so that’s what being noble got him in the end and Dru had banished him from even sharing their bed for the night.
God, he wishes he’d just said to hell with the whole bloody plan and stayed in tonight and to watch the Great Pumpkin.
He kicks the nearest objects to him, which happens to be a chair, and lets out an inarticulate roar of rage.
“Hey, Buffy.”
Buffy looks up from her math homework (which is way boring) and looks up at Willow (much more interesting) with a smile. “Hey,” she says, raising her voice to slightly louder volume than what feels comfortable normally to be heard over the constant splish-splashing of the fountain behind them. She scoots over on the stone bench, ignoring the slight sting against the backs of her legs as she makes room for Will.
Willow takes the spot, nervously chewing on her lip. “So,” she says, awkward, “h-how was it last night? With Angel? D-did he like the costume?”
Buffy shrugs, laughs a little. “I mean, he didn’t dislike it? But it sounds like he definitely prefers the Buffy of the 20th century best. I guess he thought girls back then were kinda boring or something.”
“Oh,” Willow says.
“Yeah,” says Buffy, because what else can she say? On the one hand, it’s gratifying to know that Angel likes her just the way she already is. On the other hand… She’s seen how quickly people’s lives can change. Willow used to be a normal girl, just like her, and then poof, wham— one day, she was a Slayer, with all this superstrength and these powers. She’s seen kids from her school get turned into vampires, seen the difference between someone with a soul and someone without… And with that spell, it was like she was a whole other person. What happens if she changes into someone Angel doesn’t like? Did he not like her last night? It was a question she hadn’t been brave enough to ask, along with anything Spike or Drusilla related. She had just wanted to enjoy the time alone, to feel like a girl with a regular life sneaking her older boyfriend in when her mom was away… and for the most part, she thinks they succeeded. There was some scary movie watchage… but mostly snuggles and kisses. Overall, it was a pretty nice night, minus the almost kidnapping. She tells Willow about it, sparing no detail, relishing in the squeals and the “Ooh”s and the “Ahh”s, knowing the other girl wants to live vicariously through her. “So what about you? What was the rest of your night like?”
Willow shrugs. “I ate some Reese’s peanut butter cups, then I got started on that essay Mrs. Simon assigned to us—“
“Essay? We have an essay?” Buffy asks, panicked.
Willow smiles. “It’s not due until next Friday. I was just getting a jump on it.”
“Oh.” Buffy breathes out a sigh of relief. “God, Will, don’t scare me like that!”
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all as she grins… but her expression soon morphs into a frown. “Um, but… There was one thing…”
“What thing?”
Willow slides her backpack off her shoulders, nervously chewing on her lips all the while before pulling out the outfit Buffy loaned her last night. Buffy doesn’t see the problem until Willow mournfully says, “I’m so sorry, Buffy! I didn’t notice until I was changing out of it last night that I ripped it! See, there? By the elbow?” She holds up the shirt, points to a small hole.
“Oh,” says Buffy, noting it. She tilts her head to the side, studying it. “Huh.”
“I’ll totally buy you a new one or— or give you money to buy you a new one if you bought it in LA or something, just let me—“
“Willow, it’s fine,” Buffy assures her, folding the top up and placing it into her own backpack, along with the other piece of the outfit. “I bet I can totally mend it, easily.”
Willow stares at her. Then, “You know how to sew?”
Buffy shrugs, smiling awkwardly. “Kinda? It’s, like, some leftover knowledge from being 1700s girl. I’d be like way better at like needlepoint or embroidery but I feel like if I can do that, then it can’t to hard for me to fix this, right?”
“Wow, that’s… that’s really cool, Buffy!” Willow says, smiling, actually sounding impressed. “Hey, if you’re not to busy, do you think you could do some of my clothes? You know, when you’re done fixing your top? It’s just that Slayage kinda tends to be hard on the wardrobe and my mom is always on me about ruining my clothes— well, whenever she’s home to notice, that is—“ Buffy feels a sharp pang in her heart, the way she always does whenever Willow casually mentions her parents’ absence from home— “and it’s really annoying— but if you don’t want to, that’s okay with—“
“I’d be happy to,” Buffy interrupts her, sincere.
Willow lights up like a Christmas tree— wait. Maybe not a Christmas tree since she’s Jewish. A menorah? Is that culturally appropriate? Either way, she’s clearly happy by Buffy granting her request, leaning across the bench to hug her and thanking her. “How did this even happen, by the way?” Buffy asks, holding up her top again, inspecting the hole in the elbow. “Weren’t you kinda… incorporeal?”
“I think it must have happened when I was fighting Spike,” says Willow, spitting his name out sullenly.
“Oh,” says Buffy. She almost forgot, somehow, that Willow had fought him. “I guess that’s just another reason for me to hate him,” she says, though her words sound hollow even to her own ears. She wishes she did, especially after what he did, after learning what he was planning to do to her, but it’s like she can’t fully bring herself to hate Spike. She should; he wants to kill her best friend. And as if that somehow wasn’t bad enough, the fact he tried to kidnap her and shit talked her boyfriend should be enough to permanently earn him a place on her shit list… but every time she tries, she remembers him hunching over, grabbing that wooden crate for her to sit down on. She remembers the vehemence in his voice when he talked about Drusilla and how it wasn’t her fault she was crazy…
But what is true? What’s just a bunch of lies about Angel that he was feeding her? But then she wonders what the point of lying to her would serve if he was just talking her back to his creepy laid to feed her to his girlfriend or hold her hostage of whatever…
And then she remembers, yet again, how much she should hate him, but how much she doesn’t. Again. God, it’s so confusing. She needs answers: concrete answers. She knows she should ask Angel; she should have asked him last night, but… Well, the guy he was then and the guy he is now are like two different people, and she didn’t want to ruin the time she had with her boyfriend by talking about Jack the Ripper.
“Hey,” Buffy says conversationally, folding up her top, “have you heard about anyone named Drusilla?”
“In general? Yes,” Willow answers, clearly confused.
Buffy rolls her eyes, good-natured. “I’m talking about a vampire. One who pals around with Spike? Maybe a— a wife? Or a girlfriend or something?” She refrains from saying that she knows about Drusilla. “I just know you’re more of the researchy type.”
Willow frowns. “He did have a girlfriend named Drusilla. At one point. She was kinda… well, crazy.” Willow does the universal cuckoo sign and Buffy’s blood turns to ice in her veins. “But Giles said she got dusted in Prague this spring, so we shouldn’t have to worry about her.”
“I don’t know about that.” It’s hard to get the words out. Her throat feels dry. Maybe he was lying. Maybe… maybe he thought she already knew he had a loony girlfriend and just told her those stories about Angel to form a rift between them— except why would he care? She’s just a girl and… and that would be a horrible thing to lie about. He’s a vampire, she reminds herself. They’re kind of known for being awful. But he seemed so… upset and it seemed like he was speaking about her as though she was still around… so she should probably warn Willow all the same. “I think she might still be alive.” Then, hastily correcting herself, “Or, um, undead.”
Willow’s eyebrows furrow. “Really? Why?”
“One thing I learned about Spike last night? He never wants to shut up.” Buffy says it with humor but she hates how weirdly guilty she feels, speaking about him with such disdain… and she’s not loving the ye olde slang stuck in her brain, either. Couldn’t she have left that behind last night? “And one of the things he talked a lot about was Drusilla… and it was definitely in the present tense.”
Willow’s eyes widen. “Wait, really?”
She prompts Buffy to share as much as she can, which leads to Buffy explaining… well, basically everything. In some ways, Buffy feels uncomfortable, like the Thanksgiving turkey after dinner, everything being picked apart and left as a dry, shrunken husk of bones… which is gross mental image and also not even the right holiday, even if November is now upon them and maybe a bit harsh. It’s not like Willow’s prying; she’s just asking questions. Valuable questions. The kinds of questions that might save her life… So Buffy shouldn’t feel bad or guilty at all for telling Willow any of this.
“Wow,” Willow breathes when she’s finished. “So… what did Angel say?”
Buffy looks down at her lap. “I… kinda didn’t ask.”
“Why not?”
Buffy shrugs, even though she knows her reasons. It just… it seems hard to share with Willow. “Kinda thought it would ruin the mood,” she decides to say. Then, “Do… do you think he did that stuff? Or- or do you think Spike was just lying?” She looks up, almost hopeful.
Willow looks contrite before rising to her feet. “Gee, did you hear the bell? I think I just heard the bell. I better get to English—“
“Willow.” Buffy is solemn when she reaches out, grabbing her friends’s arm. She knows that she doesn’t stand a chance at actually stopping her; despite looking like the average teenage girl, Willow is crazy strong.
Willow’s almost pained when she looks at Buffy. “When… When Angel started helping us… After we found out he was a vampire but before we knew about the soul, Giles and I did a lot of research on him. He… he did some bad things, Buffy. Really bad.” She swallows. “He’s not that person anymore. I wouldn’t work with him if he was. But he… He is a vampire. And when he didn’t have a soul, he was just as bad as the rest of them. Maybe even worse.”
A chill races up Buffy’s spine, tingling at the base of her neck to her tailbone. “What… What kinds of things did he do?”
Willow seems to gain slightly more confidence, even though she’s gentle when she tells Buffy, “I think you should ask him that.”
Buffy’s disappointed and relieved at the same time. She knows Willow’s right; it’s not fair to put her in the middle of her own relationship. But Angel’s so… cryptic. And tight-lipped. Except… you know. When he’s not. She thinks about his tongue brushing against her own in her mouth as some girl screamed as she probably got brutally axe-murdered on the TV behind him, the two of them tuning her out because Buffy was blocking his vision with her entire body and he was sliding a cool hand just underneath her shirt, no further than her midback but it made her heart race, the work out some of that energy that had arisen early in the evening in a healthy, constructive way— but now instead of it feeling like a thrilling, stolen moment in every clandestine teenage love affair, it feels tainted, bitter in her mouth. Was it… normal for him? That book said he traveled with Spike and Drusilla when he was with Darla. Spike killed people with railroad stakes. Did they… you know… when Spike and Dru were in the other room, torturing people with railroad stakes together or something?
“I really do have to go,” Willow says, apologetic. “I should tell Giles all this stuff… unless you want to come with?” She sounds hopeful. “We’ll probably be late to class, but he’s pretty good about writing passes.”
Buffy shrugs even as she says, “I probably shouldn’t. I have trig next hour. You know how Mr. Iversen is with pop quizzes.”
Willow nods. “Thanks for telling me, though. This will help a lot.”
Buffy can’t help but smile, even if it is mostly half-hearted. “I’m glad I could help out at least once.”
Willow frowns. “What are you talking about? You help out plenty.”
“Yeah… maybe on sharpening stakes and the being bait front.”
“That’s not true!” Willow insists, indignant.
Buffy rolls her eyes, even though she’s not angry. “Willow, you really don’t have to lie to make me feel better. I know my purpose. It’s fine.” The bell rings. “Well, I guess that’s my cue to go,” Buffy says, climbing to her feet and pulling her backpack over her shoulders, trying to mentally prepare herself for the period full of formulas and boredom ahead…
Only to be stopped in place by Willow grabbing ahold of the strap of her backpack with surprisingly force. Buffy halts in place, turning over her shoulder to look at her friend with confusion, only to be met with Willow’s ‘resolve’ face as Xander calls it. “No,” Willow says, with an authority and confidence that Buffy’s not used to at all. “You’re not going anywhere until you listen to what I have to say. You’re an important part of our group. And— and not for the reasons you think. I mean, are you forgetting the fact that you saved my life a few weeks ago? You clonked Spike in the head with a fire axe! And— and you come with me on patrols all the time and— You do so much more than most people would, Buffy,” Willow says, eyes shining earnestly. “You’re way braver than you give yourself credit for. I just… I wish you wouldn’t put yourself down so often.”
Buffy stands there, silent in shock as she absorbs Willow’s words, torn between overwhelming gratitude and still feeling like it’s not quite enough. Then Willow says, “Okay, now you can go to class,” before practically shooing her, “I don’t want you to be late.”
There’s a lump in Buffy’s throat and she feels dangerously close to tears. Not the sad kind, but… She still blink rapidly, trying to hold them back, smiling all the same. “Thanks, Wi—“
“I mean it!” Willow interrupts, actually shooing her now. “Go! Education is important!”
Buffy actually laughs now, even as one of the tears escapes free from her eyelashes. She ducks her head down so no one sees, tries covertly wiping it away. She half-wishes she’d taken Willow up on her offer now to go tell Giles about what happened last night, if only so she can give her friend a hug— a big one. The biggest one she possibly can. She knows it can’t be easy, being the Slayer. It’s something she, Xander, and Cordelia all willingly took on when they decided to hang out with Willow, but at the end of the day, they go back to their normal lives— trig tests and homework and social lives… but Willow never had that choice.
Buffy’s never been one for religion or theology or anything like that. But since hanging out with Willow and the Scoobies… and okay, mostly just Giles, she’s learned that it’s not just random chance when it comes to who gets to be a Slayer. Willow’s the Chosen One, capital C, capital O. Someone (or something) out there picked Willow for a reason. They saw that she had the power to do real good in the world… and luckily enough, they put her in Buffy’s life. And not just so Willow could save it a bunch of times, but so that Buffy could have the best friend ever.
So that means Buffy will do whatever she can to help her, no matter how small the task… even if, for right now, it’s just mending her clothes.