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[fic] Threads (Part2) *rewrite/repost*
Threads (Part 2)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
akainagi
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Genre: BtVS, x-over with Stephen King’s Insomnia.
Status: WIP, rewrite/repost
Summary: Buffy returns from Los Angeles carrying a curse, one she must face alone. But when she disappears again, will anyone, even her Watcher, keep faith in her?
Buffy was a night person. Duh. It went with being a teenager and a Slayer. A full night’s sleep was a luxury: nice, but not vital. Giles had explained to her once that the ability to function on minimal sleep for extended periods of time was hardwired into the physiology of a Slayer. Like superhuman strength and accelerated healing, it was a biological necessity. In theory, it made perfect sense.
But there was a world of difference between theory and practice, and even Buffy’s sleep-deprived brain could still do basic math.
On her last night in Los Angeles, Buffy had lain in that hideously uncomfortable bed, nodding off around 11:30 at night. Likewise she had awakened at, (according to the clock) 2:42 AM. It had been with a kind of morbid fascination that she had done the calculations: three hours and twelve minutes.
Three hours and twelve minutes. A month ago it had been over four hours per night. Two months ago it had been a positively indulgent five-and-a-half hours, give-or-take. Buffy had observed her wake-up call rolling back with a sense of detachment. That feeling was pretty characteristic of the whole summer; every action feeling like she was once-removed. Like it was happening to someone else.
At daybreak on her first full day back on the Hellmouth, Buffy numbly surveyed her bedroom ceiling. No cracks. Not like in her old L.A. apartment. Counting them had given her something to do in the hours between waking up and actually getting up. Hopefully being at home would help things. Perhaps when she started patrolling again, her nights would resettle into some semblance of normalcy. Well, Slayer normalcy, anyway.
After she had finished crying herself into oblivion last night, she had been sure that she would drop off as soon as her head hit the pillow. No such luck. Instead she just lay there, feeling the miserable pull of heretofore uncharted levels of exhaustion, her bedside clock mocking her with its neon display.
Last night wasn’t the first time she had let that priceless window of opportunity pass her by. She had purposely stayed up all night a few weeks ago, expecting to crash had and sleep soundly that second night. And she had, but only for a few hours. She couldn’t even really blame the nightmares anymore either. While her dreams weren’t exactly Disney material, they weren’t the vivid Technicolor wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat-doozies that had followed her throughout the first half her absence.
She hated lying in the dark with nothing but her own thoughts to occupy her. The inside of her head still wasn’t her favorite place to be. Especially now that she had to interact with her fellow man on a level infinitely more personal than ‘May I take your order?’
Buffy knew she needed to reclaim the motions of everyday life. She crawled out of bed after several hours of not-sleeping, trudged into the bathroom and subsequently the shower. A good soak under the hot spray had her feeling almost human again. And if makeup didn’t completely hide the shadows beneath her eyes, they at least helped. But while she had brokered a fragile truce with the woman looking out from the mirror, Buffy still couldn’t bring herself to like her that much. That would take a while longer. After shrugging into some comfortable clothes she felt ready to brave the descent downstairs. Once more into the breach.
Her late night catharsis had taken the edge off her nerves, even as it failed to drive her into unconsciousness. Her mother’s forced cheer was only moderately irritating this morning. This was going to take time, she again reminded herself. Joyce tried to fill her daughter in on all the happenings she had missed during her absence. As if Buffy hadn’t left town partly to avoid dealing with life on the Hellmouth. Why, she wondered idly as she stirred her cereal, did everyone around her insist on filling every silence with talk. They probably thought that if they didn’t actively engage her in conversation at all times she might take the opportunity to bolt again.
“So how did it go with your friends?” her mother asked from behind her coffee cup.
Read: How did your friends take the fact that you abandoned them like you abandoned me?
Buffy chose to ignore the subtext of the question. “A little awkward, but we’ll deal.”
“Hmmm. What did you talk about?”
Buffy thought for a moment. She might have answered that her friends mostly talked about being forced to spend months busting ass in the Slaying department. However, she knew that the S-word was probably something to be avoided around her mother for the near future. Or for the rest of their natural lives. “Stuff,” she replied noncommittally.
“Must have been a lot of stuff. You got back pretty late. And you weren’t exactly quiet coming in. What did you guys do?”
Read: what kind of trouble did you get into, and when can I expect the fallout?
“Just raped and pillaged mom, you know the usual.”
Joyce’s eyebrow twitched. “Very funny.”
“I thought so.”
Joyce very deliberately put down her coffee, set her jaw and gave Buffy the familiar look that screamed, ‘Your behavior is seriously impairing my ability to pretend everything is okay.’ That look was trademarked about the time Buffy burned down the school gym, and it was fine-tuned around the time of her first expulsion.
When Buffy was fifteen, she was staring down that same expression from the confines of a locked inpatient psychiatric ward; addled by sedatives and terrified by the screams of all the genuinely crazy people. During that horrible incarceration, her mother had visited her like clockwork. Having a psychopath for a daughter had apparently been easier for Joyce to deal with than the idea of her only offspring being a Vampire Slayer. Buffy had always tried very hard not to look in her mother’s eyes during visiting hours. She invariably looked at her gaping sneakers instead. The mental health counselors had confiscated her shoelaces at the same time they strip-searched her for contraband. They didn’t want her using her own shoelaces to hang herself.
And the day Joyce had dropped her only child off for her first day at Sunnydale High, she had given her that same patented glare, this time pre-emptive:
“Try not to get kicked out,” Joyce had told her daughter. And Buffy had managed pretty well. For two years.
Now, at seventeen, Buffy knew her mom could shove her back into that psych ward again if she really wanted to. Not for the first time, Buffy wondered if there was any hope for this relationship to survive, or whether it was simply fated to descend into open hostility.
“Buffy, you know I’m happy you’re home. You have no idea how happy,” Joyce tried to assure her daughter. “But staying out partying until all hours on your first night back. Not a great way to start off.”
Buffy fought down the automatic upswell of frustration. Hah. Partying. Because last night had been so much fun she had to lock herself in her room and cry for hours to recover. She felt like telling her mother that she honestly couldn’t remember the last time she had stayed out at night for any other reason than slaughtering the undead.
But Buffy also knew she was never going to survive the next few weeks if she kept wigging out over every offhand comment. She had never excelled at picking her battles. Far easier just to start swinging at the first sign of trouble. Turning-the-other-cheek was not a weapon naturally in her arsenal. And if her mother thought she was going to be spending all her nights at home studying in deference to maternal sensibilities, Joyce had another thing coming. Was it that her mother still didn’t buy a word of the whole Slayer gig, or was she just hoping the problem might go away with enough browbeating?
Buffy sighed loudly, feeling like she was about to address a judge, jury and executioner all rolled into one. “Okay, Mom. For reasons that I really don’t want to get into with you right now - you know that me going out at night – probably not going to change anytime soon.”
Joyce opened her mouth, but Buffy held up a hand. “Please let me finish,” she forged on. “I’ve got a lot I need to get used to again. I need to get used to having a mom again, having friends again, hopefully going back to school again. And then there’s my not-so-day job that we are still not going into right now.”
Buffy’s mom looked like she had about a dozen things she wanted to say, all of them probably negative. Instead Joyce just pursed her lips tightly. Buffy felt like she was playing a real-life game of minesweeper. One false move and boom.
“Finished yet?” Joyce asked pointedly
“Almost,” Buffy answered. “For the record there was no partying last night. There was absolutely no raping and pillaging. That was a joke, in case you didn’t notice. The night was PG rated for mild comedic violence only. Plus, I’m not exactly in the mood for whoopin’ it up. I mean, God, the highlight of the evening was a tea party at Giles’ place.”
“Mr. Giles?” Joyce looked like she had just sucked a lemon, her expression turned so sour.
Buffy’s jaw clenched slightly. When the hell had her shy, bookish, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly-if-it-was-still-breathing Watcher done to deserve a place on Joyce’s Shit-List. It had to be something major. God, that list was populated by a jailbait homewrecking secretary and one very morally bankrupt and highly-paid divorce lawyer. Making it on that list was like getting double-billing with the Antichrist in her mother’s eyes.
Sure, her mom probably associated Giles with the whole ‘my daughter really does slay vampires’ concept. That doubtless had something to do with it. Buffy remembered one of their conversations yesterday. She had only been home a few hours and had asked if her mom knew how Giles was doing. She had asked about everyone, of course. Her mother had gladly shared news about the Scooby Gang. Indeed, Joyce had seemed positively relieved that Buffy was making an attempt to interact at all.
Mention Giles though, and Joyce turned monosyllabic and looked like she was ready to spit nails. Witness her mother’s current expression. “You were out half the night drinking tea with the school librarian?” the woman demanded.
They so needed to end this conversation, or Buffy might have to renege on her decision not to allow this to devolve into a high-volume verbal melee. Welcome to the State of Denial. Population: my mother, Buffy thought bitterly. The teen suppressed a compulsive eyeroll, but still couldn’t squelch the swiftly rising tide of consternation.
“Yes, with the school librarian,” Buffy snapped. “And with Xander and Willow and Oz and Cordelia. It was a regular coffee-klatch. Or tea-klatch. God, mom, he’s a 44-year-old stuffy British librarian for Christ’s sake. You act like I’m off shooting smack or something.“ Her voice was probably a little louder than was prudent if she wanted to avoid full-scale familial warfare, but she was just a little too pissed right now.
Buffy shoved herself back from the table. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready to battle a hideous little toad of a principal so just *maybe* I can get my senior year back.” She was out of the kitchen before her mother could fire back a reply. Buffy traversed the stairs to her bedroom in mood that could most accurately be described as bitchy. This was going to be a long day. Probably a long few days. And if she didn’t manage to get back into Sunnydale High it was going to be a long year.
+++
Just when Buffy thought the day couldn’t get any warmer or fuzzier, she laid eyes on Principal Snyder. He had no qualms about informing the Summers women, in no uncertain terms, that the idea of permanently barring Buffy from Sunnydale High filled him with positively orgiastic pleasure. By the time they left his office Joyce was once again fuming and Buffy was seriously tempted to start singing a rousing rendition of “Snyder Uber Allez” on the way out.
The march back through the halls was punctuated by Joyce’s indignation. But when they passed the library, Buffy gave up even the pretense of listening to her mother’s angry Snyder-fueled tirade. Buffy paused at the large double doors, seized by the compelling desire to sit down at the familiar table and confide in her Watcher how viscerally disturbing this day was becoming. The idea that she might never be allowed return to this place was seriously wigsome. But as much as she wanted to unburden herself to Giles, she hadn’t earned back that right yet.
She wished that Slayers came with X-ray vision so she could at least see the familiar setting: The stacks that contained an amusingly disproportionate ratio of demonology texts to square meters of shelf space. The computer Willow used to hack her way through all but the most indomitable firewalls. Xander’s favorite chair (he insisted that he slept better in that particular chair, even though they were all exactly the same). The hidden cache of all things pointy and deadly that her Watcher kept under lock and key. Giles’ office with its world-class-anal-retentive filing system and the secret stash of real English tea that she managed to cajole him into sharing on occasion. And her Watcher; doubtless poring over the latest occult tome with the single-minded enthusiasm usually reserved for five-year-olds on Christmas morning.
Buffy bit back a growl. Yes she screwed up. But dammit, she was back, and she was trying. Yes, she screwed up badly, but wasn’t there some part of her life that she was allowed to keep?
And while she really didn’t do it consciously, maybe her hand did come up, and maybe she was about to push open those doors and walk onto that hallowed ground. If only to burn the place in her memory in case she’d never be allowed to actually sit there as a student ever again.
Even the sound of the class bell failed to drown out Joyce’s derogatory statement aimed not at the wicked little troll in the principal’s office, but the man most likely just a few meters away in the library. And Buffy maybe lost it just a little. With no consideration for propriety or passersby, Buffy proceeded to respectfully request that her mother cease and desist with the snarky shit and that a proctology exam might be in order. Because all signs pointed to the fact that something had crawled up there and expired.
So Buffy turned on her heels, nearly plowing into Xander and Willow. They were probably headed for the library. Must be nice, she thought darkly. Based on their expressions they had likely witnessed the entire exchange, but she couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment. She stormed past without a word, not even stopping in the parking lot. It was a nice day for a walk, anyway. The option of riding home with her mother wasn’t even worth considering.
+++
Giles stifled a sneeze behind his handkerchief. Nose full of dust, most likely; an occupational hazard of working in a library. Or perhaps someone, somewhere was talking about him. He returned the cloth square to his pocket and focused his attention back on the task at hand. Reshelving. Tedious busywork that left far too much room for the mind to wander into unpleasant territory.
Buffy was back. He had reminded himself of that fact countless times today. And while that thought caused a suffusion of warmth in some elemental part of him, it also fed a black well of uncertainty. Last evening had been characterized by a surreal quality; like a pleasant dream that had somehow become warped; melted and twisted like a clock in a bloody Dali painting.
There had been very little of the Slayer he remembered in the broken creature that graced his stoop last night. He had seen her vulnerable expression grow shuttered, become walled-over and brittle, and then finally crack. His traitorous mind replayed that final moment in slow-motion. Buffy had given him a barely audible, strangled apology and fled his home and his presence; her expression, her body language all screaming at him to stay away. She had looked terrified.
His Slayer had always worn her bravado well, even from their first acquaintance. As her Watcher, Giles had been impressed by ability to project confidence in the face of impossible odds. Her armor had stood her in good stead over the years. So what had happened over the past few months to shatter it so completely? Had destroying Angel alone brought her so low? Was Angel’s hold over Buffy truly so great that the vampire still retained her heart, even from his seat in Hell? Giles’ hand trembled slightly as he shelved another book.
The Watcher heard his name being called from the library’s lower level. He abandoned his shelving duties in favor of Willow and Xander, who were already taking up their customary seats at the library’s large oak table. He took note of the pair’s tight expressions. Xander was scowling and Willow was looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“Did something happen?” the librarian asked as he approached the center table.
Xander jerked his head at the direction of the library entrance, “Just the Summers’ edition of Family Feud. Live and in-person.”
He was proficient in centuries-dead languages, yet the diction of the California Teenager still eluded him at every turn. “Perhaps you could elucidate those of us who aren't fluent in American pop-culture," Giles requested.
Willow looked rather grim. “Buffy and her mom were just having a throwdown in the hallway,” the redhead explained.
Giles looked sharply at the girl, then Xander. “Not in the physical sense, I would hope.”
Xander shook his head. “Nah. Less WWF, more Jerry Springer. Uncensored and minus the chair-throwing.”
“Buffy and her mother were fighting? Here, at the school?”
The younger man shrugged. “Figured it had to do with Snyder. Wasn’t Buffy supposed to meet with Der Furher today?”
That made sense. “Yes,” the Englishman confirmed. “I can’t imagine the meeting was a pleasant one. Principal Snyder is doubtless enjoying Buffy’s disadvantage, being the paragon of evil that he is.”
The three paused momentarily; all thinking something that no one of them wanted to field aloud.
Willow, not for the first time, demonstrated her bravery in the face of unpleasantness. “Giles? What happens if Buffy really can’t come back? Can Snyder really do that?”
Giles only stammered slightly in his reply. “He can try. But even if the principal has ruled against her, she can still appeal to the school board. I rather think we should deal with that particular bridge when we come to it.”
Xander made a sound of three-parts frustration, one-part disgust. “We’re gonna have to deal with it sooner or later. It’s not like she can waltz back in town and expect to just pick up where she left off.”
“Are we really talking about Principal Snyder, here?” Willow asked her childhood friend pointedly.
Xander’s anger, a tangible force in the last three months, was roiling under the surface. “C’mon, Will. She took off without a word. Does she even care what we were going through all summer? Or even before that when she was too busy screwing around with dead-boy to notice -”
“Xander!”
The young man looked appropriately horrified at his own words. “Aw, man. I didn’t mean that kind of screwing. I meant metaphorical screwing, not actual scr –“
“Xander!” Giles snapped. “You are not helping.”
Xander looked suddenly and thoroughly miserable. “No shit. Story of my life,” he spat.
Giles sighed and pulled up a chair, joining the teens at the table. “The past few months have been difficult for all of us. Both of you, and Oz, and Cordelia have given far more of yourselves than anyone has the right to expect.”
“It’s not like we can all snuggle into our beds at home, knowing what Sunnydale really is,” Willow explained.
The Watcher acknowledged her words with a nod. “Nevertheless, you have fought, and you have suffered much for little thanks and no reward.” He allowed his words to settle before addressing another unpleasant topic.
“Regardless of the circumstances, Buffy is now back,” Giles continued. “While I would dearly love to give you all a reprieve from your nightly obligations, I fear Buffy may not be in a frame of mind conducive to slaying. Until we are sure of her capacity, I don’t believe she should patrol unescorted.” The looks Giles received indicated he had not been the only one to note the Slayer’s fragile countenance last night.
Willow volunteered with only a little hesitation. “I’ll go with her tonight. Oz is all about the Dingo practice tonight anyway.”
“Thank you,” Giles said.
“And I’ll give you a full report.”
He nodded gratefully while forcing down an inner grimace. He had not wanted to have to ask, and Willow had saved him from making the crass request aloud. It should really be him patrolling with the Slayer. He was her Watcher, after all. But hours of torture by Angelus and months of neglect by himself had left him as little more than a liability on patrol. He also felt a not-inconsiderable twinge of quilt for asking Willow to spy on her own best friend.
(TBC)
Author:
akainagiRating: PG-13 (language)
Genre: BtVS, x-over with Stephen King’s Insomnia.
Status: WIP, rewrite/repost
Summary: Buffy returns from Los Angeles carrying a curse, one she must face alone. But when she disappears again, will anyone, even her Watcher, keep faith in her?
Buffy was a night person. Duh. It went with being a teenager and a Slayer. A full night’s sleep was a luxury: nice, but not vital. Giles had explained to her once that the ability to function on minimal sleep for extended periods of time was hardwired into the physiology of a Slayer. Like superhuman strength and accelerated healing, it was a biological necessity. In theory, it made perfect sense.
But there was a world of difference between theory and practice, and even Buffy’s sleep-deprived brain could still do basic math.
On her last night in Los Angeles, Buffy had lain in that hideously uncomfortable bed, nodding off around 11:30 at night. Likewise she had awakened at, (according to the clock) 2:42 AM. It had been with a kind of morbid fascination that she had done the calculations: three hours and twelve minutes.
Three hours and twelve minutes. A month ago it had been over four hours per night. Two months ago it had been a positively indulgent five-and-a-half hours, give-or-take. Buffy had observed her wake-up call rolling back with a sense of detachment. That feeling was pretty characteristic of the whole summer; every action feeling like she was once-removed. Like it was happening to someone else.
At daybreak on her first full day back on the Hellmouth, Buffy numbly surveyed her bedroom ceiling. No cracks. Not like in her old L.A. apartment. Counting them had given her something to do in the hours between waking up and actually getting up. Hopefully being at home would help things. Perhaps when she started patrolling again, her nights would resettle into some semblance of normalcy. Well, Slayer normalcy, anyway.
After she had finished crying herself into oblivion last night, she had been sure that she would drop off as soon as her head hit the pillow. No such luck. Instead she just lay there, feeling the miserable pull of heretofore uncharted levels of exhaustion, her bedside clock mocking her with its neon display.
Last night wasn’t the first time she had let that priceless window of opportunity pass her by. She had purposely stayed up all night a few weeks ago, expecting to crash had and sleep soundly that second night. And she had, but only for a few hours. She couldn’t even really blame the nightmares anymore either. While her dreams weren’t exactly Disney material, they weren’t the vivid Technicolor wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat-doozies that had followed her throughout the first half her absence.
She hated lying in the dark with nothing but her own thoughts to occupy her. The inside of her head still wasn’t her favorite place to be. Especially now that she had to interact with her fellow man on a level infinitely more personal than ‘May I take your order?’
Buffy knew she needed to reclaim the motions of everyday life. She crawled out of bed after several hours of not-sleeping, trudged into the bathroom and subsequently the shower. A good soak under the hot spray had her feeling almost human again. And if makeup didn’t completely hide the shadows beneath her eyes, they at least helped. But while she had brokered a fragile truce with the woman looking out from the mirror, Buffy still couldn’t bring herself to like her that much. That would take a while longer. After shrugging into some comfortable clothes she felt ready to brave the descent downstairs. Once more into the breach.
Her late night catharsis had taken the edge off her nerves, even as it failed to drive her into unconsciousness. Her mother’s forced cheer was only moderately irritating this morning. This was going to take time, she again reminded herself. Joyce tried to fill her daughter in on all the happenings she had missed during her absence. As if Buffy hadn’t left town partly to avoid dealing with life on the Hellmouth. Why, she wondered idly as she stirred her cereal, did everyone around her insist on filling every silence with talk. They probably thought that if they didn’t actively engage her in conversation at all times she might take the opportunity to bolt again.
“So how did it go with your friends?” her mother asked from behind her coffee cup.
Read: How did your friends take the fact that you abandoned them like you abandoned me?
Buffy chose to ignore the subtext of the question. “A little awkward, but we’ll deal.”
“Hmmm. What did you talk about?”
Buffy thought for a moment. She might have answered that her friends mostly talked about being forced to spend months busting ass in the Slaying department. However, she knew that the S-word was probably something to be avoided around her mother for the near future. Or for the rest of their natural lives. “Stuff,” she replied noncommittally.
“Must have been a lot of stuff. You got back pretty late. And you weren’t exactly quiet coming in. What did you guys do?”
Read: what kind of trouble did you get into, and when can I expect the fallout?
“Just raped and pillaged mom, you know the usual.”
Joyce’s eyebrow twitched. “Very funny.”
“I thought so.”
Joyce very deliberately put down her coffee, set her jaw and gave Buffy the familiar look that screamed, ‘Your behavior is seriously impairing my ability to pretend everything is okay.’ That look was trademarked about the time Buffy burned down the school gym, and it was fine-tuned around the time of her first expulsion.
When Buffy was fifteen, she was staring down that same expression from the confines of a locked inpatient psychiatric ward; addled by sedatives and terrified by the screams of all the genuinely crazy people. During that horrible incarceration, her mother had visited her like clockwork. Having a psychopath for a daughter had apparently been easier for Joyce to deal with than the idea of her only offspring being a Vampire Slayer. Buffy had always tried very hard not to look in her mother’s eyes during visiting hours. She invariably looked at her gaping sneakers instead. The mental health counselors had confiscated her shoelaces at the same time they strip-searched her for contraband. They didn’t want her using her own shoelaces to hang herself.
And the day Joyce had dropped her only child off for her first day at Sunnydale High, she had given her that same patented glare, this time pre-emptive:
“Try not to get kicked out,” Joyce had told her daughter. And Buffy had managed pretty well. For two years.
Now, at seventeen, Buffy knew her mom could shove her back into that psych ward again if she really wanted to. Not for the first time, Buffy wondered if there was any hope for this relationship to survive, or whether it was simply fated to descend into open hostility.
“Buffy, you know I’m happy you’re home. You have no idea how happy,” Joyce tried to assure her daughter. “But staying out partying until all hours on your first night back. Not a great way to start off.”
Buffy fought down the automatic upswell of frustration. Hah. Partying. Because last night had been so much fun she had to lock herself in her room and cry for hours to recover. She felt like telling her mother that she honestly couldn’t remember the last time she had stayed out at night for any other reason than slaughtering the undead.
But Buffy also knew she was never going to survive the next few weeks if she kept wigging out over every offhand comment. She had never excelled at picking her battles. Far easier just to start swinging at the first sign of trouble. Turning-the-other-cheek was not a weapon naturally in her arsenal. And if her mother thought she was going to be spending all her nights at home studying in deference to maternal sensibilities, Joyce had another thing coming. Was it that her mother still didn’t buy a word of the whole Slayer gig, or was she just hoping the problem might go away with enough browbeating?
Buffy sighed loudly, feeling like she was about to address a judge, jury and executioner all rolled into one. “Okay, Mom. For reasons that I really don’t want to get into with you right now - you know that me going out at night – probably not going to change anytime soon.”
Joyce opened her mouth, but Buffy held up a hand. “Please let me finish,” she forged on. “I’ve got a lot I need to get used to again. I need to get used to having a mom again, having friends again, hopefully going back to school again. And then there’s my not-so-day job that we are still not going into right now.”
Buffy’s mom looked like she had about a dozen things she wanted to say, all of them probably negative. Instead Joyce just pursed her lips tightly. Buffy felt like she was playing a real-life game of minesweeper. One false move and boom.
“Finished yet?” Joyce asked pointedly
“Almost,” Buffy answered. “For the record there was no partying last night. There was absolutely no raping and pillaging. That was a joke, in case you didn’t notice. The night was PG rated for mild comedic violence only. Plus, I’m not exactly in the mood for whoopin’ it up. I mean, God, the highlight of the evening was a tea party at Giles’ place.”
“Mr. Giles?” Joyce looked like she had just sucked a lemon, her expression turned so sour.
Buffy’s jaw clenched slightly. When the hell had her shy, bookish, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly-if-it-was-still-breathing Watcher done to deserve a place on Joyce’s Shit-List. It had to be something major. God, that list was populated by a jailbait homewrecking secretary and one very morally bankrupt and highly-paid divorce lawyer. Making it on that list was like getting double-billing with the Antichrist in her mother’s eyes.
Sure, her mom probably associated Giles with the whole ‘my daughter really does slay vampires’ concept. That doubtless had something to do with it. Buffy remembered one of their conversations yesterday. She had only been home a few hours and had asked if her mom knew how Giles was doing. She had asked about everyone, of course. Her mother had gladly shared news about the Scooby Gang. Indeed, Joyce had seemed positively relieved that Buffy was making an attempt to interact at all.
Mention Giles though, and Joyce turned monosyllabic and looked like she was ready to spit nails. Witness her mother’s current expression. “You were out half the night drinking tea with the school librarian?” the woman demanded.
They so needed to end this conversation, or Buffy might have to renege on her decision not to allow this to devolve into a high-volume verbal melee. Welcome to the State of Denial. Population: my mother, Buffy thought bitterly. The teen suppressed a compulsive eyeroll, but still couldn’t squelch the swiftly rising tide of consternation.
“Yes, with the school librarian,” Buffy snapped. “And with Xander and Willow and Oz and Cordelia. It was a regular coffee-klatch. Or tea-klatch. God, mom, he’s a 44-year-old stuffy British librarian for Christ’s sake. You act like I’m off shooting smack or something.“ Her voice was probably a little louder than was prudent if she wanted to avoid full-scale familial warfare, but she was just a little too pissed right now.
Buffy shoved herself back from the table. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready to battle a hideous little toad of a principal so just *maybe* I can get my senior year back.” She was out of the kitchen before her mother could fire back a reply. Buffy traversed the stairs to her bedroom in mood that could most accurately be described as bitchy. This was going to be a long day. Probably a long few days. And if she didn’t manage to get back into Sunnydale High it was going to be a long year.
+++
Just when Buffy thought the day couldn’t get any warmer or fuzzier, she laid eyes on Principal Snyder. He had no qualms about informing the Summers women, in no uncertain terms, that the idea of permanently barring Buffy from Sunnydale High filled him with positively orgiastic pleasure. By the time they left his office Joyce was once again fuming and Buffy was seriously tempted to start singing a rousing rendition of “Snyder Uber Allez” on the way out.
The march back through the halls was punctuated by Joyce’s indignation. But when they passed the library, Buffy gave up even the pretense of listening to her mother’s angry Snyder-fueled tirade. Buffy paused at the large double doors, seized by the compelling desire to sit down at the familiar table and confide in her Watcher how viscerally disturbing this day was becoming. The idea that she might never be allowed return to this place was seriously wigsome. But as much as she wanted to unburden herself to Giles, she hadn’t earned back that right yet.
She wished that Slayers came with X-ray vision so she could at least see the familiar setting: The stacks that contained an amusingly disproportionate ratio of demonology texts to square meters of shelf space. The computer Willow used to hack her way through all but the most indomitable firewalls. Xander’s favorite chair (he insisted that he slept better in that particular chair, even though they were all exactly the same). The hidden cache of all things pointy and deadly that her Watcher kept under lock and key. Giles’ office with its world-class-anal-retentive filing system and the secret stash of real English tea that she managed to cajole him into sharing on occasion. And her Watcher; doubtless poring over the latest occult tome with the single-minded enthusiasm usually reserved for five-year-olds on Christmas morning.
Buffy bit back a growl. Yes she screwed up. But dammit, she was back, and she was trying. Yes, she screwed up badly, but wasn’t there some part of her life that she was allowed to keep?
And while she really didn’t do it consciously, maybe her hand did come up, and maybe she was about to push open those doors and walk onto that hallowed ground. If only to burn the place in her memory in case she’d never be allowed to actually sit there as a student ever again.
Even the sound of the class bell failed to drown out Joyce’s derogatory statement aimed not at the wicked little troll in the principal’s office, but the man most likely just a few meters away in the library. And Buffy maybe lost it just a little. With no consideration for propriety or passersby, Buffy proceeded to respectfully request that her mother cease and desist with the snarky shit and that a proctology exam might be in order. Because all signs pointed to the fact that something had crawled up there and expired.
So Buffy turned on her heels, nearly plowing into Xander and Willow. They were probably headed for the library. Must be nice, she thought darkly. Based on their expressions they had likely witnessed the entire exchange, but she couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment. She stormed past without a word, not even stopping in the parking lot. It was a nice day for a walk, anyway. The option of riding home with her mother wasn’t even worth considering.
+++
Giles stifled a sneeze behind his handkerchief. Nose full of dust, most likely; an occupational hazard of working in a library. Or perhaps someone, somewhere was talking about him. He returned the cloth square to his pocket and focused his attention back on the task at hand. Reshelving. Tedious busywork that left far too much room for the mind to wander into unpleasant territory.
Buffy was back. He had reminded himself of that fact countless times today. And while that thought caused a suffusion of warmth in some elemental part of him, it also fed a black well of uncertainty. Last evening had been characterized by a surreal quality; like a pleasant dream that had somehow become warped; melted and twisted like a clock in a bloody Dali painting.
There had been very little of the Slayer he remembered in the broken creature that graced his stoop last night. He had seen her vulnerable expression grow shuttered, become walled-over and brittle, and then finally crack. His traitorous mind replayed that final moment in slow-motion. Buffy had given him a barely audible, strangled apology and fled his home and his presence; her expression, her body language all screaming at him to stay away. She had looked terrified.
His Slayer had always worn her bravado well, even from their first acquaintance. As her Watcher, Giles had been impressed by ability to project confidence in the face of impossible odds. Her armor had stood her in good stead over the years. So what had happened over the past few months to shatter it so completely? Had destroying Angel alone brought her so low? Was Angel’s hold over Buffy truly so great that the vampire still retained her heart, even from his seat in Hell? Giles’ hand trembled slightly as he shelved another book.
The Watcher heard his name being called from the library’s lower level. He abandoned his shelving duties in favor of Willow and Xander, who were already taking up their customary seats at the library’s large oak table. He took note of the pair’s tight expressions. Xander was scowling and Willow was looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“Did something happen?” the librarian asked as he approached the center table.
Xander jerked his head at the direction of the library entrance, “Just the Summers’ edition of Family Feud. Live and in-person.”
He was proficient in centuries-dead languages, yet the diction of the California Teenager still eluded him at every turn. “Perhaps you could elucidate those of us who aren't fluent in American pop-culture," Giles requested.
Willow looked rather grim. “Buffy and her mom were just having a throwdown in the hallway,” the redhead explained.
Giles looked sharply at the girl, then Xander. “Not in the physical sense, I would hope.”
Xander shook his head. “Nah. Less WWF, more Jerry Springer. Uncensored and minus the chair-throwing.”
“Buffy and her mother were fighting? Here, at the school?”
The younger man shrugged. “Figured it had to do with Snyder. Wasn’t Buffy supposed to meet with Der Furher today?”
That made sense. “Yes,” the Englishman confirmed. “I can’t imagine the meeting was a pleasant one. Principal Snyder is doubtless enjoying Buffy’s disadvantage, being the paragon of evil that he is.”
The three paused momentarily; all thinking something that no one of them wanted to field aloud.
Willow, not for the first time, demonstrated her bravery in the face of unpleasantness. “Giles? What happens if Buffy really can’t come back? Can Snyder really do that?”
Giles only stammered slightly in his reply. “He can try. But even if the principal has ruled against her, she can still appeal to the school board. I rather think we should deal with that particular bridge when we come to it.”
Xander made a sound of three-parts frustration, one-part disgust. “We’re gonna have to deal with it sooner or later. It’s not like she can waltz back in town and expect to just pick up where she left off.”
“Are we really talking about Principal Snyder, here?” Willow asked her childhood friend pointedly.
Xander’s anger, a tangible force in the last three months, was roiling under the surface. “C’mon, Will. She took off without a word. Does she even care what we were going through all summer? Or even before that when she was too busy screwing around with dead-boy to notice -”
“Xander!”
The young man looked appropriately horrified at his own words. “Aw, man. I didn’t mean that kind of screwing. I meant metaphorical screwing, not actual scr –“
“Xander!” Giles snapped. “You are not helping.”
Xander looked suddenly and thoroughly miserable. “No shit. Story of my life,” he spat.
Giles sighed and pulled up a chair, joining the teens at the table. “The past few months have been difficult for all of us. Both of you, and Oz, and Cordelia have given far more of yourselves than anyone has the right to expect.”
“It’s not like we can all snuggle into our beds at home, knowing what Sunnydale really is,” Willow explained.
The Watcher acknowledged her words with a nod. “Nevertheless, you have fought, and you have suffered much for little thanks and no reward.” He allowed his words to settle before addressing another unpleasant topic.
“Regardless of the circumstances, Buffy is now back,” Giles continued. “While I would dearly love to give you all a reprieve from your nightly obligations, I fear Buffy may not be in a frame of mind conducive to slaying. Until we are sure of her capacity, I don’t believe she should patrol unescorted.” The looks Giles received indicated he had not been the only one to note the Slayer’s fragile countenance last night.
Willow volunteered with only a little hesitation. “I’ll go with her tonight. Oz is all about the Dingo practice tonight anyway.”
“Thank you,” Giles said.
“And I’ll give you a full report.”
He nodded gratefully while forcing down an inner grimace. He had not wanted to have to ask, and Willow had saved him from making the crass request aloud. It should really be him patrolling with the Slayer. He was her Watcher, after all. But hours of torture by Angelus and months of neglect by himself had left him as little more than a liability on patrol. He also felt a not-inconsiderable twinge of quilt for asking Willow to spy on her own best friend.
(TBC)