Stranger Things

By Sonya

Everything changed.

Nothing ever changes.

And wow, does Giles have some weird friends.

Buffy tried to keep her eyes from bugging too noticeably as the pointy-nosed, pointy-eared creature who had been waiting in front of her in line trotted purposefully over to an empty table, survey in hand. It was really, really short for a demon; so short it had to put the survey down on the folding chair in order to be able to hoist itself up into said chair. It was also wearing a slightly ratty three-piece suit under what looked like miniature graduation robes, and a bowler hat. It pulled out a quill and began writing. There were Christmas carols playing over very tired-sounding speakers, vibrating into static on the high notes.

"Next!" called an impatient British voice. Buffy whipped around, plastering her best professional, adult-looking smile onto her face. The dour-faced women behind the counter looked distinctly unimpressed. She also looked like a stunt double from the Wizard of Oz, complete with pointy witch's hat.

"How can we help you today?" the woman drawled, with only the barest pretense at civility.

"I need a job," Buffy announced. The woman quirked an unamused eyebrow and glared. "So, hence, my being here, at your employment agency," Buffy explained. "So, duh, of course I need a job. I bet everybody says that." The woman pressed her lips together in what Buffy thought might, perhaps, have been an attempt at a smile.

"I have papers," Buffy offered, pulling the documents from her purse. The woman glanced down at them in roughly the same way most people look at mutilated corpses. "So I'm legal to work," Buffy explained. "I'm not from here, I'm American."

The witch glanced up from the papers, quirking that eyebrow again. "You don't say," she quipped, tone dry as parchment. "I never would have guessed. And these are Muggle papers."

"Oh," Buffy said. "Right. They're - huh?" Muggle? The woman sighed, the sound melodramatically world-weary and long-suffering.

"If you're looking for Muggle work, we can't help you," the woman explained, sounding almost triumphant despite her obvious annoyance, as if she'd accomplished something in finding a reason not to have to deal with the young woman in front of her. "We find jobs for *Muggleborns* in the *Wizarding* world, not the other way around."

Maybe a Muggle's a kind of demon. There was that short demony-looking guy in front of me.

Giles' friend recommended me to a demon employment agency?

Why did I think I could have a normal life? What in my almost twenty-two years of existance made me think that?

I think the time away from slaying is making me dumb. I'm reverting to vapid cheerleaderness. It's the only explanation.

And yet, I'm still getting sent to the Employment Agency from Hell.

"I'm looking for any kind of job, really," Buffy said, hoping she didn't sound too pleading and desperate. "Muggle or wizarding or . . you know, any kind of job that pays money." That will allow me to get a place for me and Dawn that isn't Giles' spare bedroom. He's done enough for us. Too much.

Also, Olivia's nice and all, but . . there are things you so do NOT need to hear coming from your former Watcher and current father-figure's bedroom.

The Wicked Witch of the West's long lost twin sister just stared belligerently. Buffy stared back. That seemed to surprise the woman somewhat.

Bet that stare usually works wonders for creating an instant lack of customers. Well, sorry, you're gonna have to wait for your cigarette break, Hilda, 'cause I have *so* stared down scarier things than you.

The woman behind the counter averted her eyes first, and Buffy felt a tiny spurt of internal triumph. There's still something I'm good at. "Complete this survey, and return it to the wizard at window three," the witch said tonelessly, handing Buffy a packet of neatly stapled papers, faintly crinkled in the corner where the woman had grabbed them.

"Thank you very much," Buffy chirped, deliberately cheerful, and hoping it grated on the bitch's last nerve. What's she so sour about, anyway? She's employed.

She ended up seated across from the really short demon. It was standing on its chair, leaning over the table on one elbow, answering the survey's questions in an elegant script that put her own rounded, vaguely loopy print to shame. It was distracting as all hell, especially since she was trying not to obviously stare, and then was left wondering just exactly *why* she was trying not to obviously stare. Since when do you feel bad for giving demons the hairy eyeball?

Well, it could be a good demon. It hasn't tried to eat anyone yet. And it's here in an employment agency, filling out a survey. Attempting to be a productive member of society. And, you know, that's hard.

Even for some humans.

But dang, it's short. It's almost kinda cute, in a really ugly way.

"Is this seat taken?" a voice asked, right behind her.

Buffy jumped, startled, and knocked over her chair, landing on her rear on the scuffed linoleum.

Okay, ground? We've been on good terms, right? Could you do me a teensy favor, and open up and swallow me now?

"Are you alright?" the really short demon asked. It was kneeling on its chair now, leaning under the table to peer at her at eye level, and it sounded genuinely, if rather squeakily, concerned.

"Well, I think my pride is in critical condition, but otherwise, I'm good," Buffy quipped, grimacing. Great. The demonic mini-me is giving you worried looks. We have reached a new level of low here . .

"I didn't mean to startle you," the as yet unidentified voice said, and then there was a hand in front of her, offering help up. It was a rough-looking hand with chipped nails, and it was attached to an arm draped in robes that made her think of Obi-Wan Kenobi from Star Wars, and above the arm and slightly to the left of the shoulder was another concerned-looking face. The face, like the hand, looked a little worse for wear - but it wasn't a bad face, as slightly-worn faces go. Nice strong jaw, intelligent eyes; for half a second Buffy was convinced she knew him from somewhere, but it passed, and he was a stranger again.

"Nah, I'm just a spaz," Buffy said, shrugging and taking the hand. He had a surprisingly strong grip for someone who looked like he hadn't seen a decent meal this side of the millenium. "I'm Buffy. In addition to being a spaz. I mean, my name is Buffy." And I am a freak. Somebody shoot me? Please?

"Remus Lupin," he introduced himself, and shook her hand. It was a nice firm handshake, too - the type of handshake you don't get much if you're a skinny blonde girl, especially not from men. Her benignly neutral first impression moved towards vague liking; men who shook hands like equals with skinny blonde girls were a rare and precious commodity.

"So yeah, feel free to take the next chair over, if you're not afraid the clutziness is contageous," Buffy suggested, giving him a apologetic grin as she righted her own chair. He grinned back, and it took twenty years off his face. He should do that more often. Like, continuously, maybe. There's hottie potential there.

"Been here before?" he asked.

"Nope, first timer," Buffy answered, glancing down at her survey, which so far contained her name and nothing else. "A friend of a friend said that it might - do I have a current license to *apparate*?" she blurted out, reading off the page. The short little demon glanced up at her, looking a little disturbed, before jumping down off its chair and trotting off towards window three with its survey.

"Don't worry, they just ask that first so that the employers who require it can weed through the applicants," Remus commented, marking his own survey so rapidly Buffy had to wonder if he was actually reading the questions. "Plenty of places will hire you without it."

"Well, that's good, since I don't know what it means," Buffy commented, glancing to the next question. Please list any subjects in which you have earned a N.E.W.T. Okaaaay, *next* . .

"You don't know what it means?" Remus asked, sounding surprised.

Buffy just shook her head, scanning rapidly down the page. Please list any subjects in which you have earned an O.W.L. Please describe wand, by type and maker. Maximum weight you can comfortably levitate. Do you own an operational broom? Would you accept work that involved flying regularly? Would you accept work that involved frequent travel by Floo? Are you comfortable working closely with non- or part-human magical creatures? Are you comfortable working closely with cursed objects?

"I think I'm in the wrong tent, here," Buffy said.

"The wrong tent?" Remus echoed.

"Like at the circus?" Buffy explained, checking off that yes, she was comfortable working closely with cursed objects. I came all the way down here, I guess I might as well turn the stupid thing in at least. "You'll have one tent with the people who can bend into weird and disturbing shapes, and then another tent with the people who can swallow swords, and then there's the people who can do magic and fly and stuff, and the people who can slay stuff and/or flip burgers for a living, they go into another tent altogether."

"I think you mean rings," he suggested. "There's generally just one tent. Lots of rings." She glanced sideways at him.

"You are deliberately missing my point," she scowled.

"I could be," he confessed, and that grin appeared again. "Don't feel bad, I come here twice a month and I get maybe two temp jobs a year out of it."

"Why?" Buffy asked, and his grin faltered. "Or, you could pretend I said something tactful there," she exclaimed hastily, grimacing, "and just ignore that really rude question."

"Why thank you, but I'm afraid I really don't remember where I got these robes," he said, smiling blandly. Buffy blinked and stared. Huh?

"You said to pretend you said something tactful," Remus explained, one corner of his mouth quirking upward, taking the smile from bland to decidedly mischievous. So we're a smartass, hrmm? "And," he went on, "I'll answer your rude question if you'll answer one of mine."

"You first," Buffy retorted.

"Well, most employers aren't keen on giving me three days off once every twenty-eight or so," he said, watching her expectantly, waiting to see if she'd get it.

Okay, twenty-eight days, what happens every twenty-eight days, except the obvious, but he's not a girl, or at least he really doesn't look like one, so what -

"You're a werewolf!" she exclaimed. It came out a little louder than she intended, and she flushed a deep red as he glanced awkwardly around the crowded room. Luckily her indiscretion seemed to have been covered by an off-key and tinny rendition of "Frosty the Snow-Man" - no one was paying them any attention. Or maybe everybody in here is just too apathetic to care. I think the last time I was in someplace that screamed "abandon all hope" quite this bad, it was a hell dimension. Remus turned back to her, watching her warily.

"I am *so* sorry," she said, cringing. Buffy expected him to get up and leave; instead, he actually relaxed at her apology, and shrugged it off. But I just announced his furry status to a room full of strangers! I'd so be kicking my ass for that!

Unless I was so busy being grateful that I didn't run screaming from the room upon figuring it out, that I was willing to overlook my slight lack of social skills.

"So," he said, ignoring her outburst as if it had never occurred, "What is a young woman who doesn't know what 'apparate' means doing in a Wizarding employment agency, and why -" he leaned over to peek at her survey "-doesn't she mind working with cursed objects?"

"I didn't *know* it was a Wizarding employment agency," Buffy said defensively.

"Cursed objects?" he pressed.

"I don't know better?" She gave him her best sweet and innocent expression; he looked vaguely offended.

Oh, what the hell, there are like, fifty bazillion of us now anyway, how much longer can it stay a secret anyway?

"I'm a Slayer," she confessed. He tensed, face going blank, looking ready to bolt. "Oh, but I like werewolves!" she amended hastily. "I mean, not like I *like* werewolves, like it's a fetish or something, I just, you know, don't . . kill them," she trailed off at his rather disbelieving expression. "You could put me out of my misery any time now. Please, tell me to shut up."

"Why?" he grinned, though he still looked a little shocked.

"I can make exceptions for werewolves who contribute to my personal humiliation," she shot back.

"You're really a Slayer?" he asked. "One of the new ones?"

"One of the old ones," she corrected.

"Hopefully not the homicidal one," Remus said, and then paused a beat. "Though if you are, that was probably a really dumb thing to say."

"How do you know about that?" Buffy exclaimed.

"Interesting friends," Remus answered, with another complacent shrug.

"I'm the somewhat less homicidal one," she said. Note to self - find out about the interesting friends later.

When did I get to thinking there'd be a later that involved this random guy?

"Good to know," he nodded, and frowned, looking suddenly thoughtful. "Well, since you're here and the moment is so very opportune, I suppose I should thank you."

"For not being homicidal?" Buffy frowned in puzzlement. "Uh, you're welcome." He was shaking his head.

"For being the Slayer. Word has it you've saved this hunk of rock a few times," he said. "So, seeing as I'm rather attached to my earthly existance, time of the month and all - thanks."

Buffy blinked, and stared, and blinked more. 'The Twelve Days of Christmas', as sung by Alvin and the Chipmunks, screeched out from the speakers. The sour-faced witch at the first window called out, "Next!" in her very abrasive voice. People shifted in their chairs. Remus looked down at his tattered robe sleeves, embarrassed, and shrugged again. It was not a perfect moment - it wasn't even close.

"Feel free to pretend I wasn't just being a complete wanker," he suggested, watching the tabletop.

But, all things considered, as moments go . . it didn't suck.

"Thank you, this is from the Gap back in Sunnydale, but I don't think you can get one like it, because the Sunnydale Gap is now lots and lots of dust," Buffy responded. And thank you, for thanking me.

For reminding me I've done something with my life besides flip burgers and live in Giles' spare room. Everything changed. But nothing's ever going to change that.

"How disappointing," Remus grinned up at her, "I wanted one in teal." Buffy glanced down at herself, unable to remember what exactly she'd put on this morning - it was a rather low-cut, gauzy shirt with bell sleeves. In lavendar.

He laughed out loud at her horrified expression.

"So," she said, smiling back at him, leaning her chin in her hand and putting one elbow down on the table, right in the middle of her survey, "if you're not getting a job out of this, and I'm not getting a job out of this, why are we here?"

"An absurdly over-developed sense of personal responsibility and a need to prove our usefulness to society?" he suggested. "Also, there's a place two alleys over that serves a really good home-brewed butterbeer, and I needed an excuse to be in the area so I could stop there."

Buffy crinkled her brow, making a show of considering his words. And now comes the moment . . do you want there to be a later involving this guy, or no?

"That works for me," she nodded, mockingly somber. "So, this butterbeer stuff, it's good?" Was that too subtle? I never can tell the difference between subtle and sledgehammer.

"You've never had it?" he sounded scandalized. I think he got the hint.

"I had a deprived childhood," she answered.

"Obviously," he agreed. "Well, this must be corrected immediately!"

"After we turn in our surveys," Buffy amended.

"Of course," Remus agreed. "Duty first."

"Duty first, then butterbeer," Buffy nodded along.

The tired old speakers sang 'Joy to the World.'

~Fin~