DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss’, of course, and the chapter title comes from Shakespeare’s “Sonnet V.”

PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY:  Graduation Day.  With the aid of her friends and schoolmates, Buffy killed the Mayor, destroying the high school at the same time, only to be “rewarded” by having Angel walk out of her life for good.  This story starts two weeks later.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  I love Spuffy.  I love Spike.  Honest, I do.  But I’m also incredibly sweet on William, and the idea of writing a romance for him has been gnawing at me ever since I read Elsa Frohman’s “A Cricket in California” (which is delightful, by the way, so if you haven’t read it, go do so now).  So, to answer that particular call of mine, folks, here it is.  My first non-Spike fic.  I’m not going to tell you that Spike’s not going to make an appearance, but I will say, don’t hold your breath.

*************

Chapter 1: Pent in Walls of Glass

Her thighs throbbed.

Burning from the exertion of overstretching, sending tingles along the sinews that joined leg to hip to spine to neck so that her muscles vibrated against the body beneath her.  Sweat dripped down the side of her neck to sidle between her breasts, the summer heat in spite of the midnight sky already sweltering and forcing the near-sheer fabric of her top to cling to her hardened nipples.

It was exhilarating, and yet not, and each pump of adrenaline through her veins made Buffy want to chisel and sharpen the angles of contact, twisting and writhing until exhaustion would claim her.  Sleep was an absent friend currently, so she substituted the rush in its place, desperate for crumbs to which to cling while everything else that mattered tried to skitter away from her.

Or walk away, depending on who it was doing the leaving. Just like the others who’d once been in her life. Just like Angel.

It was the conscious acknowledgement of his name that made her fight the demon pinned beneath her all that much harder.

“Why.  Don’t.  You.  Just.  Die already?” Buffy huffed between punches, her knuckles bloodied from scraping against its coarse scales.

Its response was to lash out with its barbed tongue, aiming directly for her eyes.

She’d fallen for that trick once already, and had the jagged scrape across her bare shoulder to show for it.  With a dodge to the left, she released her grip on its torso, rolling across the nearest grave to come to a stop at its newly-tended headstone.  Her fingers wrapped around the small flag that was embedded in the earth, and yanked it out just as the demon lunged for her again.

“God bless America,” she muttered as she sank the sharpened end of the pole in its chest, using the force behind it to gut it as effectively as if she’d had a sword.

It fell on Buffy with a strangled gurgle, momentarily knocking the wind out of her, and she thrust it off with a disgusted grunt.  Now her clothes were sticky with more than just sweat, and the sigh that escaped her throat as she rose to her feet was one of resignation.

“Bye bye, cute top,” she grumbled, and began ineffectively wiping off the worst of the goo as she headed for the gates of the cemetery.  The thought of staying out to try and work through some of her frustrations just couldn’t compare to the benefits of a stinging shower at the moment.      

“Buffy!” 

She stopped at the sound of his voice, and turned with a frown to see Giles huffing and puffing through the graveyard to catch up to her.  “What’s wrong?” she asked automatically, her body tensing as her gaze searched the empty expanse behind him.  She had last seen him that morning, when he’d encouraged her to take the night off in order to attend Xander’s impromptu going away party, and though she had suspected he was going to patrol in her stead, she hadn’t really expected to run into him when she’d ducked out of the get-together early.

“You’re not…at…the Bronze,” he panted as he came to a stop at her side.

“And…that’s a problem?”

He shook his head, bending over at the waist to inhale deeply before speaking again.  “I just…didn’t expect…to find you here.”

“And so I ask again.”  Another glance around him revealed the silent night blinking back at her.  “What’s wrong?”

He ignored her question, fidgeting with his collar as he wiped the sweat from his brow.  “I know you may find this hard to believe, Buffy, but I’d rather hoped you’d take this opportunity of Xander’s leaving to take a break from your responsibilities.  You’ve been…pushing yourself too hard since graduation.  I worry---.”

“I’m fine.”  She pivoted on her heel and resumed her march toward the gates.  She didn’t even look up when he fell into step beside her.  “The Bronze was dead, and as much as it looks like I’m into dead things, not so much when it comes to partying.  That’s the only reason I left.  So…no big.”

“That doesn’t explain why you felt the need to patrol.  I thought I told you I had everything under control.”

“And who’s the Chosen One here?” she teased.  “Kind of hard to ignore the call of destiny, Giles, remember?  And I’m going home now anyway.  I plan on getting intimately acquainted with a long shower so that I can get not so intimately acquainted with all this demon goop.”

“And sleep?” he shot back.  “Or do you plan on spending another night dwelling on Angel’s departure?”

His words sucked the air from her lungs, immobilizing her step as she stopped to gape up at him.  “What’re you talking about?” she managed to choke out.

The lines between his eyes eased, his demeanor softening in counter with the rigidity stiffening her shoulders.  “Willow told me you haven’t been sleeping, Buffy,” he said softly.  “And I spoke with your mother today.  She confirmed you’ve been…out of sorts since graduation.”  He held up his hand, cutting her words off before she could speak.  “I know you believe this is none of my business, that I’m…biased when it comes to you and Angel, and you would be partially correct.  But what happened, what he did…you can’t allow that to interfere with moving on with your life.  That’s not what he’d want.”

“What about what I want, Giles?” she demanded.  “Does anybody ever think to ask me about that?  So I’m a little light on the sleep front.  Considering we just averted major apocalypse number four less than a month ago, not to mention I graduated high school and watched someone I thought loved me walk out of my life as if I meant nothing to him, I think I’ve earned a little slack.”

“What you’ve earned is a vacation.”  His voice was heavy as he rested his hand on her shoulder, but the small gesture leeched some of the tension from her muscles, commanding her to listen to him in only the way Giles could get away with.  “That’s why I went and saw your mother today.  I need to go to London for a month or so about some new texts.  I thought it would be a good idea if you came with me.  Take a holiday from the Hellmouth, so to speak.”

“But…”  His offer was a bolt from the blue, slicing through her momentary anger to cut her at the knees and leave her stumbling to understand.  “…I’m the Slayer.  I don’t get vacations.”

Giles smiled.  “You’ve been the exception to just about every other rule I’m aware of.  I see no reason you can’t be the exception to that one as well.  And if you’re uncomfortable taking a complete hiatus, I’m certain there’s a vampire or two in London you might be able to slay.”

For a moment, the promise of what he was suggesting made her want to throw her arms around him in a huge hug, but just as quickly the impulse dissipated, leaving her as empty as she’d been once the high from fighting the demon had vanished.  “It’s a nice idea,” she said, “but you know I can’t.  Mom would never say yes---.”

“She already has.  Otherwise, I would never have brought it up with you.”

“Oh.”  Didn’t expect that one.  “But who’s going to keep an eye on things around here?  Xander’s leaving tomorrow for his summer of self-discovery, and Willow can hardly patrol on her own.”

“You know as well as I do that demon activity lulls after a major battle.  A few weeks in London will hardly mean the end of the world here in Sunnydale.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Well, that does it.  I’m not going anywhere.  You’ve just jinxed it.”  She began walking again, this time much slower, his suggestion still whirling around inside her head.  “Not that I’m not grateful or anything, because I am, but weren’t you one of the thousands last year telling me I can’t run away from my problems?  So I’m facing them this time.  Score one maturity point for Buffy.”

“Sometimes, the mature thing to do is to recognize when it’s time to step back.  Your attempts to cope with Angel’s departure are admirable, but…”  He stopped in the path, waiting for her to halt as well before continuing to speak.  “…they’re not working.  Everywhere you turn, everything you see here…it must all undoubtedly carry with it a memory---.”

“And it always will,” she countered, her voice ragged.  “Going away isn’t going to change that.”

“No,” Giles agreed.  “But it might afford you the opportunity to rest, to temporarily free yourself of ghosts so that you when you return, you’re strong enough to face them again.”

It was so tempting.  She’d been fighting the urge to run ever since graduation.  Part of her wanted to go off in search of Angel, to tell him that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought, that she needed him if only as a friend.  Another part wanted to find him so that she could rail against him for presuming to decide what was best for her.  And yet another, more delicate part, the part she kept hidden from all of them because there was no room for it in Slayerworld, wanted to curl up into a little ball and cry because it couldn’t figure out what was so wrong with her that everyone wanted to leave her behind.

“I didn’t know unemployment was so bad that you’d want to hang out with a depressed teenager,” she joked half-heartedly.  “And no offense, Giles, but I really don’t want my first college essay on ‘What I Did on My Summer Vacation’ to read, ‘got lost in stacks of musty old books with ex-librarian and spent the next month discovering new and unexciting ways to identify demon breeds,’ because, you know, kind of pathetic.”

“Yes, quite, which is why I’ve asked Willow to come with us if you agree to the trip.  This isn’t about spending time with me, Buffy, or about furthering your Slayer skills, although, it would certainly be an excellent opportunity to…”  He trailed off at her raised brows, clearing his throat.  “There is plenty to keep you and Willow occupied in London while I go about my work.  Museums, the West End, walking tours, shopping---.

“Shopping?”  She perked automatically, but her brain was already ahead of her mouth.  London with Willow.  And her mom’s permission.  And it would be kind of cool to see a different country.  Maybe a change of scenery was exactly what she needed.  It was running away with permission.  Giles had gone to great lengths to work this out for her.  Why was she arguing with him?

“You won’t make me eat anything gross like blood pudding or haggis or something?” she asked with a smile, the first genuine one she’d given all night.

“Haggis is Scottish,” he replied, “and no, London is quite cosmopolitan.  You can gorge to your heart’s content on McDonald’s if you wish.”

Their pace recommenced, and though Buffy’s step was lighter, her mind occupied elsewhere as they chatted about the particulars of the trip, the wall between them remained, unseen and unrecognized as she held tight to the pain balled in the pit of her stomach.  Giles might empathize with her situation---he might even believe that he understood it---but she knew she was alone in trying to deal with it.

That’s the way it always was.  She was the cheese.

Because the cheese always stood alone.

*************

The warm glow of the candle made a mockery of the blank page staring back at him, and William dropped his head into his hands, closing his eyes against the burlesque it burrowed into his soul, his fingers knotted in his unruly curls and tugging as if the sharp pains in his scalp would incite the words to come.  They were there; he could feel them dancing just outside the circle of light, promising him rapture if only he could ensnare even one and yet refusing him partnership with an insidious taunt.  He just didn’t understand how they could elude him so effectively.

By all rights, he should’ve been asleep.  It had been a long day, hours of waiting in uncomfortable chairs, watching his mother make the arrangements for the dinner party she was going to throw, all the while insisting that he should take a greater interest since, after all, “this is entirely for your benefit.”  Thrusting him into the social scene when he’d begged off repeatedly by bringing it into their home, inviting a myriad of acquaintances within their social circle who might be of interest to him.  It could’ve been worse.  She could’ve invited Cecily and her family, and while he would’ve adored the opportunity to see the lovely brunette again, William feared that he’d only blunder terribly in her actual presence.  Just as he had done last time, knocking over that glass of wine onto his trousers and spending the rest of the evening with a napkin covering the unfortunate stain.

Instead, he sat at his writing desk, his bed empty behind him, his page just as empty before.  Sleep was a fugitive beyond his grasp, perhaps hiding in the vicinity of the poetry he wished to claim, and after an hour of tossing between his sheets, he’d risen to divert himself elsewhere.

Venturing into the rest of the house was out of the question.  Though his mother had long retired for the evening, there would still be one or two of the staff up and about, and they would assuredly report his rising on the morrow, forcing him to field questions regarding his health when he knew there was nothing physically wrong.  He had no idea why he couldn’t sleep, except for the understanding that his mind seemed incapable of escaping thought long enough to embrace slumber, and the last thing he wished was to get into a discussion on his wellbeing with a mother who, though he loved her dearly, did not understand the way her only son’s heart worked.

So he tried reading.  And when that failed, he picked up his inks and paper, intent on creating something that perhaps he could share in the morning.  Maybe he could translate his discomfort regarding the dinner party, and tell her through his verse why the prospect of conversation with vulgarians who took too much pleasure in belittling his own romantic leanings left him feeling small and insignificant.  Surely, she wouldn’t wish her son---.

No, she wouldn’t understand.  She wore blinders where William was concerned, and he didn’t have the heart to rectify her vision, even if it meant bearing the brunt of his peers’ humiliation.

A clatter in the street captured his attention, and, grateful for the distraction, he set down his quill to rise from his seat and cross to the window.  He pulled aside the edge of the curtain in time to see the carriage pull to a stop in front of the Howard estate further down the road, and pressed himself into the wall when he saw David Howard emerge from the coach.  One of the worst when it came to the ridicule masked in badinage, and William felt the bile rise in his throat at his shame in fearing seeing the man, even at such a distance.

He hated feeling like such a coward.

Dropping the drape, William began to prowl around the room, fingers agitated as they played with the tie on his robe.  He spent too many hours hiding behind closed doors, even within his own home, and more than anything else, he wished that could change.  There was a huge, glorious world out there, just waiting to be explored.  It didn’t have to be as dark and vicious as the stories traded between vainglorious gossips painted it.  There had to be beauty, and light, and radiance just ready to be found, ready to be experienced, and William could practically taste its luster on the tip of his tongue.

He could even see peeks of it through the walls that bound him to his life.

He just yearned for the strength to break them down, once and for all.

*************

The crystal shattered where it crashed against the stone wall, and his fingers were curled around a second figurine before the voice from the table spoke up again.

“Keep that up, and you just might end up smashing her in the process,” the crone cackled.

“And that matters now because…?” he said through gritted teeth.  His eyes glowed in the dim illumination of the cave, twin amber pricks ablaze with fury.  “According to your little leaves of grass there, it doesn’t make a difference anyway.  Not with both of them out there.”

“Both?  One’s dead.  He can’t lead an army if he’s dead.”

The vampire snorted.  “Try telling that to the damn Powers.  They have this amazing disregard for the normal rules of things.  Dimensions, times, places…none of it makes a difference to them.”  Carefully, he loosened his hold on the second figure, turning it out to stand proudly with the other assortment on the altar, his fingers gracing over the carved sculpture of its flowing hair.  “So much for setting her free,” he growled.

With a heavy sigh, the aged witch swept the remaining dust from the table.  “You’re giving up before you’ve even begun,” she said.  “Think outside the box.  If the so-called Powers refuse to reside within its walls, why should you?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe because you’ve just told me that if April comes back, she’s got to worry about not one, but two armies hunting her down?  Kind of puts a damper on the welcome home party, if you ask me.”

“They’re only walls, my boy, only walls.  They may block your path, but they’re not insurmountable.  Climb over them or smash through, but don’t hide behind them if you truly wish her free again.”

He regarded her through slitted eyes, cunning working behind the intense gaze.  “So what is it you suggest then?”

Gnarled hands began twisting the ropes of herbs that still littered the worksurface.  “Start with what you know.  Start with the generals.”

Her proposal prompted his agitation to begin anew, his feet circling the perimeter of the cave in long strides, lanky limbs acting in coordination with his words.  “Start with the generals, she says.  Are you out of your frickin’ mind?  One of them’s the Slayer.  I’d have to be crazy to try taking her on my own.”

“You are crazy, but you don’t have to kill her in order to stop her.  The leaves tell me there are other ways.”

“Oh, yeah?  Those leaves seem to be full of whacked out ideas tonight, remember?  I’ve also got to worry about trying to find a man who should’ve been dead a century ago.”

The crone shook her head.  “Then you’ve lost before you’ve even begun,” she replied, her cadences heavy in resignation.  “If you believe in the leaves to find your enemies, then you must believe in their power to help you impede their intervention.  You can’t have it both ways.”

His foot smashed to the left of the altar, sending a shower of dust from the ceiling to rain in his dark hair.  “Those leaves of yours better be right,” he snarled, and he dropped to straddle the chair opposite her.  “Now tell me how I go about stopping the Slayer and Mr. Yesteryear.”

 

*************

Chapter 2: Beguile the World

Tucking the leatherbound book under his arm, William crept down the stairs, ears alert for the sound of his mother’s voice in her sitting room.  He’d seen the dreadful Mrs. Howard approach the house and knew she was in a calling mood by the set of her chin.  David’s probably won some sort of recognition again, he’d thought bitterly, which would only mean that Mother would insist he come down and entertain by sharing some of his poetry.  Not that he didn’t enjoy reading it for her, for at least she maintained the presence of pretending to like it, but Mrs. Howard would titter behind her hand, and look at him with those watery grey eyes that screamed disdain, and the entire charade would leave him feeling like some secondary Dickens character, tossed in for the amusement of the masses.

No, it was best to escape while he could, so as soon as he’d heard the sitting room door close, he’d grabbed his inks and journal and slipped out the servants’ entrance, making a dash for the park as quickly as his feet would allow.

It was uncharacteristically warm for the beginning of June, and William felt the first trickle of sweat begin down the back of his collar, itching and crawling in its aloof path down his spine.  Perhaps a lighter jacket would’ve been in order, he mused as he reached the edge of the green.  But that would’ve required more time spent at the house, more thought given to his escape, and he wasn’t convinced it would’ve been worth the trade.  Better to just grab the chance and go.  He’d just live with the consequences now that he was free.

When he saw his favorite bench along the bank unoccupied, a smile lit his face for the first time that morning, and he rushed forward to snag it before someone else beat him there.  The sigh of relief that escaped his lips when he slid onto its seat relaxed a modicum of tension in his limbs, and he just sat there for a long moment, gazing across the water, its crystal water marred only by the occasional ripple caused by the slight breeze.

“Such a lovely time of year.”

He started at the voice that appeared from nowhere, and sat up straight as he turned to see the elderly woman grasping the back of the bench.  He was on his feet before he could think otherwise, bending slightly at the waist as he stepped away.  “Quite,” he agreed, and then frowned when her wrinkled face spread into a smile.

“No need for gallantry when I’m too old to care,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.  William swore he could almost hear her joints creak as she came around the edge of the bench and settled on the far end.  “There’s certainly more than enough room for both of us here.”  Her gloved hand patted the seat he’d just vacated.  “Unless, of course, you’re worried I’ll compromise your virtue.  You wouldn’t be the first young man I’ve sullied.”

His cheeks flamed at her words, both from her blatant tease and the bluntness of her manner.  She was harmless, more frail than many women he’d seen her age, and wore the black dress of a widow, yet there was something in her flashing dark eyes that spoke of cunning, and a flicker of what he thought was respect.

That couldn’t be, however.  He didn’t recognize her; she would have no idea who---.

“Don’t be such a ninny,” the old woman chided.  “You’re Anne Freston’s son, aren’t you?”

So maybe she did know who he was.

“My apologies,” he stammered.  “I’m afraid I’m being quite rude---.”

“Only if you continue to stand there and gawk.”  She patted the seat again.  “It’s far too glorious a day to waste it, William.  Do sit down.”

He did as she commanded, his back stiff, his brow shiny with sweat.  The bridge of his spectacles was threatening to slide down his nose, and he pushed them back up with an unsteady hand, furious with himself for allowing his discomfiture to show.  So he’d failed to recognize one of his mother’s acquaintances; it was hardly the end of the world.  He just hoped his ungracious manner didn’t get back to her ears.

“And how is your mother?”

This spot on way of hers of answering his thoughts was unnerving.  “Very well, thank you,” he murmured.

“Oh.  I’d heard she was unwell.”

His immediate reaction was to frown, but he quickly wiped it from his face.  There had been some worrying incidents lately, but nothing that had been spoken of outside of the house.  Surely, his mother wasn’t a part of the gossip mill already?

“No,” he reassured.  “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.  In fact, she’s in the process of planning a dinner party.”  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, William swallowed, pressing his lips together.  Oh dear.  Mentioning an engagement to which this woman might not be invited---it would certainly help if he knew who exactly she was---was quite the faux pas.  One of these days, he really was going to have to start thinking before speaking.

“And so you’ve managed to escape the arrangements.”  She nodded, ignoring his mistake as her gaze slid to his coat pocket and the journal that jutted out from it.  “A little light reading to pass the time?” she asked, and before he could respond, the book was out of his jacket and in her wizened grasp, thin fingers tracing the delicate tooling on the spine.

Behind his glasses, William’s eyes widened, fear choking him as he prayed she wouldn’t deign to open it.  No one had ever read his journal other than himself.  It held the deepest fears of his heart, the greatest hopes of his soul, the strongest desires of his flesh.  It was the only part of his life with which he was completely honest; he would be properly scandalized should its contents be disclosed, and if word should get back to his mother…

She wasn’t opening it.  Instead, she was muttering under her breath---Latin, from the few words he could catch, or a derivative thereof---and her fingers never stopped their exploration of the soft leather.  By the time he’d regained his wits enough to clear his throat, the old woman was already looking up at him, her hand extended as she proffered the book.

“Lovely workmanship,” she commented.  “I’m sure you must hold it dear.”

William had to refrain from snatching it back.  “Yes, it’s…irreplaceable,” he said, and tucked it into his pocket.  His fingers cradled the spine, the leather oddly warm to the touch.

Her eyes bored into his.  “Odd how that applies to people as well,” she said, and the cadence of her voice chilled the beads of sweat that clung to his spine.  “You know, you shouldn’t be so cavalier about your lack of sleep.  So many restless nights can’t be good for your health.”

She knew.  How, or why, or…how escaped his understanding, but there was no mistaking the knowledge glinting back at him from those obsidian depths.  “Who are you?” William rasped.  His body was torn between the rippled sensations of gooseflesh crawling along his skin and the fire that burned from his journal into his palm, but none of it was of consequence as his mind raced, desperate to try and make sense of the questions she raised.  “What do you want?”

“Who was it that said, ‘Fortune favors the brave?’”

“Terence,” came his automatic reply.  “In Phormio.  Act one, scene four.”

He frowned at the sad shake of her head.  “And perhaps it’s better to understand the classics, rather than capable of spouting off mere facts about them,” she said, rising to her feet.  “Words can be an effective shield, William, but they can also be a wall if you choose to hide behind them.  Be careful how you use yours.”

As she began walking away, he was up and halfway to her side when he forced his step to stop.  Regardless of what she said or how it made him feel, he had no idea who she was, what her interest in conveying such cryptic messages, or even whether or not she was just an escaped inmate from Bedlam.  Better to just let her go.

Even if he couldn’t shake the feeling that doing so was tantamount to slitting his own throat.

*************

When Willow had suggested shopping, Buffy had jumped at the chance, her jet lag finally abated after three days to be awake enough for the excursion during normal daylight hours.  Her expectations hadn’t been unreasonable, she’d thought.  First, there’d be racks of designer tops and snooty sales clerks eager to take their American credit cards.  Then, sitting in a café, sipping tea and watching the tourists go wandering by, laughing with her best friend about how ridiculous they all were while making sure to keep her own camera carefully hidden.

Finding herself in the musty basement of a used bookstore on Charing Cross didn’t even come close on the Buffy radar.

“Giles asked me to pick some books up,” Willow had apologized as she’d led her away from the tube station toward the long row of shops.  “We won’t be very long.  I promise.”

That had been half an hour earlier, and Buffy was starting to wonder just what Willow’s definition of not very long actually was.

Not that she was an expert, but it certainly didn’t look like any other book store she’d seen back in the US.  Barely six feet wide, shelves from floor to ceiling took up most of the floor space, leaving a three-foot aisle that ran the length of the building.  There didn’t seem to be any order to the books---not alphabetical, not categorized by type, not even stacked on end so that all the spines were visible---and Buffy got a crick in her neck from the twisting and turning of trying to read some of the titles.  To top it all off, she didn’t even have Willow around to complain about the cramped quarters.  Once she’d dropped Giles’ name, her friend had disappeared with the elderly clerk to a back room, rife with promises of returning soon but severely lacking in the actual follow-through.

When an overweight tourist elbowed his way past her, Buffy pressed herself into the nearest bookcase to get out of his way, skittering along the edge until she felt the wall disappear from behind her.  She glanced over her shoulder.  There, almost buried between the tall stacks, was a narrow doorway, cramped stairs with a ceiling anyone taller than her would have to duck below, disappearing down into near darkness.  A handwritten sign on the wall said simply, “More books,” with an arrow pointing downward.

“Like that’s a big surprise,” she muttered. 

Mr. Too-Large-For-Such-A-Small-Store decided he’d forgotten something and turned to double-back, leaving Buffy’s eyes darting around for escape.  Couldn’t go up, couldn’t really go in without getting even more cornered, which really only left…

Her foot felt for the top step just as he pushed by, and she grabbed the iron rail to guide her descent into the basement.  Maybe it was roomier down there.  Maybe there were fewer customers.  At the very least, there would be different books for her to stare at while she waited for Willow.

It was slightly larger, but that was most likely due both to the lack of shelves along the walls and the dearth of customers, with the books stacked along the floor in piles that threatened to teeter over if she as much as breathed too hard.  What it lacked in organization, though, it compensated with dust, and the first thing Buffy did when her feet left the stairwell was sneeze violently.

“Gesundheit,” she said to herself, and stepped to the center of the room, pirouetting in examination of the texts that surrounded her.  So many colors, so many shapes, so many words she didn’t recognize.  “Oh goody,” she murmured, none too happy.  “I’m in Watcher Paradise.”

She hated feeling ungrateful about the whole trip, but with three days now past, Buffy was beginning to wonder if coming to London was actually such a good idea.  She was still not sleeping well, and now she had both Willow and Giles hovering over her every move, asking her how she was every other minute without giving anything in return but assurances that she’d feel better as soon as her jet lag went away.  She didn’t even have the release of slaying to keep the demons at bay; until she could get around the block without getting lost---was anything in this country square?---Buffy didn’t trust herself to go out in the city alone.

Her fingers trailed over the nearest stack of books, a dust-free path echoing in their wake, and her gaze dropped over the exposed titles, the odd author ringing in her ears in the voice of English teachers she’d rather forget.  Four books down, an empty spine blinked back at her, and she frowned as she stopped to focus on it.

It was worn leather, with intricate tooling spidering along its slim length.  A bald patch in the middle announced the familiar grip of a single hand, the patterns fainter there where its previous owner had obviously held it for long amounts of time.  Curious, Buffy lifted the books on top of it to slide it out.  She had expected the cover to mirror the cool and gritty texture coating the other items in the shop she’d touched, but found instead a soothing radiance to the leather where it almost melted into her hand.

Closer inspection revealed yellowed, uneven pages that were loosely bound, and she knew instinctively that it wasn’t a published work.  Old, yes, but there were older books in the store that showed more professional binding.  That left private ownership, and as she traced the edge of the binding with a slim fingertip, the desire to take a peek inside swelled within her.

Don’t know what I’m so gunshy about, she thought as she hesitated.  It’s a store, wanting me to buy its books.  Of course it’s OK for me to see what it’s about.  So, she swallowed the niggle of uncertainty and flipped open to a random page.

The script was ornate and fluid, a testimony to the ceremony of days gone by.  Bonus points for being in English, Buffy mused, and let her gaze drift across the words until a particular passage demanded she stop.

“The question of selfishness lends me pause,” it read.  “On the one hand, I yearn for the freedom of making a choice based purely upon my own desires.  Yet, on the other, do I not owe those who know me the constancy of my character? I will always strive to fulfill my responsibilities, but I can’t help but ponder the argument that I am only half a man if I ignore the leanings of my heart.  Writing of them isn’t of sufficient consequence.  It is too solitary, with little fruit for sustenance beyond that which I glean on the odd occasion I share them.  But to act further would undoubtedly be detrimental to my duties.

“And so I wait, and I write, and I look outside my window and see the world passing me by, oblivious to the man standing behind the glass.  They go along with their day, secure in the knowledge that I will satisfy the demands of my obligations, yet they do not know me, and most likely will never know.  For that would require my selfish side to take voice, and as it is currently mute, I fear I shall continue unheard.”

Her throat was dry as Buffy let the pages fall closed again.  Not a regular book at all, but someone’s journal, with all their private thoughts and fears spelled out for just anyone to read.  For her to read.  She wanted to put it back into the stack, to hide it from other prying eyes and pray for the man who’d written it that it never got sold.  Or you can buy it, a little voice inside her said.  Keep anyone else from reading it and give a dead man the privacy he wanted.  That would work, too.

Tilting her head, Buffy lifted the cover to peek at the top of the first page.  William Freston, 1879.  “Well, William,” she said out loud.  “What do you think?  Put you back or take you home with me?”

It took less time than she thought to decide.  Curling the leather against her chest, Buffy strode to the stairwell, wondering how much teasing she was going to get from Willow about her first London purchase being a musty old book.

*************

Counting out the bills from the money Giles had given her, Willow watched as the elderly clerk finished wrapping up the books, her gnarled fingers nimble in spite of their age.  “I can’t wait to come back and really explore this place,” she said.  “I’ll bet you’ve got some nifty stuff buried in here, just waiting to be all unearthed.”

“You can always look now,” the woman said.  “I can hold these for Mr. Giles while you---.”

Willow shook her head.  “I’ve been here too long already.  Buffy---.”

“Your friend.”  She nodded in understanding.  “Not exactly her milieu, is it?

“Not exactly’s an understatement.  I promised her fun and frolicking on Oxford Street, but I think I might’ve blown my frolicking window if her jet lag starts to catch up with her again.”

There was a hint of hesitation in the clerk’s hands.  “You should help her with that.  It would be a shame for her to miss out on your vacation because she’s not sleeping well.”

“Oh, Giles had tons of tips on how to get over it, but none of them---.”

“I didn’t mean tips.  I meant magic.”  Dark eyes met Willow’s wide ones.  “You’re buying magic books for Rupert Giles.  Are you going to tell me you don’t know anything about it?”

“No, but…what are you saying?”

The elderly woman turned toward the bookshelf in the back of the office, fingers combing over the spines before extracting a slim volume.  “There’s a spell in here,” she said when she turned back.  “Quite simple with just a few ingredients that I’m sure Mr. Giles will have on hand.  It should easily take care of your friend’s sleep problems.”

Holding up her hands in protest, Willow smiled in apology.  “I couldn’t.  Me and the magic isn’t always such a good combo.  I mean, I try, but---.”

“It’s simple,” the clerk repeated, and slid the book into the stack she’d already packed.  “Just look it over.  Maybe your friend won’t even need it, and if she doesn’t, you can always use the book as a paperweight.”

The smile she flashed untied some of the knots that had formed in Willow’s stomach.  It couldn’t hurt to just look it over, right?  And what kind of friend would she be if she didn’t help out when she could?

 

*************

Chapter 3: In Dreams, They Look on Thee

“Buffy bought a book!”

Following Willow through the narrow door of the flat, Buffy rolled her eyes when the chirpy announcement immediately prompted Giles to poke his head out of the kitchen. “What’s that?”

“Buffy bought a book,” Willow repeated and flashed the other girl a brilliant smile.

Way to go to make me feel like I’ve just managed not to wet myself, Buffy thought in annoyance as she pushed past to go into the small living room. It had been a satisfying day once they’d managed to get out of the bookstore, filled with exactly the sort of shopping she’d had in mind when they’d set out, and her weary muscles were screaming out for respite. She collapsed onto the couch with a loud sigh, sprawling amid the bags that tumbled around her feet. “Buffy also bought an adorably killer skirt at TopShop,” she said. “On sale for ten pounds. That’s, like, five dollars, right?”

“Uh, more like fifteen,” Giles said.

“Oh.” Her face darkened for a moment before she shrugged. “It was still a good deal.”

“So…you had a good day?” He hovered in the entrance, watching as Willow dropped her purchases onto the coffee table. His eyes were intent on his Slayer for a long moment, darkened in concern, before darting to the redhead. “There weren’t any problems in picking up the texts I requested?”

Willow shook her head. “Signed, sealed, and delivered. Took a little longer than we thought, but that’s just because Esme couldn’t find the Whevra Codex straight away. Turns out someone was using it as a coaster in the back office.”

“Good, good,” he said, and almost immediately frowned. “Who’s Esme? Wasn’t Charles there?”

“No, she said it was his day off. Maybe you know her as Esmerelda. Except she said she hasn’t used it since the seventies and the whole Bewitched thing that made her life miserable.” She waited for a response, but was met only with a blank look. “Old? Huge into magic?”

“She doesn’t sound familiar, but I haven’t seen Charles in several years. He’s most likely hired some new people in the interim.”

“What about you?” asked Buffy. She didn’t want them talking about the bookstore any more. That could lead to questions about what she’d bought and she really didn’t want to be sharing William’s journal. It had been hard enough deflecting Willow’s inquisition; she wasn’t in the mood to be holding off Giles’. For now, it was hers and hers alone. “What’s the sitch in Watcher world?”

“Quite intriguing, actually,” Giles said. He settled into the leather chair near the fireplace, fitting into the traditional British décor as if he’d never left. “I had a lengthy visit with an old colleague today. According to Owen, there’s been a recent theft that’s caused quite the rumpus with the Council. They’re quite up in arms about it, I presume, because it presents a threat of some sort.”

Buffy perked up at the word “threat.” “Does this mean patrolling?” she asked, a little too eagerly. Finally, something to distract herself with. “Because you know, it’s probably not a good idea for me to just sit around the apartment all day, letting those Slayer muscles waste away. And you know me, all big with the conservation.”

“Oh, it’s much too early for that,” he was quick to say, shaking his head. “I’m not even aware of what exactly’s been stolen. Owen and I are planning on a day trip up to Cambridge early next week to see what we can discover.”

So much for that idea, she thought, visibly deflating at his negation for any need of a Slayer. But she knew she just couldn’t continue sitting around like she had been. Her malaise was getting worse rather than better, too many minutes left to think about everything that had happened in Sunnydale. Now that she’d spent some time in the city, getting more comfortable with the way traffic worked, and learning to look right instead of left when she wanted to cross the street, she was ready to start exploring the vicinity of the apartment some more. It was a nice neighborhood---the friend of Giles’ who was letting them stay there while he was on vacation obviously had money---but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be vampires around.

And she could really use a good slay some time soon.

Rising to her feet, Buffy gathered up her bags. “I’m going to go put this stuff away before I change my mind about any of it,” she said.

“You’re not hungry?” Giles asked. “I rather thought we could go out for dinner.”

She shook her head. “We got a bite to eat before coming home. I think I’m just going to call it a night, if you don’t mind.”

“There’s always the television---.”

“With its mind-boggling five channels,” she finished. “Half of which look remarkably like PBS back home. No thanks. I think I’ll just curl up with my book.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Better mark this day on your calendar, Giles. The Slayer choosing a book over mindless electronic entertainment? Something tells me you won’t get too many of these.” With a little wave good night, she headed for her bedroom.

*************

Sitting on the floor by the coffee table, Willow’s pace was slow as she sorted through the books she’d picked up for Giles. Buffy’s quick disappearance was unfortunate. Up to that point, Willow had considered the day a huge success, outside of the having to wait at the bookstore part, but now, she wasn’t so sure. Broody Buffy was back. Worse yet, she looked like she was hibernating for the winter. Or summer, as the case may be.

The break from slaying didn’t seem to be doing the job, either. It would’ve been better if Giles’ little theft mystery had yielded some work for Buffy; at least then, she’d have something to distract her from her thoughts about Angel. More than once that day, Willow had tried to initiate a conversation about what had happened, only to be coolly rebuffed when the Slayer changed the subject each and every time. So, OK, she could take a hint. Angel talking bad. But what did that leave that was good?

Sleep. Sleep was good. Esme had been right about that. And that was something Willow might actually be able to do something about. It was tearing her up seeing her best friend suffer so.

Extracting the spell book Esme had given her, she stole a quick glance toward the kitchen, listening for a long moment to ensure Giles wouldn’t be coming out any time soon. He wouldn’t be pleased about her doing this. When it came to magic, the Watcher was reluctant to let her experiment on her own without his supervision. Oh sure, he was fine as long as it was something small and didn’t directly affect anyone, like her pencil twirling. But this would be about Buffy, and Willow was fairly certain that was no-witches-land in his book. Better he didn’t know.

She found the spell easily, and her face creased into a wide smile as she scanned it over. Another point for Esme. Not only were the ingredients incredibly basic, but the spell itself bordered on the simplistic. It was a little disappointing that it wasn’t more challenging, but if it worked to give Buffy some rest, then that was all that mattered.

*************

She shoved the book under her pillow when the knock came. “Come in!” Buffy called out, sitting up in the narrow bed.

The door opened, revealing a smiling Willow carrying a steaming cup of tea. “I know you’re not hungry, but I thought you might want something to drink,” she said, venturing forward a hesitant step.

“Determined to keep me going on that whole English experience, huh?” She took the drink, its heat radiating through her fingers, and surprised herself by inhaling deeply. It didn’t smell like the tea Giles normally brewed. This was richer, tantalizing almost, and just the scent of it was making her mouth water.

“I thought it might help you relax,” Willow replied. She hovered near the edge of the bed, the smallness of the room making it impossible to pace like it was obvious her feet wanted. Back home, Buffy would’ve labeled the room a walk-in closet, but obviously on a tiny island where space was premium, if a bed and a dresser could be fit inside, that was enough to call it a bedroom.

“Thanks, Will.” The first sip made her tongue tingle, and before she realized what she was doing, Buffy was gulping down the tea, finishing half of it before she caught her friend’s raised eyebrows. “Good stuff,” she said with a slight blush. “Just call me Mojave.”

“I won’t keep you,” said Willow, backing up. “Besides, Giles should be back any minute with the fish and chips.”

A pang of guilt stabbed through her gut. “Guess I ruined his dinner out idea, huh?” she commented. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s what he had in mind when he suggested it earlier.”

“He’s worried about you, Buffy. Dinner was just something he thought might work to get your mind off of…stuff.”

The fact that Willow was afraid to even say Angel’s name around her any more only served to intensify Buffy’s guilt. Swinging her legs around the edge of the bed, she set the cup down on the nightstand. “Maybe I should be the brave little Slayer and go put in an appearance,” she said. “You guys are trying so hard---.”

“Aren’t you tired?” It came out like gunshot, startling both of them, and Willow flushed in embarrassment. “I mean, you look kind of tired, and you were dragging there toward the end. Even Giles said it looked like you might finally get a good night’s sleep.”

“No, I’m…” But even as she spoke, the lethargy creeping through her limbs made Buffy feel like sinking into the mattress, and she shocked herself by yawning widely. “…more tired than I thought,” she finished, covering her mouth. “Excuse me.”

“No, no, excuse me,” Willow rushed, and for a second, the Slayer thought she saw what looked like a smile in her friend’s eyes. “You sleep. Finish your tea, get yourself all cozy, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’ll be the bushy-tailed one.”

“And don’t worry about me and Giles. We’re just going to look over his books anyway. Good night.”

Once she was alone again, Buffy stretched back out on the mattress, the burn in her muscles only deepening the exhaustion she was fighting. Sleep is good, she thought, rolling onto her side. Her hand stole under the pillow, and she felt the warm leather of the journal, beckoning to her to be drawn out again. Maybe I’ll just read a little more, she decided when she pulled it out. Books have always worked as sedatives before.

It fell open to the page at which she’d left off.

“…that dreadful Mrs. Howard. I had hoped my morning’s escape would leave me free of her company, but unfortunately, my wishes were for naught as I encountered her on the step upon my return…”

*************

“…upon my return. She did, of course, immediately launch into the most vulgar tale regarding David’s comport at a recent gathering, one to which, of course, I was not invited…”

William paused in his writing, looking up from the page to stare into the flickering candlelight. It had been an excruciating confrontation, Mrs. Howard prattling on with the details of her son’s behavior, sparing no triviality, all the while more than aware of his growing discomfort. Only the appearance of a carriage before her house was sufficient to divert her attention from her tale, and William had finally escaped to the sanctuary of his home as she scurried to see who was visiting.

At least he was spared a reading. That would have been the utmost humiliation, considering his current mood.

The words continued their refusal in cooperating. For hours, he’d sat in the study, scribbling out the verses that had seemed masterly upon the bank, but each syllable staring back at him from the paper threatened to obliterate the efficacy of the one next, leaving him frustrated and worn and wishing desperately that he’d stayed out where the imagery swelled in his mind’s eye, demanding a release through his inks. He would even have tolerated meeting the odd elderly widow again if it meant his poetry could live. She had been frightening, but relatively harmless, and at least he’d not lacked an internal voice when she’d left him.

So he’d begged off dinner, assuring his mother that he was merely tired from his morning out, and retired to his room, intent on having something to show for his efforts that day. But even there, where he was safest and free from recriminations, William had failed, gazing sadly at the crumpled pages that were scattered about his chair before picking up his journal. Better to record the events of the day than dwell on his deficiencies, though when he began, he automatically avoided chronicling his eerie encounter. That would constitute dwelling, and further examination of what had transpired was beyond his grasp at the moment.

A quiet rap at his door was all that was necessary for him to set down his quill. “Yes?” he called out, and looked up to see one of the chambermaids standing in the entrance. In her hands was a silver tray, a steaming cup placed directly in its center. “I didn’t request anything,” William said, rising to his feet. He took a step forward. “What is that?”

“Just tea, sir,” she said shyly. “A special blend. To help you sleep.”

The reminder of his restless nights made him stiffen, and William lifted his chin as he stared at the young girl. “You can just take it away then,” he said, and though he’d deliberately opted for a haughty tone, inwardly he cringed when he saw her color at his rebuke. “I’m fine,” he added, softer this time as he sought to rectify the damage he’d already done.

She didn’t move. “Pardon, sir,” she stammered, “but I’m to be sure you take it. Your mum was ever so insistent.”

“My mother?”

She nodded. “She was saying to Cook about you looking peaked, wanting to know if you weren’t eating properly. Then Cook said as how you were just needing a bit of sleep and that she had the perfect remedy for that. A secret of her Auntie Esmerelda’s, she said. And so here it is.” Her glance down at the cup was accompanied by a faint rattle, and William realized that the poor girl was trembling in fear.

He’d done that. Of course, she was relatively new to the household, and spent most of her time waiting on his mother so her encounters with him were few and far between, but still, the knowledge that William had instilled this sense of trepidation in an unsuspecting girl made his stomach curdle. Quickly, he stepped forward and took the tray from her grasp, inhaling the unfamiliar aroma of the tea as it passed underneath his nose. It wouldn’t do to have her drop it, after all.

“Thank you,” he said, and waved her toward the door. “You’ve done your duty now. There should be no need for worrying of reprimand.”

She seemed uncertain, her eyes darting from him to the tea on the desk, but she merely nodded her head and backed out of the room, closing the door shut behind her.

As he regarded the steaming tea before him, William sighed. And here I thought I was being careful, he mused. But not only have I alerted Mother to my restlessness, I’ve managed to get treated like a child in the process. Wonderful.

His slim fingers traced the gilt around the rim of the cup. Briefly, he considered dumping its contents into the chamberpot, but the questions that might raise were enough for him to dismiss the notion almost as immediately as he’d thought of it. Such a discovery would only prompt his mother to call for Dr. Gull, and that most certainly wouldn’t do. He had to admit, though, the tea did smell enticing, richer than his normal brew with a touch of nutmeg underlying its citrus-y tang. Would it be so bad to endure a bit of pampering and drink it?

He’d only meant to sip it, but as the first drops hit his tongue, the urge to swallow it down in a single gulp was overwhelming, prompting William to let it glide over his tongue in a continuous stream as he downed the drink. Within seconds, he felt a soothing lassitude seep into his muscles, and he’d barely replaced the cup back onto the tray when he felt his eyelids droop of their own accord.

Oh my. Perfect remedy, indeed.

His fingers scrabbled for his shirt collar as he stumbled for the bed, his head thick and unwieldy.

Must remember… to thank Cook…in the morning.

It was his last conscious thought before falling under the spell of slumber.

*************

It was the sky dreams were made of, brilliant and blue and hurting his eyes when he squinted upward to scan the cloudless heavens. No variations in shade, not a speck of cirrus to mar the crystalline perfection of the expanse, and William inhaled with the tenor of a dying man desperate to savor his last few tastes of air.

He was in the middle of a park, but not one he recognized, rolling greens broken by trees he didn’t know, their oddly shaped leaves flowering in irregular clusters against the sky. The path on which he stood wound like a silver ribbon through the grass, the finely crushed stone almost like sand beneath his shoes, and the bed of daisies and deep-purple clematis that snaked alongside leant the air a redolent perfume that felt surprisingly like home.

A slight breeze tickled his neck, and William realized that he was in shirtsleeves, his collar undone, his cuffs rolled up nearly to his elbows. In his trousers pocket, an awkward weight bounced on his thigh, and he reached in and extracted the bottle of ink he found there. A sheaf of papers was rolled in his opposite pocket, and his face broke into a wide smile as he felt the first rush of words descend into his awareness.

Ah, there they are, the devilish scamps. Back from whatever escapades they managed to frolic in after this morning.

As his gaze followed the path, he saw a stone bench several yards ahead and strode forward, readying his work even before he’d reached its side. The utmost privacy pervaded the park, and though he knew he was dreaming, William thanked whatever gods were looking down upon him for the boon of solitude that would allow him to compose his verses. After all, certainly it was better to be prolific in the vagaries of slumber, than to never feel the written word within his pen at all.

Like a youth, he straddled the cold seat and set his tools before him, the inkpot weighing down the top edge of the paper while his right hand held down the bottom. In the nimble grasp of his left, the quill that had been bound with the papers danced across the page, and he felt the exhilaration of productivity begin to course through his veins. Nothing quite so acute as the surge of feeling the words flow, he thought. And though decorum should’ve commanded he sit more properly, or tidy his dress more becoming to being in public, William ignored the dictates, lost in his dreamland and uncaring of whatever rules the waking world might want to enforce. The words were what mattered. He was only there to serve the words.

He very well could’ve drifted on the clouds of his poetry until he awoke, if the soft crunch of the stone path hadn’t distracted him from the page. Lifting his eyes, he blinked rapidly to adjust to the shift in light, and then felt a warm flush steal across his skin as a young lady rounded the nearest curve.

She was blonde, long hair waving loose about her shoulders, and she was dressed in what could’ve been one of his mother’s shifts if it wasn’t for the shortened skirt exposing the ripe curve of her calf. While the white fabric billowed around her legs, it hugged her torso, cupping the swell of her breasts and accentuating her slim waist. Even her arms were bare, the bodice held up by the thinnest of straps, and William colored as he jumped to his feet, wanting to lower his gaze out of propriety, but unable to look away from the vision that approached.

Breathtaking. That’s what she was.

And ever so invitingly vital.

She stopped as soon as she saw him, green eyes regarding him with a directness that was most off-putting, and the sound of his heart pounding inside his chest filled his ears. It lasted for mere seconds, though, only until it was replaced by another sound, but it was the latter that made the world fall away around him.

“Now why do I have a funny feeling that you’re William?” she asked, with a twinkle in her eye.

 

 

*************

Chapter 4: For My Name Is Will

She hadn’t expected to find anyone. The instant she’d found herself in the unknown park, Buffy had known she was dreaming, though it was far too vivid and far too realistic to be a Slayer dream. Those were always big with the cryptic, and this…this was just peace personified. Way to go, Willow, for tea that makes you go hmmmm, she thought in amusement as she rounded the curve in the path.

Then, she’d seen him, and halted in her step as he bolted to his feet, the papers he’d been writing on rustling in his haste.

There was something oddly familiar about him, but what it was, she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He was slimly built, with lean hips housed in the old-fashioned brown trousers, and his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the neckline, exposing the sharp line of his clavicle. Bare forearms were muscled, but not defined, and she knew without having to ask that this was a man unused to physical labor. Of course, the glasses added to his bookish appearance, as well as the sandy hair that fell stubbornly in loose curls across his forehead, but it was surprisingly endearing, especially combined with the embarrassed flush creeping over his cheeks.

The quill dangling from his fingers made a connection spark somewhere deep inside her brain, and Buffy almost smiled as understanding dawned. “Now why do I have a funny feeling that you’re William?” she said. The widening of his eyes was the only confirmation she needed. At least my subconscious still works, she thought. Fall asleep reading William’s journal, dream about meeting him. Yay me for being logical.

“You…you…how do you know me?” he stammered.

Even though it was just a dream, somehow Buffy had a suspicion that admitting to reading the man’s journal was the surest way of scaring him off. He valued his privacy, and besides, how weird would she think it if she was suddenly stuck with someone who’d read her diary? “You look like a William,” she said instead, and saw the disbelief darken his gaze.

The silence stretched between them when he didn’t reply, each just standing there staring at the other. Every once in a while, she saw his eyes drop to her legs, but each glance only served to deepen his flush, until she finally sighed in exasperation and grabbed the hem of her dress.

“What’s the big deal?” she asked, pulling up the skirt to expose her knees. “Am I that horribly deformed or something?”

Immediately, he turned away, fussing with his papers as he scooped them up. “It’s…it’s…indecent,” he stammered. “You sh-sh-shouldn’t be dressed so.”

Oh great, I broke him already. “They’re only legs,” she said. “They don’t bite. That would be what those things called teeth are for.” She let the fabric drop and took a step toward him. “It’s not like you don’t have them, too. ‘Cause, you know, kind of hard to be standing there without them.”

For a moment, she thought she saw the corner of his mouth lift, but his motions didn’t cease, continuing to gather his papers and capping his inkpot. “I shan’t keep you,” he said. “It’s a lovely day and you likely wish to---.”

“Don’t go.” Buffy didn’t even sense rushing forward to lay her hand on his arm. It was just…he was leaving, and she knew she didn’t want him to go. Stopping him seemed paramount.

His muscles tensed beneath her grip, but he didn’t pull away, his head tilting first to look at her fingers before lifting to gaze into her face. Up close, she could see the thunderous blue behind his glasses, clear and intelligent and revealing, and felt her throat constrict as they searched hers. What he was looking for, she didn’t know, but Buffy suspected he saw more than he’d ever admit.

“Who are you?” William breathed.

This time, she couldn’t resist the smile. “I’m Buffy.”

A dark eyebrow quirked, and that sense of déjà vu flashed through her again. “That’s…unusual,” he murmured. “And not English.”

“Nope. As American as apple pie.”

This only served to heighten his amusement. “I wasn’t aware Americans had a monopoly on apple pie,” he said. “As a point of fact, Cook has a rather delightful recipe for these apple crumble tarts. I suppose that would make her American under your logic.”

Her mouth opened to protest, ready to retort about stuffy Englishmen who thought they knew everything, when she saw the glint in his eye. He was teasing her. OK. Unexpected. Especially since not two minutes earlier he’d been barely able to look her in the face without turning into a giant cherry tomato.

“I thought gentlemen were supposed to be all courteous and nice to ladies,” she said, loosening her grasp to fold her arms across her chest.

“As well they should,” he replied. “But as I’ve determined that you are not, in fact, real, then standard rules of etiquette can’t actually apply, now can they?”

“I think someone’s got their realities mixed up, bub. You’re the one who’s not real. This is my dream, therefore the reality of you equals not really there.”

Her certainty seemed to make him hesitate, his gaze sweeping over her face yet again. “Not that I don’t often question exactly that,” he said softly, “but you are far too fantastic to be anything but a figment of my imagination. Granted, I was unaware my imagination could prove so fertile as to create an American vision capable of completely stealing my very breath, but the fact that you are still standing here, speaking to me without condescension, and looking very much as if you desire my company, only affirms that you can’t truly exist.”

The annoyance that had been bubbling under her skin dissipated. “You…think I’m some dream Buffy just because I’m being nice to you?” There was a flicker of shame in the blue before he ducked his head, his bravado gone, and her fingers returned to rest gently on his arm. “Tell you what. Why don’t we agree to disagree on the who gets to be real question and start from scratch, OK?” She waited for him to look up again before stepping back and sticking out her hand with a wide smile. “Hi. I’m Buffy Summers.”

His indecision rippled across his face, his scrutiny intense before his manners resumed control and he composed his shoulders. “William Freston,” he said, and when he bowed at the waist, his hand turned hers just enough to allow his lips to brush over her knuckles. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Miss Summers.”

“Buffy,” she said when he straightened. “You call me Miss Summers, and I expect to be sent down to the principal’s office. Well, if I hadn’t blown up the school, that is.”

“Miss Buffy, then,” William corrected, though it was clear he didn’t completely understand her references.

“So whatcha writing?” Turning away, she began to reach for the papers that littered the bench, but was stopped when he leapt to the fore, grabbing at them to pull them away from her range.

“They’re just scribblings,” he said, too hastily, and the blush returned to his cheeks. “Nothing of importance.”

Buffy pulled her hand back, watching as he tucked the pages into his pockets. Odd how the man she’d read about manifested in such a real manner in her dreams. The Victorian dress and decorum was to be expected, she supposed, but the disparate timidity and forthrightness was confusing. “It’s OK,” she said in as reassuring a voice as she could manage. “They’re private. I get that.”

“Thank you.” He hung back, keeping his hands behind his back, but glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Can I sit with you?”

It was enough to garner his full attention again. “Pardon?”

“I interrupted you, but…if you’re not going to go back to what you were working on, I thought…I mean, I don’t have plans and you don’t have plans and since it looks like we’re both planless…” Buffy’s voice trailed off. God, she really sucked at this. Had it really been that long since she’d chatted up a guy? Not that she and Angel had ever been about the talking, but once upon a time, she’d been semi-literate, capable of stringing more than a few words together in the presence of a member of the opposite sex. Damn it. She could do this. Especially with a guy who was only part of a dream.

“You wish to…join me?”

“If that’s OK.”

She thought he was going to run. Like a feral cat, poised to flee at the slightest hint of danger, William almost quivered in agitation, like he didn’t dare believe what she was saying. “Why?” he asked. His voice was so low, she barely caught the single word query.

Not that she really knew what to say in response. “Why not? Doesn’t it sound like fun? A pretty park, good company. I don’t see where the bad is.”

A pause. Then…a sweep of his arm accompanied by a slight lean of his body as he gestured toward the bench. “It would be my honor.”

Once she was settled, Buffy watched as he perched himself on the edge of the seat as far from her as possible, his unease screaming at her with every tense muscle. “That can’t be comfortable,” she commented, and pulled her knee up under her skirt to sit sideways on the bench. “How about we find some middle ground between Mr. Uptight and Mr. I Can Be Rude As Much As I Want Because You’re Not Real, OK?” She stretched and poked him in the arm, eliciting a small jump. “Relax. I’ve actually been known to be entertaining on the odd occasion. Sometimes, an even one, too.”

William rubbed at his arm, massaging the spot she’d touched with a small frown on his face. “For an illusion, you are remarkably forthright.”

“Actually, I’m pretty darn forthright in reality, too. I blame the education system. Breeds all that independent thinking.”

Her joke eased the lines in his brow, but his gaze remained steady. “Perhaps, it’s an attribute of being American as well,” he said. “My reading suggests that American culture is quite progressive. Would you consider that a valid assessment, Miss Buffy?”

“We’ve been called worse,” she started, and then grinned. “And look at us being all conversation-having. I told you we could do this.”

*************

She was unlike anyone he had ever met before.

His initial trepidation had tied his tongue in knots, though once he’d convinced himself she was just a figment of his imagination, speaking to her had become incredibly easy. Entertaining, even. She had lit up under his gentle banter, and even when he’d been terrified of her response to his writings, her easy manner had quickly soothed his nerves, letting conversation happen as naturally as if he was talking to one of his university professors.

Certainly, though, she was infinitely more beautiful than anyone with whom he’d spent more than five minutes speaking. She glowed from within, drowning him in eyes of emerald that looked as if they’d witnessed the very end of the world. It had been difficult in the beginning to not gape in admiration, her non-traditional attire notwithstanding, but even that had receded behind the sheer pleasure of her company. In many ways, she was such a contradiction---intelligent, but playful; compassionate, but impatient with passivity; young, but with a spirit that felt centuries old---and it was those that made him lose the time so quickly.

They talked of nothing of consequence at first, their discourse adhering to topics of generality rather than personal, but when the subject at hand had steered toward health issues, he’d been unable to refrain from asking.

“How on earth did you get such a scar?” William queried, nodding slightly toward the mark on her neck.

Instantly, her hand reached up to touch it, and some of the color that had been in her cheeks was leeched away. “Puppy bite,” she said absently, as her eyes fell to the ground. Thin fingers traced the odd ridges on her skin, and he could literally see her pulse pounding away in the hollow of her throat.

“I did not mean to upset you,” he said. Tentatively, he inched closer, reaching out to rest his hand on her forearm. The sun had warmed both of them, and where earlier he had been grateful for his lack of jacket, now it seemed as if even his shirt was too much as the heat jumped between them. “If you’d rather---.”

“No, no, I’m OK,” Buffy said. Her eyes told him otherwise. “Just…not so good memories kind of go hand-in-hand with it.” She looked up then, and the pain she fought so valiantly to hide gleamed somewhere in the green depths. “Part of the whole why I’m not sleeping so good right now. Well, except for tonight. Tonight seems to be a different story.”

“Do you…wish to talk about it? I am not such a stranger to insomnia, myself. Although, like you, this evening appears to be the exception to my normal patterns.”

“Maybe some other time,” she said.

He was almost disappointed by her lack of interest in sharing. It had seemed that, for some inexplicable reason, she trusted him, and William was eager for the opportunity to learn more about Buffy. Yes, she was just a character he’d obviously created to distract himself from the banality of his real-life existence, but in many ways, she was so much more alive than any of the people who populated his waking world. He would be foolish not to explore as much as he could while he had the chance.

“I have a scar,” he said in an attempt to distract her from the gloom his question had created. He lifted the hand from her arm and turned it over, exposing the fleshy pad where his thumb met his palm. “I was six, and Mother and I were out for a walk when we encountered an acquaintance of hers.” William’s breath caught when Buffy leaned over and traced her index finger over the ragged series of lines barely discernible on his hand, and he swallowed before venturing on. “I grew restless with waiting and began pulling leaves from the vines that climbed the wall that lined the path. Well, in doing so, I apparently disturbed the mice that had taken up residence in the wall.”

She looked up at him, her eyes dancing, and he could see her fighting to contain the laughter. “You got attacked by Mickey Mouse?”

“Mice,” he insisted. “Plural. And they were quite vicious. And large. One latched on with such vigor that Mother had to beat it off with her bag.”

The giggles bubbled from Buffy’s throat, the shadows in her aspect now lifted. William’s lips quirked in response, and he ducked his head in mock embarrassment. Truth be told, the incident was not one he recollected fondly, though he could certainly see the humor in it from an aesthetic standpoint, and if he’d been sitting with anyone else, he would never have thought to use it as an anecdote. However, this was Buffy, and though she wasn’t even real except for him, he doubted she would use it as a way to look down on him. Not when he’d already given her ample opportunities elsewhere that she’d completely ignored.

“Poor little Willie,” she teased.

“William,” he corrected.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Even when you were six?”

“Especially when I was six. I had this dreadful aunt and uncle whom my mother detested, and every time they came to call, they insisted on calling me Willie. Mother was adamant that that name would never be used in our household again.”

There was silence while her amusement faded. Her eyes burned into his, her head tilted slightly so that her hair fell across her bare shoulder, and William had to fight the impulse to reach over and brush it away. And then…

“You only ever talk about your mother.” Soft. Reluctant. As if she feared treading on ground he’d rather she didn’t.

“It’s just her and I,” he replied. “My father passed a few years ago, though he wasn’t around much prior due to work commitments. You?”

He asked the last with a note of expectancy, hoping that she would accept his offering of personal information as permission to share her own. Small steps, he reminded himself. Even the longest of journeys had to start with them.

“Same,” Buffy said. “Except for the part where my dad’s not dead. Just…voluntarily missing in action.”

He was readying to respond about how they had yet something else in common when William felt an unfamiliar tingling in his skin, an itch that generated from the air around him. Frowning, he turned his head to see what might be the cause, but as he did, the periphery of his vision seemed to blur, as if he would have to chase it in order to achieve full clarity.

“William?” Her tone was concerned, and he felt rather than saw her lean forward. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t…”

And before he could finish the sentence, the park was gone.

*************

The soft rasp of the sheet against his cheek was accompanied by the lingering scent of the tea, and William blinked against the dim light in his room.

A dream. Of course I knew it was, but…

Slowly, he raised himself up on his elbow, noting his rumpled attire, the abandoned teacup on the desk. The events of the previous evening returned with an alarming exactitude, and with it came the sting of disappointment, burning like bile in his throat as he sank back onto the bed. It was only reasonable to know that she was just an illusion---after all, he’d known that even in the course of the dream itself---but the reality of facing the day bereft of her accepting presence seemed daunting at best. Surely, the fading of the details would make it more tolerable, but for now, for that very moment, each curve of her smile and each peal of her laughter was etched in the memory of his skin, as if they were a garment he could wrap himself up in to ward away the unpleasant elements.

Chin up, William. At least you slept. Certainly that’s enough in the grand scheme of things.

It would have to be. After all, Buffy Summers was only a dream.

*************

Stretching beneath the duvet, Buffy smiled as she reminisced on the details of her dream, remembering William’s shy smile and the approving glances he cast her through his thick lashes when he thought she wasn’t looking. So, OK, maybe not the healthiest mode of relaxing, what with her subconscious turning her Victorian writer into illusionary flesh and blood for her to talk to while she slept, but hey, considering how many lemons her life had dished recently, she wasn’t going to knock whatever release she got.

Besides, after a quick glance at her bedside clock, she couldn’t really argue with the fact that for the first time in weeks, she’d slept for more than seven consecutive hours. “Thank you, William,” she murmured, as she slipped his journal beneath her pillow.

Time to face her day.

 

 

 

*************

Chapter 5: Come Daily to the Banks

It only lasted three days.

By sunset on the third day after dreaming of William, Buffy’s listlessness had returned, her thoughts distracted from her surroundings and back on Angel and what was wrong with her. It didn’t stop her from going out on patrol, though. The hours she spent roaming the streets of London helped alleviate some of the tension mired around her muscles, and she was grateful to Giles for agreeing on its usefulness.

Her days were spent exploring. With Willow at her side, she’d found a park with a river bisecting it and the stone benches that lined its banks had reminded her of the time she’d spent talking to William---just a dream, Buffy, get a grip. Though she didn’t say a word of it to her friend, on the second day, the Slayer returned to the park alone, the aged journal in hand, and spent most of the afternoon reading and people-watching.

It seemed like something he would do.

*************

“You’re going out again?”

William stiffened at the sound of his mother’s voice, and forced the smile to his lips before he turned to look at her standing in the doorway to her salon. “It’s such a lovely morning, it seemed a shame to waste it,” he said. “Perhaps you would care to join me? A stroll along the banks seems a pleasant distraction from your dinner planning.”

Though it was the last thing he currently wanted, the invitation was verbalized before he could consider not. His daily excursions had kept him away from the house for the better part of the last two days, and now, the third after his dream of the enigmatic Buffy, he had finally been caught out. Not that he was doing anything wrong. With his inks and journal in hand, William was merely wending his way to his favorite bench on the bank, attempting to write but more often than not, watching the park’s visitors. He would not consciously admit it, but every time he witnessed a flash of ebony dress or a glint of blonde hair, he stiffened, straining to see if it was either of the mysterious women who’d recently disordered his life. Of course, it never was, but it didn’t stay the impulse to look.

“That’s a lovely thought,” his mother said, “but I have far too much to do if I wish the party to be a success.” Her eyes softened, curiosity gleaming in the depths. “If I might be so bold to ask, what attraction do your walks hold for you, William? Are you…meeting someone?”

He knew what she wanted to hear. Anne Freston made no bones about her wish to see her son settled. But if he lied, he would be found out, and dealing with the consequences of that would be far worse than feeling momentarily foolish.

“Only my muse,” he teased gently, and pulled his journal from his pocket to show her. “I find I’ve been rather inspired by a dream I had the other night. The park is quite conducive to finding the proper words.” The latter was a lie, at least partially. William was having no better luck writing than he had prior to dreaming of Buffy, but sitting on the bench made the details he remembered of her all that more vivid. He wasn’t ready to give up on them…not just yet.

“Oh.” Her disappointment was visible, but she quickly hid it with a smile. “I trust you’re sleeping better then,” she went on. “From what I’ve seen, you seem more…lively the past few days.”

“Yes, I have been, thank you.” Another lie. After that glorious night, he’d returned to his tossing but there was no need for her know that. Pocketing the book again, he stepped forward to brush a kiss across his mother’s cheek. “I shall see you for tea,” William said. “And if you need me, I’m merely at the banks. Just send one of the staff to come and fetch me.”

He was gone before she could voice any disapproval, and William rushed along the path, his hands stuffed into his pockets as images of Buffy danced before his mind’s eye.

*************

“Wow, I think this one might end up glowing in the dark.”

Buffy winced as Willow finished wrapping the cut on her arm, the bruise to which she was referring angry and sore and in the most annoying place ever to remind her of its presence. Gingerly, she bent her arm, watching the discoloration disappear in the crook of her elbow, and then straightened it again to relieve the pressure. “Stupid demon,” she grumbled. “There should be a size limit on how big they can get. It’s totally unfair its fingers were as big as my arm.”

“Didn’t stop you from killing it,” Willow said, too bright and too peppy for Buffy’s current mood. “That’s a good, right?”

“Right.” Slaying was about the only thing that was right, she thought. Slaying, and William’s journal, for some inexplicable reason.

“Is it weird I expect demons over here to have an English accent?” Willow was babbling. “I mean, that thing that jumped us sounded like he was from Texas, and that’s just not right.”

“My luck, I get the globetrotting demons to slay.”

“That’s because all the other ones are too busy kissing and killing their cousins in Hicksville.” Sitting back on her heels, she gave the wrapped wound a gentle pat. “There. All done. Think I’ve earned my Slayer first aid badge yet?”

“I think you’ve earned the whole darn hospital.” It was hard to meet the expectant gaze of her friend and know that the redhead thought she was actually helping. But how could she know? She had a boyfriend waiting for her back in Sunnydale, one who’d been willing to work through their issues because he cared enough about her to try and fight them. She didn’t know what it was like to be someone people needed to leave. But…Buffy had to try. Willow deserved that, at the very least.

“I should probably let you sleep,” Willow said, though it didn’t look like she was ready to go. “You know, to help you heal up. Plus, if we want to see Giles before he leaves for Cambridge in the morning, we’re going to have to get up pretty early.”

“Yeah.” Buffy bit her lip. Time to ask for what she’d been thinking about since sunset and the prospect of another restless night loomed in her not-so-distant future. “Hey, you know that tea you made for me the other day?” She waited until she got a hesitant nod. “I don’t suppose you’d…make me some more? It’s just, I slept so well that night, and wow, did I feel better in the morning, and---.”

“It’s OK, you don’t have to justify it.” Willow smiled, and Buffy could see the relief flooding her face. “I’d be more than happy to make you some. If it works, it works, right? And sleep is always good after a good night’s slay.”

“A motto I’ve always tried to live by,” she quipped. As she watched the redhead slip from the room, she was surprised by the easing of her muscles as she laid back onto the bed. It hadn’t occurred to her that she was really that nervous about asking for the tea; after all, it was only a drink, no big deal. It was just…admitting it helped her sleep meant admitting weakness, and that was one area Buffy pretty much sucked at. Especially in light of how much both Willow and Giles thought they were doing to make things better for her.

Without thinking, Buffy’s hand slid under her pillow where she’d stashed William’s journal. Somehow, she had a feeling the dead Victorian would get it. From what she’d read about him so far, he had his own front to put on all the time, too. Too busy doing for others, and not selfish enough to stand up and demand what he really wanted. Not that she usually had a problem about standing up for herself, but sometimes, it would be nice to be a little more selfish about it.

*************

He cleared his throat when he entered the kitchen, unwilling to surprise Cook with his sudden appearance. That had been a lesson learned long ago, resulting in some rather nasty burns, and not one he wished to repeat.

“Do you be wanting something, Master William?” Cook asked, the familiar lilt in her voice stronger than usual, marking her annoyance at having her space invaded.

“Um…yes, actually.” Pushing his glasses up his nose, he flushed with embarrassment as he took a step closer. “The other night, Mother’s new maid brought me some tea. I was rather hoping I might be able to…get some more.”

Cook immediately turned away, returning to the pot that was bubbling before her. “I’ve just sent a fresh pot in to your mother,” she said. “Unless you’d be wanting some for your room?”

His fear that he would have to elaborate blossomed, and his gaze ducked, even though she wasn’t regarding him any longer. “It wasn’t…” William started, only to stutter to a stop when she swiveled her head back. “I mean,” he tried again, “the girl said it was a…special brew. To help me sleep?”

Understanding made Cook nod. “Ah, you’re meaning Auntie Esmerelda’s remedy. Of course, Master William. I’ll have it sent up straight away.”

Smiling and nodding in kind, he backed out of the room, exhaling loudly as he made his way to the stairs. He hadn’t wanted to ask. But, after an unproductive day at the park and then an uncomfortable meal with his mother, the prospect of spending his night facing the prison walls of his bedroom had prompted William to admit that the tea had produced the best night’s rest he’d had in a long time. Would it really hurt to have some more?

*************

OK, she’d admit it. She’d hoped. In a huge way. ‘Cause, really? William had been one of the best dreams she’d had in a long time. But she hadn’t really expected anything to come from hoping. Unless it was a Slayer dream, reruns didn’t tend to happen in Buffy’s head.

So finding herself at the start of the stone path, the familiar white dress billowing around her legs, the sun beaming down to warm her shoulders…her stomach was all a-flutter, the possibility of what might be lying around the bend bringing a smile to her face. It only took a few steps for her to round the curve, and then she had to consciously slow her pace to make it look like she wasn’t running.

She loved her subconscious. There he was, just as before, head bent over the papers scattered before him. At least this time, she knew how the dream was going to play out. He’d look up, and get all embarrassed about seeing her, and…

“Miss Buffy.”

His voice was so soft, she almost didn’t hear it, and Buffy snapped out of her thoughts to see him standing next to the bench, eyes intent on her. Whoa. He knew who she was, which meant this wasn’t a repeat. Her smile widened. It also meant she could just go back to talking to him, then, no uncomfortableness to stand in their way.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she teased as she approached.

Behind his glasses, his eyes widened for the briefest of moments. “That sounds remarkably like you considered me in our absence of each other,” William murmured.

“Translation. I missed you when I was gone, right?”

“I daren’t presume---.”

“Presume away, because I did.” Buffy paused, her smile fading slightly as she grew more serious. “I missed getting to talk to you. We were just getting to the good stuff.”

“Three days never seemed so long before.”

“You were counting?”

He blushed, averting his gaze. “You must find me foolish.”

“Then call me fool number two,” she replied. She was standing at his side now, and reached out to touch his bare forearm. The muscles there tensed at the first contact, rippling beneath his skin while he fought some silent battle, but the moment they relaxed, William lifted his eyes to hers again. “And I think you’re right,” she added. “Three days is way too long.”

His mouth opened to speak, but the words didn’t come. Instead, alarm widened his gaze and his hand shot forward to ghost over her bare arm. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Were you attacked?”

Buffy looked down. There, just as it had been in her room, were the bruise and cut she’d gotten from the demon earlier that evening, exposed to the warm air as if Willow had never dressed the wound. A thin trickle of blood she hadn’t even been aware of was starting to leak from the jagged edges of the injury. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “Yeah. I guess I was.”

Immediately, his hand disappeared into his trousers pocket, extracting a clean white handkerchief. “It looks quite vicious,” William said, and before she could stop him, he was pressing the cloth to the gash, his touch gentle but firm.

“I’m fine. Really. I didn’t even realize it was there until you pointed it out. And besides, if you think I look bad, you should see the other guy.”

She was trying to lighten the mood, but the seriousness in his face when he looked at her told Buffy it hadn’t worked. “I didn’t mean to imply that you looked anything less than radiant,” he rushed. “If I’ve offended you---.”

“No, you haven’t, and you really have to relax, William. I’m not going to break, and I’m more interested in you being you rather than you being who you think I want you to be.” Taking the handkerchief from his grip, she smiled up at him. “I’m tired of people trying to second-guess what’s going through my head. I’m in the mood for some good old-fashioned honesty.” She held her arm out for inspection. “So. Honestly. How bad does it look?”

He winced as his gaze swept over the bruise. “Frightful,” he admitted. “As if you were a doll that had been toted around by some malicious child with a cast-iron grip.”

“And weirdly enough, not that far from the truth. If the child had scales and purple glowy eyes.” She laughed at the confusion in his face. “Don’t worry. Sometimes, it sounds crazy to me, too.”

“You’re certain it doesn’t hurt?”

Buffy shook her head. “Nope. I’m fit as a fiddle.” She paused. “Are fiddles actually fit? Because now that I think about it, that just sounds wrong. Maybe it should be the fiddler who’s fit. They’re the ones doing all the work.”

This time, he couldn’t help but chuckle at her joking. “As much as you’ve lived within my thoughts these last few days,” he said, “I fear that my memory has not done your charms justice.”

Maybe it was the soft tone of his voice. Maybe it was the shine in the blue behind his glasses. Or maybe it was the way his eyes were sliding over her, unable to stop from lingering on her curves in spite of the flush in his cheeks. Whatever it was, it made the breath in Buffy’s throat disappear, her bravado shattered in the face of his obvious admiration. “I’m not so special,” she said softly. “I’m just me. I mean, Chosen, sure, but still…just me.”

“Which makes you all that more extraordinary.” His hands were fidgeting, as if there was something they wished to do that he was forcibly preventing them from, and when he took a step back toward the bench, the space he emptied left Buffy desperate to fill it again. “In light of your injury, you should sit, I believe.”

“I was kind of hoping we could take a walk today. It’s not like I need fully functioning arms for that.” She was rewarded by the surprised tilt of his head, that sense of déjà vu that pervaded while she was around him flaring strongly for a moment before dissipating with his cautious nod.

“That would be lovely,” agreed William, and, after gathering his things from where they lay scattered on the bench, he fell into step beside her.

*************

It was even better than it had been before, he decided. Where their first meeting had started awkward and casual, their second quickly fell into a warm familiarity he found enticing. Though her injuries still worried William---how could someone who looked so delicate be so steadfast in what was most assuredly painful?---they appeared to do nothing in deterring her high spirits, and he was willing to attempt and forget them in the face of her bravery. It did not mean he didn’t wish to magically make them disappear for her, but if Buffy Summers was not going to be stopped by them, then neither would he.

In considering where they’d left their previous conversation, William was careful as he gently steered the topic toward more personal matters. It took little time for her to start relating stories of her youth---a fantastic world he could never have imagined where half of what she described seemed impossibly complex, and yet frighteningly simple. Ease supplanting labor. Women being respected as equals. A place where laughter and tears coincided in the space of a single second, and nobody thought it peculiar to be expressing such emotions publicly.

None of it was recent, though, and as he listened to her speak, William wondered why she deliberately chose to ignore the obvious. “And what of now?” he asked, when she paused at the ending of another tale. “What world currently surrounds Buffy Summers?”

Her smile faded, her gaze dropping to the path stretched out before them. Absently, her toe caught some of the loose stone and kicked it, sending a small spray scattering to the grass. “I’m going to college in the fall,” she finally said. “I’ve got that to look forward to when I get back.”

“But that’s wonderful.” He could barely contain his excitement. “Surely, you find the opportunity to advance your education exciting? Just think of the doors it will open for you. In my world, you would not have such an option, I’m afraid, and in your case, that would most definitely be a travesty of justice.” When she maintained her silence, his fervor began to fade, and William stepped ahead to stop directly in her path.

“Is there some issue with you attending university?” he asked. “Perhaps your mother does not wish you to go?”

“No, no, she’s the head cheerleader on the Buffy Goes to College Pep Squad.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze, instead looking off to the side and the trees that dotted the park. For a moment, he had the urge to throw his arms around her, to root her to the present moment, because it looked very much as if she was willing herself someplace else. But he refrained, instead stuffing his hands into his trousers pockets and hoping she wouldn’t see the strain he was exerting over his muscles.

“Things are…harder back home,” Buffy said, and her voice made him ache. “People have this annoying tendency to leave, and I don’t…it’s not…nothing’s as simple as I want it to be.”

He knew then, without her having to say the words, what it was to which she was referring. “You have a young man,” William said softly. He was certain this was the source of her distress, and though the knowledge sliced his own heart in half, it was just as much because of the pain it was causing her as it was his own disappointment. “And he’s hurt you, in some way.”

“Yes. And no. And god, yes.” It was as if he’d pulled the stopper on some unseen well, her words halting at first, and then coming faster, and faster, until he was almost dizzy for the trying to keep up. Though there were no tears, her eyes shone with those unspilled, her control even in the telling of what was clearly difficult impressive.

He didn’t understand it all---many of her allusions still managed to elude him, and the metaphor of comparing this man to a demon seemed melodramatic at best---but there was no mistaking what it had done to her. The first few minutes listening, he spent crippled, knowing what he wanted to do but frozen in ineptitude, the social dictates that had been drummed into him for the past three decades dampening his control. But William fought it. She’s just a dream. She’s not real and she knows nothing about what should be proper or not. I can do this. A small step first, his arm stretching…reaching…ending with an awkward pat on her uninjured shoulder.

“This…Angel,” he started, inwardly cringing at the nickname, for surely it had to be an affectation for her to call him such, “if you will pardon my saying so…he rather strikes me as a fool.”

His words took her by surprise, and Buffy took a half-step back, looking up at him with wide green eyes that made him want to stand up straighter. “What?” she asked. “Why would you… you don’t even know him.”

“I daresay I don’t need to.” In the face of her shocked response, William felt a seed of courage take root somewhere inside, and he gazed down at her intently, the desire for her to appreciate why he was doing this shining bright. “You say he left?”

“…Yes.”

“And he gave you no opportunity for recourse?”

“Huh?”

“He left without discussing any options for his staying?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“But he said he loves you.”

Silence.

His hand was still on her shoulder, and William was too aware of the heat searing into his palm, but there was no way he was letting go now. Gently, his fingers began to knead the knotted muscles beneath his grip, wondering just how long he could do this before she voiced an objection, and watched as her eyes fluttered shut, giving herself over to the sensation.

“He’s a fool because he left,” William murmured. “Were I in his shoes, with a woman such as yourself wanting to be a part of my life, I would find whatever means possible to overcome the obstacles that separated us. He’s a fool because he didn’t even try.”

Buffy’s head fell, and before he could react, she stepped forward and pressed herself to him, her arms wrapping around his back in a tight hug. William froze, all the heat that had been concentrated in his hand now spread throughout his body as her curves molded to his in an appreciative embrace, and he looked down at the golden hair glimmering against his shirt.

“You’re such an optimist,” she said into his chest. “But thank you for listening anyway.”

“It will always be my pleasure,” William replied. Tentatively, his hand lifted, and before he could decide otherwise, it was caressing the back of her skull, entangling with the soft curls. He was convinced she could hear his heart pounding, but for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he didn’t care.

*************

He could still feel her cheek burning against his chest, a brand he was more than willing to bear for as long as the sensation lingered, and, if he concentrated, William swore even the silk of her hair slipping through his fingers was trapped in his body’s recall, demanding to be noticed. How could something so ephemeral as a dream burn with more life than the pale shadows that danced in his periphery during his waking hours? It shouldn’t be---she shouldn’t be---and yet it was, and he’d be blind to ignore the evidence to which his body clung.

Rolling to a seated position, William’s gaze fell on the empty teacup at his bedside. Cook’s aunt was swiftly becoming a favored personage in his estimation. And though he hardly considered himself a superstitious man, the fact that he’d dreamt of Buffy on both occasions he’d consumed the special brew did not escape his notice.

Something would have to be done to ensure his future chances for repeat appearances.

 

 

 

*************

Chapter 6: The Benefit of Rest

She didn’t want to open her eyes, but want was not really a concept Buffy was familiar with indulging. Her life wasn’t about want. It was about right. And the fact that it was after nine o’clock in the morning meant the right thing to do was get up.

Rolling on to her side, her hand stole automatically to the journal beneath her pillow, her fingertips brushing over its soft cover. It was still warm, and Buffy couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been touching it in her sleep again. No matter where or how long it sat without her attention, the book always seemed to pulse with its own life, drawing her to it as surely as it had that day in the bookshop.

It was hard to believe it had been a whole week since she’d bought the journal. For the past four nights, she’d dreamt of William, each encounter so fresh with vigorous new detail that she was beginning to wonder just how much of Giles’ Britishness was subconsciously rubbing off on her. How else could she be making up so much of what William described? Oh sure, some of it definitely came from the journal, but she’d barely made a dent in it, only having read about a third once she’d gone back to its beginning instead of picking random entries to read.

Yet, in spite of how true it felt while she slept, every morning when she woke up, Buffy lay in bed, deliberating over how surreal it was becoming. It was different when she was in the thick of it, walking with him through the park or sitting on the bench listening to him talk about his poetry. When she was there, it was impossible to doubt what it was obvious he believed. Awake, though, it was another story. The details should’ve faded with the coming of the day; that’s the way dreams were supposed to work.

But these didn’t. These remained as fresh and vibrant and breathing as if they’d happened for real.

Maybe it was the tea, she reasoned as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Maybe it’s just a side effect of whatever brew it is Will’s using.

After waking from the second encounter with William, it hadn’t taken Buffy long to wonder if Willow’s nighttime remedy might have something to do with the content of her dream. After all, she’d dreamt of the Victorian poet only after consuming the drink, although she wasn’t sure if the second time hadn’t been as much her wanting to as anything else.

So she’d asked her friend to make it a nightly thing. “Just, you know, until I get Mr. Sandman back under control,” Buffy had said.

Willow had seemed eager to help, and had it waiting for her when Buffy got in from patrol. Neither girl had mentioned it, but both were grateful for Giles’ absence, instinctively knowing he’d disapprove of his Slayer’s methods for gaining sleep. And neither had said anything to him about it the next day when he’d called to say he would be delayed in Cambridge for a little longer. After all, it wasn’t as if there weren’t more important things to be discussing than Buffy’s current beverage of choice.

The rumpus with the Council that had driven Giles to Cambridge had turned a day-trip into a four-day stayover, talking with some of his old cronies about what exactly had happened. He’d been frugal with the details during his daily phone calls, but instead had promised to fill them in on everything when he returned to London. That was today, and Buffy had to hurry and get dressed before she made both of them late.

Willow was knocking at the door before she’d finished pulling her top over her head, and Buffy’s voice was muffled when she called out in response. “Come in!”

“You about ready?” the redhead asked as she poked her head into the bedroom.

“Getting there. Sorry about sleeping in.”

“It’s no big. We’ve still got an hour before Giles’ train arrives. We’ll just grab something from the bakery on the way if you want something to eat.”

Buffy brightened. “One of those cream cakes?”

“You just know Xander would be jealous if he knew we were here,” Willow replied with a nod. “All these pastries that he doesn’t get to try? He’s going to be complaining for months about being deprived of new avenues for sugary goodness.” She grew pensive, her aspect softening, and Buffy caught the witch biting her lip before turning away to grab her shoes from beside the bed. “Sleep definitely becomes you, Buffy,” she said softly. “I’m glad you’re finally getting some good shuteye.”

There was no mistaking the concern in Willow’s tone, and inwardly, Buffy cringed. “You know me,” she said, too bright but escaping the notice of her friend. “You can’t keep a good Slayer down.”

*************

He was humming under his breath when he strolled into the dining room, a distinctive bounce to his step. “Good morning, Mother,” William said, stooping to brush a kiss across her cheek before rounding the table to his own seat.

Anne watched him in obvious delight. “You are remarkably sprightly today,” she commented. “Did you have a good night’s sleep?”

“Heavenly.” Ducking his head, he concentrated on pouring out his tea, convinced his skin bore the telltale signs of his heightened state, and though his mother was certainly happy to see her only son in such good spirits, there was no need to embarrass either of them by dwelling on the details.

He’d dreamt of her again, and if there had been doubt before as to whether the tea was responsible or not, those were now banished. Every night for the past three nights, he’d gone to Cook and requested the special brew, and every night without fail, Miss Buffy came to him, always wearing the white frock that had shocked him so in the beginning and yet now seemed as natural as anything he might spy during the day, always smiling and eager to see him.

Though their conversations didn’t touch on the subject of her personal life again, there was a new intimacy to their encounters that hadn’t been there prior, as if something had opened within Buffy to allow him entrance. She unarmed him by asking him questions about his home life, and William’s eagerness to share had only been surpassed by her capacity to empathize. By their fourth meeting, he was reading his poetry to her, keeping his eyes averted as he did so lest she should find as much fault with it as his peers.

She didn’t, though. She just looked at him, and smiled, and asked if he’d read her more of what he’d written.

Nobody ever asked for more.

“You are someplace else, I think.”

Anne’s voice floated to him through his retrospection, and William looked up to see her watching him from across the table. “Don’t be silly,” he chided. “I’m right here.”

“Perhaps in body. Your thoughts, though, are miles away.” Distractedly, she stirred another spoonful of sugar into her tea. “Will you be going out again today? I’d rather hoped you might accompany me into the city. There are a few last arrangements I need to see to before the party tomorrow.”

His good mood paled slightly at the mention of the get-together. “If you need me, of course, I’m completely at your disposal,” he said as brightly as he could manage.

“Wonderful!” She was oblivious to his hesitancy. “Everything is coming along exactly as planned, so far.”

“And your guest list? Will the attendance please you?” With her, he was good at this, the polite small talk where nothing really was said. It was when he stepped out into proper society, away from the comfort of familiarity, that William so often found himself bumbling like someone’s addled uncle. Surround himself with intellectuals as he’d been able to do on the odd occasion at university and he was fine; the hauteur of his peers and their families, however, made him yearn for the succor of a good book.

As he sat there and listened to Anne chatter on about the dinner party, it occurred to him that, beyond the first few minutes in her presence, his awkwardness around Buffy had been nonexistent. Of course, he knew it was merely because she was his own creation, just as any one of his poems, but at the same time, there remained an elusive mystery to her that excited him just to contemplate.

The injuries she seemed to exhibit with each new encounter, for instance. Why would his mind fashion a fantasy friend who came to him bearing the bruises of some unknown battle? Every night, it was different. At their second encounter, it had been the discoloring inside her elbow and the corresponding gash on her arm. On the third, both were mostly gone, but her knuckles sported abrasions that left the skin slightly rough. The fourth had Buffy tucking her skirt around her legs when she saw him notice the bruise on her calf.

The possibility that someone could be harming her outside of his sight had crossed his mind more than once, though he found it increasingly unbelievable that anyone could hurt Buffy Summers without getting hurt in return. Still, his unheralded anger at such an occurrence blistered William’s otherwise equable temper, and he fought to maintain his composure in her presence. It would not be right to expose her to his baser side, though the urge to enact his own retribution upon those who would dare hurt Buffy made him wonder if this was how other men felt regarding female companions. Under normal circumstances, he would scoff at such unrefined instincts.

These, however, were far from normal.

And the fact that he was considering Buffy as if she was real escaped his immediate notice. For a man who quartered with the transcendent word as easily as the breathing world surrounding him, finding a friend amongst his fantasies was matter-of-course.

“William? Did you hear what I said?”

His eyes focused to see Anne staring at him, the delicate brow etched in growing worry. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m afraid I’m not quite as awake yet as I’d imagined.”

Her lips pursed in disapproval, but the lines eased. “I asked if your preparations were complete,” she said. “Have you managed to finish all that I asked of you?”

He blinked. For the life of him, he couldn’t think what she could be referring to. Perhaps she meant his aid in helping with her errands? He thought not, but there seemed no other possibility. “Of course,” he lied smoothly. Surely she was just confused regarding whatever preparations she’d requested; there was no way he could simply not know. William offered her a smile to better convince her of his veracity, and leaned forward to pat her hand. “Would I ever fail you, Mother?”

*************

Buffy stared at the photographs spread out on the table, the bevelled edges of the crystal figures blinking back at her with an energy that belied the insentience of the thick paper. There were twelve of them, each so similar to the next that on first inspection, they appeared identical. Only close scrutiny revealed the minute details that made each unique. “Pretty,” she commented, and looked up at her Watcher. “But I’m not seeing what the big deal is.”

Giles sipped at his tea, leaning back in his chair. “They’ve been stolen from the Council’s control,” he began, but was cut off by Buffy’s exasperated sigh.

“Yes, I know that,” she said. “But what do they do? Other than wanting to give Swarovski a run for their money, why does a bunch of stuffy suits care about them?”

“Who?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you ever go to a mall, Giles?” The familiarity of the exchange was soothing, even if the surroundings weren’t exactly home. The two girls had met the Watcher at the train station, but in spite of repeated pestering from them, he’d insisted on waiting until they’d returned to the flat before going into any detail regarding what had happened in Cambridge. The pictures were just the beginning, Buffy had a feeling.

“They don’t do anything,” he explained. “In fact, the Council isn’t completely clear as to their importance at all.”

“But you said they went all wiggy about them getting stolen,” Willow chimed.

“They are very concerned.” He cleared his throat. “Over a century ago, the collection was left in the charge of then-head Richard Rhodes-Fanshaw, but before he could relay the details of its importance to the rest of the Council, he was killed. All they knew was his final instruction that it be protected.”

“What about who gave it to him in the first place?” Buffy asked. “Wouldn’t he be able to tell why it was so major league?”

“They tried, but they were never able to locate the young man they believed delivered the collection. The name he’d given them proved to be false, and none of the attempts to find him via magic were successful. They did, however, determine that each of the figures was under a powerful protection spell, so a unilateral decision was made by the new head to follow his predecessor’s dying wish.”

Stacking the photos up, Buffy began flipping through them one at a time, creating a small slide show of the glass forms until they were dancing in front of her. “So, do we know anything about them?” she asked. “Good? Bad? Switzerland?”

Giles shook his head. “The Council has never been able to confirm anything, though the fact that they were stolen by vampires leads us to suspect they can’t be entirely good.”

Two sets of eyes went wide. “Us?” Willow asked. “Giles, are you working for them again?”

“No,” he said, too quickly, and then ducked his gaze. “Well, not exactly.”

“And not exactly means what?” This came from Buffy. “We do their dirty work and you still don’t get paid?”

“No, I’ll be receiving a small stipend for my contribution---.”

“So, you are working for them.”

“Only on a consultant basis.” He sighed, leaning back in his seat. “As I’m the unofficial Watcher for the only active Slayer, it’s been deemed…appropriate for my services to be retained.”

“English, Giles.”

“They want your help,” he said bluntly, meeting her gaze. “And I wouldn’t agree to even consider approaching you about it without compensation.”

Her eyes were thoughtful as she squared the corners of the pictures, running her fingers along the edges so that each threatened to cut into the fleshy pads. This could be a good thing, she mused. A project to redirect her focus. A problem for her to solve. Between this and William’s journal, Buffy just might be able to get past Angel’s leaving, once and for all.

“So what do they want me to do?” she asked out loud, handing the photos over to Willow.

“They attempted a locator spell but the results were inconclusive,” Giles said, and picked up a manila folder. “The magic surrounding the figures looks as if it’s scattered all over the country.” He extracted a color map of Great Britain, with several regions circled, pointing to each as he mentioned it. “One of the largest concentrations is there, in Wales. It’s rural, somewhere in the mountains, and the Council dispatched a team yesterday to try and pinpoint the source. The second largest concentration is here in London, though again, using remote means, Council resources have been unable to specify where exactly.”

“And they want me to try and find it?” She looked at him in confusion. “I beat things up, Giles. I am not Sabrina the Teenaged Witch.”

“No, we have Willow the Teenaged Witch,” he replied, visibly pleased with his rejoinder. “She and I will manage the magic side. We’ll need you to handle the…physical side.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right then.” And oddly enough, it was. Foreign location notwithstanding, the affinity to Sunnydale and the school library was enough to steal some of the tension from the Slayer’s body. “How are we going to start?” she asked. “Any brilliant plans to wow the crowd?”

“Well, no, not yet,” Giles admitted. “I’d rather thought you’d patrol as normal tonight, while Willow and I brainstormed on the issue. There are a number of possible routes we could take and between the two of us, we should have something definitive for tomorrow.”

“Business as usual. I like it.” She smiled brightly. “Now, who’s hungry?”

*************

He tossed away the last of the bodies, not even watching when it slumped off the heap that was growing in the corner, and swiped at the blood that ran down his chin. In his current sated state, he couldn’t help but feel that he wouldn’t need to feed for a week, though he knew that was unrealistic. Still, it had been awhile since he’d glutted himself so thoroughly. “And they even delivered,” he chortled as he stood before the altar.

Candles illuminated the narrow cave, flickering from behind the array of crystal on the shrine to scatter shards against the walls. The radiance made the miniature figures seem to pulsate with life, and the vampire’s demon visage faded away as he gazed down upon them, yellow eyes darkening to a pale brown. “Not much longer, April,” he murmured, and his angular fingers skimmed across each glass face, caressing and worshipping with the gentlest of touches.

“Sooner than you think,” came the voice from the mouth of the cave.

He whirled, vamping out before he saw the small form outlined in the entrance. “Why do you insist on sneaking up on me like that?” he demanded.

The elderly woman shrugged. “Because it’s fun.”

His eyes followed her as she made her way inside, settling at the small table against the wall and pulling a small pouch from her skirt pocket. For a long moment, the only sound in the cave was the scratching of her fingers across the wooden surface as she arranged the stones and broken twigs she extracted from the felt. And then…

“Well?” He exploded, his lanky body lunging forward in menace. “Cut the mumbo jumpo crap, Esme. I haven’t seen you in over a week. What the hell have you been doing?”

She didn’t even flinch from his aborted attack. “Exactly what we agreed I would,” Esme said evenly.

“So the Slayer’s gone?”

“No, she’s still in London.”

He hesitated, a frown beginning to darken his brow. “What about the other one? Tell me you at least took care of him.”

“Things are…underway.”

“Underway?” Without warning, his hand shot out, aimed directly for Esme’s throat. Before it could make contact, though, he saw her lips move, and one of the twigs rose above the table, driving forward of its own accord to imbed itself in the right side of his chest.

He lurched back at the contact, surprised more than hurt, and stared at her in yellow fury. “What was that?”

“A warning,” she replied, still calm, still sure. “I can kill you just as easily as you can kill me, Nathan. And I hate to remind you of this, but if either one of us dies, your April will be lost to you forever. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Nathan’s lips curled into a snarl. “Bitch,” he muttered, but backed away, digging into his chest to pull out the bloody twig with an agonized wince. “So which part of getting them out of the way did you actually accomplish?” he asked.

“I’ve connected them. That’s the first step.” She looked up at him finally, satisfaction gleaming in the dark depths of her eyes. “The young man is really quite the innocent,” Esme said. “I find it fascinating to think he’s---.”

“You saw him?” Surprise made his demon face melt away, revealing the gaunt allure of his human persona. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

An eyebrow lifted. “How else did you think I’d do it?”

“I…I don’t know. I hadn’t given it much thought. But…if you can play around with time like that…and why is it you can even do that? That’s Powers’ territory.”

She resumed her attention to the tableau before her. “You ask too many questions. Do you want April back? Or do you feel like waiting around another century or two until the time is ripe again?”

Nathan blanched at the possibility she suggested, and squelched the desire to rip out the old woman’s throat. He couldn’t afford to piss Esme off any more than he already had; after years of searching, she was the only one he’d ever found who had the power to return April to her natural form. It wasn’t worth it to question the source of that same power upon which he was so reliant.

“Good,” she said, as if he’d spoken aloud. “And relax. Everything is going according to plan.”

 

 

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