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

Chapter 7: A Willing Patient

The vampire’s jaw snapped shut as her fist slammed into his face, his fangs splitting his lips as he stumbled against the brick wall of the nearby building. Before he could regain his balance, Buffy was on him, her stake already in her hand.

“Taken any trips lately?” she asked as she straddled the downed demon. “Maybe develop a latent interest in glassware?”

“Wha’?” His golden gaze was bewildered. “’Ave you gone chicken oriental, Slayer?”

With a roll of her eyes, Buffy’s thrust of the stake into his chest was almost too casual, and she was up on her feet before the dust had finished settling in the alley. “I can’t wait to get back to California where the way people talk actually makes sense,” she muttered as she tucked the weapon back into her waistband.

Her strategy wasn’t working. OK, even she knew it wasn’t much in the way of intelligent plans, but with Giles and Willow back at the apartment going over magical options, it was really the only one she had. Every vamp she came across, Buffy asked if they’d left the city recently, hoping one of them might be somehow connected to the group who’d stolen the crystal in Cambridge. Sure, it was a longshot, but what in her life wasn’t? Of course, it would’ve been easier if she understood half of what they were saying. Sometimes, she wondered if English was really their first language.

Five vamps down. For a brief moment, she debated whether it was late enough to consider going back and calling it a night. Giles would certainly understand if she said she was tired, and it wasn’t as if she was really accomplishing anything out on the streets anyway.

A shrill scream pierced the close air, prompting Buffy’s feet to begin running in the sound’s direction.

OK, so maybe she was accomplishing something. Sleep could wait.

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

His foot jittered unseen against the leg of the chair, his gaze jumping from his mother’s fingers moving gracefully across her needlework, to the clock on the mantle and its impossibly slow hands, to the fine print of the book on his lap. In spite of his glasses, the words blurred into a spidery mishmash that made his eyes itch in irritation, and without even realizing he was doing it, he reached up to rub them behind his lenses.

“You can’t be tired, William?” Anne commented, her hands halting in their work. “I found our day quite temperate.”

“As did I,” he replied. “I’m just having difficulty concentrating at the moment.”

Setting aside her hoop, she laced her fingers together, settling them in her lap. “Could I trouble you for a reading, then?” she asked with a small smile. “It’s been far too long since you shared any of your works with me, and with as much time as you’ve been spending on the banks, I’m certain you’ve created some lovely pieces for me to hear.”

He brightened at the suggestion. “There is…one composition I’m anxious to have your opinion on,” he said. He’d just finished it that afternoon. While William didn’t think it measured up to the standard he’d forged within his dreams, he was still rather pleased with it, tweaking the occasional phrase until he had it just so. If his mother approved, he wished to read it to Miss Buffy in his dreams that night. After all, it was about her.

“Wait right here,” he instructed, and practically leapt from his chair to make a dash for his room. Up the stairs two at a time, grabbing the piece of paper from his journal, and back in his mother’s salon, an expectant smile on his face as he cleared his throat in preparation.

He didn’t dare look at her as he recited, instead envisioning himself on the park bench with Buffy at his side, pouring his entire heart into the verse so that she would understand the depth of the emotion it contained---.

No, standing. Standing was better. Buffy would need to look up at him then.

Oh, but he didn’t want that, either. He wasn’t superior to Buffy, and to stand over her would only make her think that he believed so.

At her feet, then.

But that was just as bad. Not that there wasn’t anything William wouldn’t do for her if she asked, but how could she respect him in such a subservient role?

So…at her side. Seated next to her. Eye to eye.

He had a feeling she would like that.

His hands were shaking when he finished, and William swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. In awkward contrast, a line of sweat trickled down the back of his neck, under his collar, but he refused to pull at the offending garment, instead lifting his chin to see his mother beaming at him.

“That…was…extraordinary,” Anne murmured, and he huffed with an unexpected swell of pride. “Simply exquisite. You must read it tomorrow night. Our guests will be most impressed.”

Her subsequent words made him visibly deflate. The Howards would be in attendance, as would a whole host of families who saw him as less than someone. They would hardly understand the sentiment behind his poem, and would most likely find some backhanded way to impugn his skills, laughing at his mother behind her back. He couldn’t let that happen.

Before he could speak, though, she stood, crossing to take his hand in hers. “Please, William,” she said. “It would make me most proud.”

Blue eyes met blue, and in the space of that single second…he believed.

“Of course, Mother,” William said, and gently squeezed her hand.

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

It was the first time she hesitated to go to him upon entering the dream. Not for the lack of wanting. No, Buffy’s desire to see William was just as strong as it had ever been. It was just currently tempered by the excruciating pain in her ankle and the blood that was dripping into her shoe.

Sitting on the grass at the edge of the path, Buffy eased off her sandal, pulling her skirt up and away from her legs to inspect the injury. The bruise itself wasn’t so bad, tucked in the fleshy part of her foot near the arch, but the cuts were jagged and raw, the blood flowing freely as if she’d only just gotten the injury.

The Slayer frowned. It was the exact same wound from her last fight on patrol, minus the first aid that had been done to it when she’d returned to the apartment. A group of three vamps had jumped her on her way back, and while she was busy pummeling two of them, the third had lunged for her legs, sinking his teeth into her ankle and holding on like some deranged puppy. It had taken all Buffy’s strength to break free and finish them off, and she’d received the proper scolding from Giles as soon as she’d stepped through the door about pushing herself too hard.

Sleep had been a welcome friend, but now that she was here, Buffy was left feeling bewildered. It wasn’t the first time bandages had mysteriously disappeared once she’d entered the dream, but it was the first time most of the pain had accompanied her. Of course, her usual assortment of scrapes and bruises were hardly even worth noticing. Maybe it was just the relative severity of this one that had forced her subconscious to include it her otherwise idyllic surroundings.

First things first, though. She had to stop the bleeding.

As she searched the vicinity around her for some sort of bandage, Buffy heard the unmistakable crunch of stone as footsteps neared on the path. Her eyes lifted, and she had to squint against the sun when she saw William’s familiar shape round the farthest bend.

“Miss Buffy!” he called out, his step quickening. “I’d feared I wouldn’t be seeing you this evening---.”

She knew from the widened eyes that he’d spotted the injury, and before she could say anything, he was kneeling at her side, his handkerchief pulled from his pants’ pocket and placed firmly over the bleeding.

“What’s happened?” he demanded, and she was surprised at the vehemence in his tone. Behind his spectacles, his eyes had darkened to a stormy blue, and the tension in his body was betrayed by the twitch of a muscle in his jaw. For an instant, Buffy’s Slayer sense flared in warning, as if he was a demon threat, but she quickly recognized it as a shadow of memory rather than the real thing and pushed it aside.

“Why are you bleeding?” William asked again. “This looks like a bite. Have you been attacked?” He was refusing to tear his gaze from her face for more than a moment at a time, only occasionally glancing down to see his fingers at work. His lean grip held her heel, keeping her foot steady while he tended to the blood, and she felt the faint tickle along her arch where his thumb was unconsciously stroking her skin.

“Puppy,” she blurted out, and then realized that in all her years of using that as an excuse, this was probably the first time it was actually a good one. Certainly her ankles were a little more accessible than her neck.

His eyes hardened for a moment as they searched hers, his mouth tense. The sudden fear that he wasn’t going to believe her made Buffy swallow in anticipation of expanding on her lie, but his stiffness quickly dissipated, his attention turning fully to her wound, and she exhaled in relief.

“One of these days,” William said, his voice almost a whisper in the slight breeze, “I fear some…puppy will prevent you from coming to see me at all. Tell me, Miss Buffy, if you were in some sort of…danger…would you allow me the courtesy of sharing the knowledge? Or would you persist in pretending that all is right with the world, when we are both aware that it is not?”

It was, perhaps, the most upfront question he’d asked of her since talking of Angel. She’d been so careful to maneuver conversations so that they more often focused on William instead of her, and though she was more than aware that he noticed the various marks she bore from her real-life battles, he had refrained from asking about them directly.

Until now.

“You know,” she said with a smile, “it kind of sucks that the first time my puppy excuse actually makes sense, it’s not going to fly.”

There was a fraction of hesitancy before he settled to tying the handkerchief around her foot, staunching the flow. “Are you saying that it wasn’t an animal that attacked you?” he asked, his voice neutral.

“No,” she replied. She waited for him to look back at her. “But what if I told you it was a vampire instead?”

William said nothing, just stared at her in that intent way that made electric shocks run up and down her spine. He was thinking---that much was obvious---but what the specifics were, Buffy had no idea. When it came to his thought processes, he often left her in the dust. It was only the blatant way he wore his emotions that gave her any clue as to what was really going on inside his head.

“If this were our first meeting,” he started, “I would presume you were merely toying with me in making such a peculiar suggestion.”

“But it’s---.”

She cut herself off when he held up his hand.

“Please. Let me continue.”

Wordlessly, Buffy nodded, and watched as he turned back to her foot. It still rested in his hand, and carefully he set it back onto the grass, his eyes darting to the svelte curve of her calf exposed to the open air. She saw his Adam’s apple bob before he tore his gaze away, and inwardly marveled how something as innocent as her bare legs could provoke such a reaction in him.

“I have never lied to you,” he began again. “I’ve considered us…friends.” The last word came cautiously, as if there was another he would’ve preferred but feared the reaction to, and she had the irresistible urge to reach forward and touch him.

There was a momentary start at the contact of her palm on his shoulder blade, but the muscles in William’s back almost instantly eased, rippling beneath the white fabric of his shirt. “Why do you do that?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. The fingers of his left hand curled into the grass, rooting him to the earth.

“Do what?”

A ragged breath. A stolen glance at her out of the corner of his eye. “Touch me.”

Buffy frowned, pulling away. “Because…we’re friends, right?”

“It is…you shouldn’t. Back home---.”

“We’re not back home. Either of us. So what’s the point in following their rules?”

She waited for his response, her heart pounding inside her chest. She didn’t know why this was so important, but more than anything, she wanted to show William that he wasn’t the pariah he thought he was. That he was worthy. That she genuinely liked him.

“Is that what this is, then?” he queried. “I have always believed that it was my desire for someone who understood that drew you to my dreams. But your words make me wonder, as do your actions. Am I the escape for you instead of the converse? Is your other existence so dreadful that you seek me out, merely so that you may blot out the other?”

And there it was, the blunt instrument of truth that he had already so expertly wielded for her before. Buffy’s throat was closed, her eyes solemn, as she regarded his carved profile. Another flare of Slayer tinglies, and this time, she shoved it away with purpose, refusing to be distracted from his obvious need for honesty.

“It’s just…hard,” she admitted. “I have responsibilities there. Life-threatening responsibilities. People need me to be strong, even when I don’t feel like it. That doesn’t mean I hate it so much, though, because I don’t. I have friends---good ones---and a mother who loves me more than anything.”

“These…responsibilities. They involve vampires?”

Buffy nodded. “This is going to sound way out there for you, but believe me when I tell you, I’m telling you the truth.” She took a deep breath. “Where I come from, there are vampires and demons and evil politicians bent on destroying the world. And I…fight them. That’s my job.”

His eyes were on her foot again, and he reached out to trace the delicate bones that were exposed around his makeshift bandage. “And you expect me to believe you?” William said. “Not that you aren’t strong, or that I can’t believe you would do such a thing, but…you’re just a girl.”

“Funny, that’s what I keep telling everyone, too.” Buffy sighed. Swallowing her pain, she pulled away from his touch and rose to her feet, standing above him for a moment before looking at the park around her. When her eyes settled on a marble fountain in the distance, she strode over to it, willing herself not to limp from the discomfort in her ankle. “Watch,” she instructed, and waited until William’s gaze was on her.

In the center of the dais was a carved cherub, all fat tummy and long wings that stretched almost as long as Buffy’s arm. Wrapping her hand around its base---or nearly around it, as her fingers only made it halfway---she snapped it from its mooring and set it one-handed to the ground. She didn’t even look up at him when she broke off one of the feathers, positioning it in her grip before twisting in place to send it soaring through the air.

William audibly gasped when the makeshift marble dagger embedded itself in the middle of a tree trunk over thirty yards away, and he leapt to his feet to rush and inspect it more closely.

This was not how she’d envisioned this dream unfolding. William was probably going to freak out about her Slayer powers, and she was going to spend the rest of the dream bored out of her mind because she’d be stuck all alone in a park that didn’t even have a playground. Willow had once suggested she try lucid dreaming, where she controlled the events, but Buffy had never mastered the technique. Maybe now’s a good time to start giving it a go again.

She was ready for his fear when he turned back to face her. Her brows shot up, though, when she saw the excited gleam in his eyes.

“That was remarkable!” William exploded, almost running up to meet her. His hands were like twin balls of energy, darting around in wild gestures, running furiously through his hair. “I’ve never seen such a display! And certainly not from a woman, although I shouldn’t really be surprised, should I, since after all, this is you…”

He was babbling, much like Willow on one of her caffeine benders, and Buffy shook her head as she just watched in disbelief. “You’re not wigged by this?” she asked.

He stopped in mid-stream, head tilting to look down at her as if she’d asked a ridiculous question. “Why should I be?”

“Because it must seem freaky to the power of a thousand to someone who’s used to everyone being Emily Post, and girls being eye candy until they get married and have kids, at which point you just think of them as moms until they wither away and die without any recognition or power.” It all came out in a rush, and a flood of indignation surged through her system when she saw his lips fight from forming a smile. “And now I amuse you. Great.”

William’s hand on her arm stopped her from turning away. “You enthrall me,” he corrected. “And if I’ve ever given you reason to believe that I view women in such a way, then the fault is completely mine.”

“But…you’re all…Victorian,” she finished lamely. “Isn’t that how normal, Victorian guys think?”

For a second, she thought he was going to pull away. Instead, he took a deep breath, letting his hand slide down her arm to entwine with hers. His thumb brushed along the length of hers as he spoke. “I do not now, nor have I truly ever,” he said, “considered myself as like my peers. And if you find such crude rationale as indicative of their thoughts, then I must admit, I’m quite proud to exempt myself from such a crowd.”

Her relief surprised her, though why she felt it in the first place, Buffy had no idea. This was her dream; of course, he would understand. That was what her subconscious created him for. “So,” she said lightly. “Does that mean you’re never…crude?”

His mouth opened to protest, but when he caught the teasing gleam in her eye, William smiled in kind, pulling his shoulders back in a stiff, exaggerated pose. “Gentlemen never tell,” he announced loudly, and was rewarded with Buffy’s giggle. “Now,” he went on, “you must get off your feet. Enhanced strength or not, that is a very real injury to your foot, and you will not do yourself any good by aggravating it.”

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

She told him about it all after that, and William laid back in the grass, listening to Buffy talk about the monsters she was forced to battle, the apocalypses she’d helped avert, each new story sparking questions he kept to himself. The detail and color she brought to her tales excited his poetic spirit, but the pain and suffering she purposely skimmed over stabbed into the man’s soul.

It explained so much, though the wonder that his mind could create such a fantasy world still lurked somewhere in the darkest recesses of his brain, and, while her confession brought him a sense of closure to the vague worries that had plagued him regarding her injuries, William sensed that it did even more for her, releasing her from a bond of deception that he was sure had marred her enjoyment of his company. The understanding that that was a selfish gesture on his part did not escape unnoticed, but he specifically chose to ignore it. If indulging in a beautiful fantasy woman, who found him interesting, who trusted him with her deepest secrets, was not already incredibly selfish, then what did it matter if the other was?

Her voice had faded away, and William glanced over to see what could’ve distracted her from her stories. Lying on her side, her head was cradled in the crook of her arm, golden hair spilling over the tanned limb, her legs tucked up to disappear beneath the skirt of her dress. Her eyes were closed, and as he watched her chest slowly rise and fall, William realized that she had fallen asleep.

He chuckled. “Well, I’ve certainly been known to bore others, but this is the first time I’ve been witness to someone boring themselves into slumber,” he murmured. Rolling to face her, he propped his head up on his hand, his eyes sweeping over her curved form. Without thinking, he reached out and pushed back a stray lock from her cheek, allowing his fingers to ghost over her jaw before hesitating at the swell of her mouth.

“You are truly the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, Buffy,” he breathed. His heart was hammering inside his chest, the forbidden touch burning his fingertips, and he pulled back before giving in to the luxury of further exploration of her skin. Already, his body was reacting to her presence---really, as it did whenever he lost the modicum of control he forced himself to exercise around her---and if he wasn’t careful, it would spend itself and embarrass him at the same time.

No, for now, he would content himself with watching her, and letting her sleep. If this was what she needed---and surely her falling under its spell so easily was evidence enough for that---then that is what she would get. He would hardly stand in the way, even if it did mean his plans got redirected.

He’d wanted to share his poem with her. As soon as he’d found himself in the park, William had settled with his ink and paper to scribble out the words he’d memorized while he was awake, intent on reading it to her as soon as she arrived. His patience had failed him, though, and within minutes of completing the poem, he was off in search of her, his verse tucked safely away inside his pocket.

Reading it to her now, while she slept, was out of the question of course, but still, the desire for her to know it pulled at his gut, prompting his fingers to stray to his trousers and extract the folded piece of paper. A gift, he decided, from me to you, and carefully, he slipped the poem into her tiny hand.

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

Her hand was resting on the open journal when she woke up, and Buffy blinked against the morning light trying to steal its way through the curtains. Weird, she thought, as memories of her dream came flooding back. Most of it was so vivid---the pain in her foot, the demonstration for William, telling him about the Hellmouth---but it reached a point where everything just kind of stopped. She remembered feeling drowsy under the sun, and then…did she fall asleep in her own dream? Was that even possible?

Like she thought. Weird.

As she started to sit up, something fell from Buffy’s curled hand, and she stopped halfway to look down at the sheet. There, against the white cotton, was a yellowed piece of paper, carefully folded into quarters. Her eyes immediately jumped to the journal, and annoyance at herself burned along her skin.

I’ve gotta stop sleeping with this thing, she thought as she tucked the paper back into the book. I’m pulling out pages of it in my sleep now.

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

Chapter 8: Art Made Tongue-Tied by Authority

“So,” she said, in as bright a voice as she could muster, “what’s the big game plan?”

From the spread in middle of the living room, Giles and Willow looked up to see Buffy hovering at the entrance, her hair and make-up already immaculately done to face the day. A smile graced her lips, but in their exhausted states, she could tell that they didn’t notice the shadow lurking behind her eyes.

“To tread softly and carry a really big stick,” Willow replied with a ghost of a grin. When Buffy giggled at the joke, the witch turned back to Giles. “Told you she’d think I was kidding.”

The Slayer’s mirth faded as she stepped into the room, perching herself on the arm of the couch. “A big stick?” she repeated. “You guys stayed up all night and you came up with the Neanderthal theory? No offense, but I could’ve done that.”

“It’s not like that.” Twisting, Willow began looking through the books that surrounded her, picking one up and setting it back down again as she spoke. “See, what the Council did was have their coven try tracing the magic, and when that didn’t work, they tried connecting it with this really cool demon locator spell. Except all that told them was that whoever was messing with the magic was protecting themselves from being found.”

Buffy was confused. “But they were found. The Council knows that they were here in London, right?”

“Only because you can’t completely hide that kind of power. Whoever did this tried, but what they did was just kind of scatter the effects. But basically, that still means the Council got bupkiss. So, what I was thinking…” Her voice trailed off, brows drawn in an annoyed scowl. “Where’d that book go?”

“I believe you’re sitting on it,” Giles offered, gesturing with his glasses toward her bottom.

Her frown vanished. “Oh,” Willow said, tilting sideways to extract the worn text from beneath her. She flipped through its pages. “Where was I?”

“Bupkiss.”

“Right. So, what I was thinking, what we need to do is collect what got scattered. Then, we can turn it around and use the magic itself to track down who cast it.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

Folding the book open, Willow passed it over to Buffy, pointing to a picture in the center of the page. “With that.”

She looked at in confusion, turning the book sideways to examine it from that angle for a moment, before returning it right-side up. “It’s…a big stick.”

“Actually, it’s a divining rod,” Willow corrected. “Except instead of finding water, we’re going to be finding magic.”

“Why didn’t the Council do that?”

Buffy watched as Willow and Giles exchanged a quick glance, resulting in the Watcher dropping his glasses to his side and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s…unorthodox,” he said wearily. “What we’re considering doesn’t exactly fit Council protocols.”

“That doesn’t mean it won’t work,” Willow rushed. “All we’re doing is changing up the rod specs a little bit. You know…tweaking. To get it to do what we want.”

“And being tweaky isn’t going to backfire on us?”

Giles shook his head. “I’m fairly confident that the modifications we’ve made to the spell are mostly benign. It’s just…if the Council were to find out what we’re doing, they may attempt to stop us.”

“Why?”

Another look, and this time Buffy definitely felt like something else was going on that she wasn’t being let in on. They were trying to protect her yet again. Didn’t they get that she was sick and tired of being their damsel in distress?

“Some of our ingredients can only be obtained on the black market,” Giles explained. “Their collateral effect is completely salutary, but as you know, idiosyncratic methodology tends to be frowned upon by the Council.”

She couldn’t help her frown. “And you’re OK with this?” she asked her Watcher. “Since when is black anything good?”

“I wouldn’t be willing to do this if I wasn’t certain it was safe. Yes, individually, one or two of the requirements could be used for more diabolical purposes, but collectively, I honestly can’t foresee how anything but good can come from this. If it works, of course.”

“It’ll work,” Willow insisted.

“So let’s do it.” Buffy brightened. “Can I use it? I’ve been known to be pretty handy with long, pointy things.”

“Perhaps when the time comes.” Giles did his best to stifle a yawn, but failed as it overtook him. “There is a…drawback to the plan. It’s not exactly quick.”

“Define not quick.”

“A day to gather ingredients, two more to prepare. We won’t be able to actually use the rod until Monday at the earliest.”

Buffy crumpled at Giles’ announcement. Three days. Three days of wandering around the city without specific purpose. Three days of feeling useless while Giles and Willow did all the work. And she couldn’t try and distract herself with vacation-y stuff because she’d have to do it all by herself while they worked.

“There is something you can do, though,” he said when he caught the look on her face. “Though, to be honest, I rather dread asking it of you.”

She rolled her eyes. “C’mon, Giles,” Buffy said. “Whatever it is, it can’t be nearly as bad as being stuck here all day watching BBC1.”

“I’d like you to meet with Quentin Travers.”

Beat. “OK. You win.”

“It would only be for today,” he hurried to add. “He’d requested to see you anyway, should you agree to help retrieving the collection.”

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know. I assume he wishes to discuss your role as the Slayer within the Council.”

She was almost quivering as the energy she’d been restraining vented through her frenetic pacing around the room. “I’m not going back to work for them!” Buffy said. “This is a one-time deal only. After the stunt they pulled, there is no way I trust them as far Willow could throw them. If he thinks---.”

“I’ve already told him this,” Giles interrupted. He rose to stand before her, forcing her to jerk to a halt and stare up at him with blazing eyes. “I understand your reluctance to speak with him directly, but I wouldn’t ask it of you if it wouldn’t be of value to us.”

“And it would only be today while we’re getting the ingredients to make the rod,” Willow chimed in. “You can go back to boring television tomorrow.”

At least now she understood why they’d been so reluctant to share any information, Buffy thought. They’d known all along that they were going to ask her to see Travers and considering the history, they were probably expecting an even more violent response from her.

“I’m not going back to work for them,” Buffy repeated. “And I’m reserving the right to call him an arrogant asshole for thinking I might.”

“He is kind of a goober for thinking that,” agreed Willow.

“Regardless of his…goober status,” Giles said, wincing slightly at the foreign word on his tongue, “I appreciate your help in this, Buffy. Thank you.”

She kept her retort to herself as she nodded and watched them begin picking up the books from the floor. Maybe it won’t be so bad, she thought. It’s just a meeting with one really annoying old man I could kick into next week if I had to. What could be so bad about that?

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

The sea of faces that greeted her when she stepped into the conference room made Buffy pause. She’d expected to be ushered immediately into Travers’ office when she’d announced her arrival at Council Headquarters. After all, she was the only currently active Slayer; surely, that afforded her a bit of celebrity here, if nowhere else. Instead, the wizened secretary had glared at her icily over her bifocals, and pointed to a straight-backed chair on the opposite wall.

“Sit,” she’d instructed. “I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”

It had been a long forty-five minutes of fidgeting---and boy, what she wouldn’t have done for a seat cushion---before the secretary had given her another cold glance, this time after hanging up from a call that had come through. “Come with me,” she’d said, and Buffy had followed her through the narrow halls, getting lost after the third bend and second flight of stairs. By the time they’d stopped before the closed door, Buffy was well on the way to the land of regret about her decision to show up.

And now facing the wide, wide world of Watchers was enough to make her start actually missing the good old days of facing off with Snyder in his office. At least then, it had only been her against one stuffed shirt. This was a whole gaggle.

“Have a seat, Miss Summers,” Quentin said from his position at the head of the table. He gestured toward the lone empty chair directly opposite him, and waited until she’d perched herself on its edge before continuing. “I’m sure you’re curious as to why I’ve asked to see you.”

“Just call me George,” she said, her nervous smile already hurting her cheeks. It faded slightly as almost everyone at the table immediately began flipping through the manila files in front of them, and she caught her name on the outer tab of the one nearest her. Great. I really am the newest monkey in the cage.

“I’m surprised Rupert didn’t accompany you,” Quentin said, ignoring the confused reaction her quip had created among his colleagues. “His overprotection would seem to extend especially to us.”

“He’s busy,” she said. “With the books. And the…reading of the books. Because that’s what he does, you know. Read. Books. With all the…words.” Even as it was coming out, she could tell she was babbling but had no idea how to stop it. Giles had warned her about their potential inquiry, and she’d had this whole speech planned that would divert their attention from the shopping of all things magical that was actually happening. It figured that it would decide to am-scray just when she needed it.

“Yes.” Fingers steepled, he leaned back in his chair, gaze steady but inscrutable. “I suppose it’s better this way. I very much prefer discussing this without his presence.”

“This? Am I going to find out what ‘this’ is any time soon here?”

Quentin glanced at the woman who sat to his left, and nodded. As Buffy watched, the slim blonde straightened her glasses before rising to her feet.

“Historical precedence for the advent of a second Slayer during the current Slayer’s imcumbency is erratic at best,” she started, reading from the index cards she held in her hand. “Thus, with the actualization of your renewed allegiance to the Council---.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Buffy stood up, pushing back her chair to allow her room to stand at the table. “OK. I’ll admit to not really being the brainiac on Watcher-speak, but I understood that last part just fine.” She leveled her gaze at Travers. “Let’s get this straight, Mr. Travers. There is no allegiance here. I’m still a free agent, and you’re still the asshole responsible for almost getting my mother killed and then firing Giles when he tried to do the right thing. So, if this little show you’ve staged here is just to intimidate me into making me a permanent fixture on the Council’s agenda, then you’re wasting both of our time, because it’s never going to happen. I’ve been on edge ever since graduation. Don’t push me over it, or I just might take you down with me.”

There was silence. By the range of shock on the Watchers’ faces, it was obvious that few people talked back to Quentin Travers but it did nothing to shake Buffy’s resolve.

“Are you about finished, Miss Summers?” he finally queried, his tone unperturbed.

“It depends,” she countered. “Are you done with the Slayer recruitment scheme?”

“There is no scheme.” His eyes flickered to the blonde, and she resumed her seat without his saying a word. “Your presence here today is in conjunction with our search for the crystal. Lydia was merely trying to fill you in on some of the background before we set forth with our inquiry.”

“By bringing up Faith. Yeah, that makes perfect sense.”

“She was merely using Faith’s existence as an example of how unique you truly are.” His watery eyes darted to the blonde at his side, sending her shrinking into her seat. “In hindsight, perhaps it wasn’t the most adept example to utilize.”

“So I’m one of a kind,” Buffy said, folding her arms across her chest. “But something tells me I’m not here because you want my autograph.”

As she watched, Quentin nodded to the man nearest her. Does he actually verbalize any of his orders? she wondered when the man pushed a colored file across the table toward her. She flipped it open, and immediately saw copies of the same photos Giles had shown her at the apartment. “You’re showing reruns here,” she said. “I’ve seen all these before.”

“And did they mean anything to you?” Travers asked.

“Only that even vampires can surprise you by having good taste every once in a while.” She shuffled through the pictures, tossing them one by one to the side, until she’d gone through all twelve. Underneath the last was a closed envelope, bulging awkwardly from whatever it contained. “What’s this?” she asked, picking it up.

“Something Rupert didn’t see.”

The answer made her hesitate for a fraction of a second before sliding her nail beneath the seal. Turning the envelope over, Buffy felt it before she saw it, a swathe of fabric alternately gauzy soft and dusty hard. It took only a moment to see why.

“OK,” she said, and set the blood-stained handkerchief on the table. “Let’s try it again. What is this?”

“We were hoping you would tell us,” Travers said.

“And I thought you stodgy English types would be the first ones to recognize a hanky when you see it. Or do they just stay stuffed in your coat pocket for the way they look?” Nobody was answering her, frozen in their regard as she waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, she looked back at the item in question.

It was yellowed around the neatly trimmed edges, aged from years of disuse. Where the blood had saturated the fabric, it had dried to a crisp ruddy brown, tiny dried flakes already beginning to come away as exposure to the air was starting to take its toll. There were no decorations, no ornamental design to the handkerchief; only its large size told her anything at all.

That it had once belonged to a man.

“You have this because of the crystals,” she said, certainty driving her eyes back to Travers’. “Did this belong to whoever gave them to you guys?”

“We believe so, yes,” he replied. Though he wasn’t smiling, there was a glint of surprised respect in his gaze at her astute conclusion. “When Council Head Rhodes-Fanshaw was killed protecting the collection, that handkerchief was used to try and stop his bleeding. Attempts were made to link it back to whomever it was who left it in his care, but the results were inconclusive. We’ve had it in our possession since.”

“So this blood is his?”

There was a pause. “Some of it.”

“And why didn’t you tell Giles about it?”

“Because we felt it was vital to speak with you directly,” Travers replied. “If Rupert had told you out of our presence, we believed there was a possibility we would never learn the truth.”

“The truth about what?” All amusement was wiped from Buffy’s face, her mouth grim. “You wanted me, not the other way around. All I know about this is what you’ve told me.”

“Is that so, Miss Summers? Then tell me something.” For the first time since she’d arrived, Travers’ tone grew dangerous, razor-edged with cold suspicion. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the theft of the collection forced us to re-examine what little evidence we had. So, how is it that our resources indicate that a portion of the blood on that handkerchief…belongs to you?”

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

He stood, staring at his reflection, all color washed from his skin to leave him bone-pale and appearing like he more aptly belonged in a coffin. No matter how long he looked, or how hard he may wish to turn back the hands of time, William knew there was no escaping the disaster that taunted him from the nether regions of the glass.

He remembered now the instructions he’d been bade by his mother.

“You mustn’t forget to take your coat and waistcoat to Mrs. Shemfield’s,” she’d said to him across the dining table.

It had been the day after his first dream of Buffy, and in spite of the time that had already elapsed, William was still adrift on the elation from the encounter. “Of course,” he’d replied with a reassuring smile, and then promptly forgot, preferring instead to dwell on the mischievous laughter of his newfound fantasy and not the harsh reality of the incident with the maidservant bearing the tray of merlot at the last formal dinner party he’d attended.

The evidence of both the accident and his forgetfulness gaped at him from the mirror. If he didn’t look closely, William imagined the jacket might not be too noticeable, but there was no denying the condition of his waistcoat. All his attempts to hide the stains only served to accentuate them. Mother would surely be apoplectic should he arrive at the table in such a state, but what other choice did he have?

His gaze strayed to the wardrobe. His brown was more than presentable, even if not entirely of the fashion nor completely appropriate for the hour. Still, his other options were even less desirable. This would have to be his cross to bear for failing to remember his duty. As the man of the house, William owed it to his mother fulfill his role as host; to leave her to entertain on her own was unthinkable.

By the time he’d changed into his other suit, William could already hear the voices of arriving guests drifting up the stairs. He hastened with his shoes, grateful that they at least would pass scrutiny, but when he rushed into the hall, he bowled into Meg, the maid who’d first delivered the Cook’s special tea, sending her squeaking to the floor.

“My apologies!” he said, stooping to help her back to her feet.

Meg’s eyes widened as her gazed flickered over him. “Your mum sent me to fetch you,” she stammered. “She was afraid something was…” Another glance, and this time, William’s cheeks reddened. “…wrong,” she finished.

He swallowed. If this was the reaction of a mere servant to his attire, what chance did he have with his peers? They would be far more brutal if infinitely more subtle in their deprecation. Perhaps it would be better after all if he found some excuse to explain his absence---.

“William!” The voice boomed as it approached from the stairwell, and William crumpled inside as he looked to see David Howard striding confidently toward them. “There you are, old chap. I overheard your mother musing to mine about what could be detaining you, and decided to see for myself what could possibly be more entertaining than a gaggle of old women blathering on about the weather.” His dark eyes danced between William and Meg, his lecherous suppositions causing both of them to flush.

“If you’ll excuse me, sirs,” Meg said, eyes down, her knees bending too rapidly for an awkward curtsey. “I’ll just be getting back to Mrs. Freston.”
David’s beady gaze followed her curvy bottom as she fled down the stairs, too-full lips pulled back in a grin. “She’s a ripe young thing, isn’t she?” he commented, and William grimaced when he saw the other man deliberately thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “It’s really no wonder you’re dawdling if that’s your primary distraction.”

“It’s not like that,” he countered. He flushed when David lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. “I’m merely late in getting prepared. Meg was sent to fetch me.”

“Ah, yes. Forever at your mother’s beck and call. Really, William, one of these days, you’re going to have to realize you’re the man of the house and not the other way around. How else do you think you’ll ever gain the attention of a particular young lady?” He smiled, a disdainful sneer masked in mock concern. “You do wish that to happen, do you not?”

His throat burned from the acid that rose up from his stomach. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t feel so small next to him, if he wasn’t forced to look up into David’s face, but the other man had a good three stone and four inches on him. As it was, William took a step to the side, averting his eyes as he tried to swallow down the shame he knew he shouldn’t be feeling. “I really must be going,” he started to say, and then yelped when a strong hand clapped down onto his shoulder.

“I tell you these things for your own good, you know,” David said, forcing him to turn to him. Though his face was easy, the grip on William was like a steel trap, pinching the nerves in an excruciating tingle. “Do you have any idea the talk that occurs behind your back? The things people say about you?”

He knew. Of course he knew. He was far from blind or stupid, and yet it seemed as if everyone thought of him as such. “Why are you saying these things?” he managed in a hoarse whisper, though he already suspected the truth of his reply.

“Because someone must, as it’s clear you’re not willing to better yourself of your own accord. Be a man, William. You embarrass the rest of us when you’re not.”

“Just because my interests lie elsewhere---.”

David’s scoff was a gust of hot air in William’s face. “That bloody awful poetry of yours is a disgrace. Do us all a favor and move on from it.”

With a wrench that made his arm feel like it was being pulled from its socket, William freed himself from David’s grasp and fled for the stairs, desperate to be anywhere but in his old tormentor’s presence and doing everything he could to block out the derisive laughter that floated after him.

Age had not lessened his harassment; it had merely changed its shape from the beatings and taunts of their youth to this caustic appraisal that left William wanting. Though his head was shouting at him that it was all a pack of lies, that David Howard was a ruffian in gentleman’s clothing, William’s heart was not nearly so hardy, cracking and crumbling as his feet flew down the risers, fighting back the tears that were already starting to spill down his cheeks. His only thought was to flee the house, his mother’s party be damned.

It took only seconds before he found himself on the walk outside his house, his feet leading him automatically toward the park and away from the laughter he could still imagine hearing from David Howard. Twenty yards away, though, a small shadow flitted from around the corner, and William stopped short as the wizened widow he’d spoken to on the banks stepped into his view.

She smiled when she saw him, her teeth gleaming oddly white against the night. “Running away again, William?” she asked. “And what would your young lady have to say about that?”

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

Chapter 9: The Likeness of a Man

She was exactly as he remembered, if it was even possible to forget such a cryptic encounter as they had shared. Standing directly in front of her, William marveled at how tiny the widow actually was, so tall in his memory but barely reaching his elbow in the grand light of day. Or, rather, the dim dusk of evening.

Still, she held herself remarkably erect, straight and oddly powerful in spite of her advancing years, and he was left to wonder yet again at the otherworldliness to her, with those black eyes that seemed to see straight through to the heart of him. He automatically took a step back, squaring his shoulders as he bowed his head, not just from the demands of courtesy but also the intense desire to escape her scrutiny.

“My apologies,” William said, and then added in a low voice as he grimaced, “and it certainly appears that I’m making many of those this evening.”

“Your mother’s going to be wondering where you are,” she said, ignoring his contrition. “You don’t want to disappoint her, do you? She was so excited about your reading tonight.”

Mention of his poem made his blood freeze, and he lifted his gaze to stare at her. “How do you know…?” he started, and then stopped, remembering their first meeting…her odd comment upon first seeing him on the walk just minutes earlier. “Who are you?” William asked bluntly. The chill that was starting to nip the air sent shivers undulating across his skin, but he was oblivious to anything but the tiny woman before him. “How is it you know so much about me?”

“You may call me Miss Esme,” she replied, thoroughly unperturbed by his lack of manners. “And I know only what you wear on your face, William. Of course, you do have this tendency to display any and all emotions there, so I’m afraid you’ll have to pardon me for being horrifically obvious in my observations.”

“You can’t have known about the reading merely by looking at me.” He paused, unsure whether or not to continue, and then decided to throw caution to the wind. “And you specifically addressed the issue of my ‘young lady.’ I don’t have one, and your presumption that I would be failing her in some regard, should she exist, is insulting.”

The anger was prickling around the edges of his temper, surprising him with its vigor, but when she began to chuckle, instead of receding into the quiet of shameful solicitude, William’s ire sharpened, drawing forth his words as if they possessed a mind of their own.

“I don’t understand---.”

“I don’t expect you to,” she interrupted. Her face softened, her mirth fading as effortlessly as the sun. “There is no reason for you to hide your feelings, William. Even when they’re unpleasant. And just because you’re frightened of the response, you shouldn’t allow them to discourage you from your poetry. It has its place, just as you do, and you shouldn’t shirk your responsibility in claiming it.”

Each collected observation deflated his rising fury, until he was left hollow and gaping at her in confusion. He didn’t understand, and it both frustrated and intrigued him. There was so much more behind that wrinkled face than was immediately apparent, each declaration from her lips spoken as if she had other knowledge, with a surety that made it difficult to question her believed honesty. “Miss Esme,” he murmured, but then stopped. What could he possibly say? She seemed to expect each utterance before its possibility even arose in his head, and yet, he didn’t know why, or how, or…why.

“You ought to be returning to your home,” she said. “Dinner will be late unless you do.”

“They will not miss me.”

“The only one of us who believes that is you, William.”

So certain. The word that sprang to his mind made him gulp as if swallowing it back down would make it disappear.

Foreordained.

“These things you say…” He shook his head, stepping further away from her. “It’s not possible for you to know what you…” And just as if he were back in his room, struggling to find the correct phrase, the proper rhyme, his words failed him, leaving him pale and shaken. Try again, he ordered himself. You must try again.

“I consider myself an intelligent man,” he started again. “But…your observations leave me with questions I can’t answer. Questions I didn’t realize existed. Why is it you make these assertions I know with my head I have to deny?”

Miss Esme shook her head sadly. “One of these days, you’ll learn that your mind is not your most valuable weapon. Your young lady knows this already.”

“As I’ve told you already, I don’t have a young lady.”

“Then who is your poem for? Your mother believes you wrote it for someone…special.”

William’s eyes scanned hers, searching for some sign of duplicity. It was very possible for his mother to think such a thing, but he was surprised she would so readily share her thoughts with someone he couldn’t place as ever having been around their home. “She’s not real,” he finally said, and was surprised at how much it hurt to admit that out loud. “I was inspired by a dream.”

“Dreams have a way of becoming real,” Miss Esme said. “Do you remember the Terence quote I asked you about that day you were writing on the banks?”

His eyes narrowed---Fortune favors the brave---and he slowly nodded.

“I shouldn’t be doing this. Telling you, I mean. But then again, maybe I was meant to. Who can know? Time isn’t stagnant. It’s a raging river, flowing and surging and coming back onto itself when you least expect it. But that’s a lesson for another day, I think.” Slowly, she advanced and rested a wizened hand on his forearm as soon as she was within reach.

William started from the shock that leapt between them, his eyes like saucers behind his spectacles. In the confines of his chest, his heart threatened to burst through his ribcage, the beginning of a fine sweat causing his collar to stick to the back of his neck. “Who are you?” he whispered. The name she shared was no longer sufficient. Beyond his belief in the blue of the sky, in the power of the pen and such simple words as love and trust, he knew there was more to this woman than the casual acquaintance she claimed to share with his mother.

The thought then that she’d never actually stated as such, that her associations with his family had been made entirely in his head, did nothing to allay his certitude, and so he repeated, “Who are you?”

Esme smiled. “A friend.” Simple, quite nearly more direct than he’d expected. And truth, he realized as his gaze remained frozen on her. “And this friend thinks you should hurry along back to your mother’s party before she realizes you’ve gone. You may consider your…someone special as illusory, but the effect she has on you is real, is it not? And something tells me she would want to hear your work, should she be present.”

For a moment, he was no longer there. For a moment, the clutches of the cooling London dusk released their hold on his flesh, and William stood in the radiant ambience of his nocturnal park, Buffy sitting on the bench before him, leaning back against her hands as she looked up into his face. His heart lurched at what he imagined he saw there, that half-smile she often wore in his presence making her mouth delectably kissable, his own watering in response.

Buffy wouldn’t be afraid. Buffy would have the strength to go up to David Howard and tell him exactly where he could go, and then turn around and do whatever the hell she wanted, their reactions be damned.

If Buffy could do it, then so could he.

Buffy’s golden smile faded before him, to be replaced by the waiting visage of the elderly woman. Her hand still rested on his arm, but when she saw him blink against the setting sun, she stepped back, shattering the last illusion to which he clung.

“Thank you,” William said simply, though what he was grateful for, he wasn’t entirely sure. A small bow prefaced his departure, and he felt the air begin to cool the flush that had risen to his cheeks as he scurried back to the house.

Yes. If Buffy could do it…

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

She didn’t know what they expected her to do about it.

Buffy’s simple powwow with the Council had segued into a daylong series of nightmarish meetings, bounding with enough tweed and stiff upper lips to make her walk away itching uncontrollably, while they tried to fathom out the reason her blood was on a century-old hanky. Though she was just as eager for an explanation as they were, convincing Travers that she knew nothing about it was her first order of business. She’d argued. She’d threatened. She’d tried walking out. It had taken submitting to a truth spell that still had her feeling queasy before the Council Head was persuaded that she was being upfront with them about being just as in the dark as they were.

The story she had now was only slightly more detailed than the one Giles had shared. In 1879, an alert had been sent out by Richard Rhodes-Fanshaw, then Head of the Council, demanding an immediate convening of the Council at an address outside of London none of them had recognized. However, by the time the first Watcher had arrived, Rhodes-Fanshaw was lying semi-conscious across the threshold of the house, as if he’d been trying to crawl back inside to safety. The handkerchief they now had in their possession had been pressed to the bleeding bites on his neck, and while copious amounts of vampire dust had been reported both on the site and on his clothing, no one else was found in the immediate vicinity. Neither were any weapons.

He’d died just after the second Watcher’s arrival, directing them to the contents of a padded crate they hadn’t noticed on the porch and ordering it to be kept secure. Both of the men who were at his side until his death reported his agitated ramblings, and while they didn’t completely mesh, enough overlapped so that they had somewhere to start their investigations.

The name of the man who’d delivered the crate. David Howard.

The contents of the crate. A dozen perfectly sculpted, crystal figurines, all female, radiating remnants of a spell so powerful it knocked out the witches they brought later to the scene.

The order that the figures be hidden and protected, no holds barred.

And a single word. One that he kept repeating but whose significance was lost when Rhodes-Fanshaw finally slipped away.

April.

The board had assumed it was a deadline of some sort, that the owner of the figures would come to collect them in April, or that something tremendous would happen to them in that particular month. But, as it was early July when the incident occurred, they could only wait until the following spring to see if their hypotheses were correct.

Nothing happened.

Just as nothing happened the following April. Or the April after that.

And so they’d given up on that thread, especially since all their other attempts to learn more about the collection failed, and it had been relegated to an archive in Cambridge where it had sat gathering metaphorical dust until being stolen two weeks earlier by a group of vampires.

Buffy shifted in her seat, staring out the window of the car as the details of the story tumbled around inside her head. Though they hadn’t said it out loud, she could tell that the Council was just as much at a loss as to what she should do as Giles was. Her blood on an aged artifact had thrown all of them for a loop, and at that moment in time, she was most definitely the loopiest. But such was her life. If things weren’t loopy, she wouldn’t be the Slayer.

“We’re here,” came the quiet voice beside her.

Buffy glanced at the woman the Council had had accompany her back to the flat. Actually, she’d been forced to stay at the Slayer’s side throughout the day, as if Travers thought having another female presence might make her more cooperative. On more than one occasion, the Watcher---Lydia, she kept reminding herself, that was what Travers had called her in the conference room---had tried to initiate a conversation, but Buffy had shot her down. She wasn’t there to be their friend; she just wanted to know what the hell was going on.

“Thanks for the lift,” Buffy said as the car eased to a stop at the curb. Her hand was already on the handle when she felt the light pressure on her shoulder, prompting her to look back.

“May I have just…a moment of your time?” Lydia asked.

“You’ve had all my moments, all day long,” she complained, but relaxed back into the seat.

“This isn’t regarding the collection. This is…more personal.” Squirming slightly, her hands fidgeted in her lap as she continued. “I’m hoping I can pick your brain, so to speak.”

“I think it’s all picked out. You want a piece, you’ll have to pick up one of the scraps I left lying on the floor back at Watcher Central. Right now, I just want to get upstairs and get some sleep. Talking with you guys is more backbreaking than stopping an apocalypse.”

This time, she was stopped from exiting the car by a shuffle of papers from the briefcase near her feet. “Here,” Lydia said, thrusting forward a small file. “Just look it over. If you could spare a few minutes before your next appearance with the Board, I’d appreciate your responses to the questionnaire I’ve prepared.”

Buffy frowned. “What is this?” Leaning toward the window, she tried angling the paperwork so that the streetlamp would illuminate it, and failed miserably. “Is this the part where I find out you’re sneaking around behind Travers’ back and you want to offer me a deal to help you out with some evil and dastardly plan?”

“Oh, no, nothing quite as sinister as that,” Lydia replied, chuckling. “It’s for my own research. You’ve had personal experience with one of the most notorious and fascinating vampires in modern history. I’m merely interested in gathering some firsthand knowledge to add to my studies. I’m writing a book on him, you see.”

The last was said with a modest smile, but it did nothing to warm the chill that had settled around Buffy’s heart. She closed the file and held it out. “I’m not talking about Angel,” she said stiffly. “Not to you, not to anyone.”

There was a moment of silence before Lydia’s eyes widened behind her glasses and she held up her hand to prevent taking back the file. “I wasn’t referring to Angelus,” she said. “My interest lies in William the Bloody. You knew him as Spike, I believe?”

“Spike?” It was the first time in months Buffy had given the bleached vampire any thought. “He’s your fascinating vampire?”

“Oh yes!” The floodgates opened, and for the first time that day, the Slayer watched the other woman become as animated as Willow on one of her caffeine jags. “He’s quite the anomaly. So charismatic, and yet he chooses to forge his own path oftentimes. And then there’s the whole romance between him and Drusilla---.”

“Hold it.” Buffy tossed the file onto the seat. “OK, first of all, Spike and Drusilla? Gross and evil and incredibly twisted. Not romantic in the slightest. And secondly, Spike’s just like any other vampire. Looking out for number one and interested only in how high his body count is.”

“But that’s not entirely true.” Picking up the file, Lydia opened it up and thrust it before Buffy’s eyes, pointing to various items as she spoke. “William has always deviated from the traditional path. On more than one occasion, he’s even contributed to the side of good, including your own battle last year, if I’m not mistaken.”

“He did that for purely selfish reasons. His trampy girlfriend couldn’t keep her hands to herself, so Spike came to me so that I’d help him get rid of Angelus.”

“But William---.”

“Stop calling him that!” Her vehemence surprised both of them, but Buffy was unwavering when Lydia pulled away. “Look. If you’ve got a jones for Spike, that’s your problem, not mine. But I’m not going to help fuel your little fantasies. He’s evil, remember? There was a reason they called him William the Bloody. I suggest you keep that in mind.”

She was out of the car before the Watcher could stop her, racing for the stairs and letting herself through the front door of the building with her borrowed keys. It took seconds for her to realize her heart was hammering inside her chest, but why she’d be so flustered talking about Spike, Buffy had no idea.

OK, that was a lie. She knew why she was upset. And it didn’t have much to do with the issue of a blind Watcher’s obsession with a demonic sociopath.

It was the correlation of that name with him. Her William. The gentle poet who thought she was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. He was hers, damn it, and nobody else’s.

And she really needed to see him right about now.

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

Entering the dream was becoming easier and easier, and as she hurried down the stone path of the park, Buffy was grateful that for once, she was going to William without the awkward benefit of being hurt. Without patrolling that night, she’d gone to bed with only a minor twinge in her ankle from the bite the night before, and though it still ached within the realm of the dream, it was infinitely easier to manage than a fresh injury for her brain to assimilate.

Her smile was ready as she rounded the familiar bend in the trail, but as soon as she saw the empty bench, it faded away, leaving her eyes burning and searching the countryside for him. Had she beaten him here for a change? But that never happened. William was always the first to arrive, whether she came upon him or vice versa. Had she finally stepped into a dream where he wasn’t going to show up at all?

Panic seized her throat, and Buffy whirled around as she scanned the horizon. “William?” she called out. She followed with her feet, her skirt swirling around her legs. There was no sound but the distant gurgle of running water and the occasional birdsong drifting through the air, and it left her skin crawling in fear.

“William!” Buffy repeated, louder, more insistent.

Part of her felt ridiculous for coming apart at his non-appearance. Only a dream, she scolded herself. Not real, remember?

Except he felt real, and where everything else in her life was leaving her confused and wanting, William had provided an anchor she hadn’t expected. Accepting her without question. Admiring her without expectation. She needed that so badly right now.

She heard it then, the softest of humming, and began running in its direction before she could consider that it might not even be him. Legs pumping, her ankle protesting, Buffy raced across the grass toward the sound, her heart nearly exploding when she finally saw him clear a far knoll.

“William,” she said again, but this time only for her ears. Before he could even look up, she tackled him to the soft ground, rolling with him as her arms clung to his shoulders.

“Buffy?” he asked, and then grunted in pain as her elbow accidentally jabbed into his side. Keeping his fingers curled around whatever they held, his hands settled on her hips, forcing her to still as she came to a stop directly on top of him. She could feel him tense beneath her, but didn’t loosen her grip, hugging him close as she pressed her ear to his chest.

“Where the hell were you?” she demanded. Her voice was slightly muffled by his shirt. “You weren’t on the bench. I was getting worried you weren’t going to show.”

“I was too excited to sit,” he said. “I went wandering and found these.” His hand vanished from her hip and a spray of half-crushed lilies of the valley suddenly appeared before her eyes. “I thought they’d look lovely in your hair.”

“Oh.” A smile began to soften her mouth as she reached to stroke the tiny bells. “That’s so sweet.”

William cleared his throat. “Not that…I’m not delighted you missed me,” he said, “but perhaps…” He squirmed beneath her weight, and for the first time, Buffy felt the growing length of his erection pressing into her stomach.

“Sorry,” she said, scrambling away from his length. Sitting down on the grass next to him, she looked up to see William prop himself up, his excitement now hidden by the white fabric of his shirt. It still glowed on his face, though, his cheeks pink, his breath quick. Even his eyes seemed darker behind…

Buffy froze. “Can you do me a favor?” she breathed. His head tilted in expectation as he waited for her to ask it, and the knot in her stomach tightened. “Take off your glasses.”

He did as she asked, laying the broken buds along the green before doing so. As he folded them up, his gaze lifted to meet hers, and the curious glint in the dark blue only served to bother her further.

“You’re not squinting.”

“Because I can see. They’re merely reading glasses.” The amusement that had lingered on his face dissolved, to be replaced with a growing concern. “What’s wrong?”

Her response was to stretch out her hand and run a tremulous finger across his smooth brows. “You don’t have a scar,” she murmured, not really talking to him. “I wonder why I did that.”

“Did what?” The unease was in his voice now, and he reached up to take her hand in his, pulling it away from his face. “I don’t understand what’s going on. Are you all right?”

“Say ‘bloody hell.’”

“Pardon?”

“Say ‘bloody hell,’” she repeated, and looked up into the face that was growing more familiar by the second. How could I not have seen this, she wondered, but when she saw the hesitation lurking behind his eyes, she softened her request with a small smile and a soft, “Please?”

When it came, it lacked the conviction she’d heard so many times before, but the cadences were the same. A bubble of laughter rose in Buffy’s throat and she dropped her head to her bent knees, wrapping her arms around her legs as her shoulders began to shake from her hysterical amusement.

She could feel his eyes on her, and knew she must look like some kind of loon, just laughing for no apparent reason. But she couldn’t stop, not when the whole thing was so absurd. “Let me guess,” she panted between giggles. “You know a David Howard, too, don’t you?”

His sharp intake of breath was followed immediately by the disappearance of his shadow, and when Buffy lifted her head to see what he’d done, she just caught the swipe William made at his eyes before slipping his glasses back onto his nose.

“Why are you doing this?” He couldn’t even meet her gaze, but there was no mistaking the pain in his tone.

It sliced through her agitation more effectively than having a bucket of cold water tossed over her head. He might look like Spike in a roundabout way, and he might sound like Spike, but this was a patented William response, through and through. So what if her subconscious was taking all the details of her day and slapping them together in some weird dream? That’s what dreams were supposed to be all about in the first place; she’d just forgotten that in the rush of falling for William---.

But his distress seemed all too real, and it made Buffy ache to know that she was the source of it. Immediately, she was on her feet, her hand on his arm as she tried to get him to face her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just…I’ve only just figured out who you remind me of, and…” Her words trailed away when she realized he wasn’t really listening to her. “It’s kind of funny, if you think about it,” she finished lamely. Except not. Not anymore.

“And so now I’m an object of ridicule. Thank you for clarifying that.” Pain was replaced by bitterness, but he still refused to look at her, choosing instead to start marching stiffly back toward the path.

“Stop it!” Jerking him to a halt, Buffy tugged him around so that he was forced to face her, exerting what strength was necessary to ensure he didn’t go away. “Look, turning into Chuckles the Clown back there was probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but running away from me when I want to talk about it doesn’t exactly make you Mensa material, either, bub. Take it from me. These kind of opportunities, where I’m ready and willing to take my place on the shrink’s couch, come along once in a blue moon. Maybe even once in a purple moon. So, throwing it away? Kind of dumb.”

He regarded her in silence, his body wound like steel coils beneath her grip, and as the seconds stretched into a full minute, Buffy relaxed her hands, sliding them from his arms to press lightly against his chest. Beneath her palms, his pulse galloped in a syncopation that made her ears pound, and she felt herself swallow as her mouth suddenly went dry.

“How do you know David Howard?” William finally asked, his voice expressionless even when his eyes were not.

“How do you?” she shot back.

“He’s an…acquaintance of mine.” He stopped and waited for her response.

“Mine’s just a name that came up today with my slaying stuff,” she replied, and then shook her head. “It’s probably not even the same guy or anything. It’s kind of a common name, don’t you think?”

His eyebrow quirked, and the flash of déjà vu that flooded her senses suddenly made sense. It was such a Spike-ism, but where on the vampire it would’ve seemed mocking, on William it was merely curious. I missed this…how?

“It seems rather coincidental,” he commented, but his tone was no longer flat, some of the life returning to his words.

“Well, yeah,” she conceded. “Mine killed a boatload of vampires protecting a mystical crystal collection, which probably did something like save the world. What did yours do?”

William snorted, relaxing even more. “Nothing quite so altruistic,” he said. His eyes dropped to her hands that still rested on his chest before slowly lifting his right to cover them. “May I ask what amused you so?” A whisper almost, like he was afraid to ask but couldn’t resist the question. “Have I…done something that would…provoke such a response?”

“It’s not you. God, William, it’s never you. Can’t you see that?”

“But you were…laughing. And the odd requests. I’m afraid…” He took a deep breath, and tried again. “When people ask things of me, I’ve found I don’t necessarily come out the other side completely unscathed.” His thumb caressed the back of her hand, though she didn’t think that he was even aware he was doing it. “It was such a trying night, but I got through it because I envisioned you believing in me. I’d hate to think I was merely a passing fancy for you. Just a…diversion to entertain.”

“If that was the case, why would I keep coming back here?” There was truth to his words---some, at least---but there was no way Buffy would vocalize them and hurt the gentle young man even more. He was a diversion, one she’d obviously made to distract herself from the yuck factor that was her real life, but that was her rationale when she was awake.

When she slept, when she was here, in the park, in his presence, talking and sharing and just being with him, William Freston the man was all that mattered. And if she had to repeat that in every single one of the dreams until he finally believed her, she would.

“You said you got through whatever ordeal you had tonight because of me?” She waited for him to nod. “Because you pretended I believe in you.” Another nod, this one slightly more hesitant. “You weren’t pretending, William.”

It was the first time she’d seen the light in his eyes since rolling off of him. With just those few words, a shutter lifted from whatever he’d been hiding behind, and the innocent delight she normally associated with him began to glimmer through. “You never cease to surprise me, Miss---.”

“Buffy.”

He was momentarily rattled by her interruption. “What was that?”

“No more ‘Miss Buffy.’ Can’t you just…call me Buffy? That wouldn’t break you, would it?”

“You don’t think it would be improper?”

She smiled. “You don’t see me calling you Mr. William, do you?”

His answering smile was sheepish. “Well, no. But…wouldn’t that be suggestive of a more…intimate relationship…Buffy?”

It was as if he was testing her, using her name without its more formal title, and she met the wary blue with an assurance that surprised her. “You’re a good man, William Freston,” she murmured. Before the pleasure had registered in his eyes, she was on her tiptoes, her lips brushing across his jaw, her nostrils filled with the healthy scent of his skin. Buffy’s eyes fluttered closed as she settled her cheek against his, her mouth hovering just below his ear. “And I am honored to be in any relationship with you.”

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

Chapter 10: Toward Thee I'll Run

He’d had suspicions earlier; even in the unforgiving light of his waking hours, it had been impossible for William to completely delude himself to the contrary. Walking back to the dinner party, Miss Esme’s touch still a brand on his arm, Buffy had been an invigorative ghost hovering at his elbow, prompting him to stay tall when he strode back through the front door as if nothing was amiss, keeping his tone courteous as he addressed the guests in spite of seeing the knowing glances pass between David Howard and his cortege. She had been the reason he was able to find the strength to take the floor after the meal was served, before his mother could even ask, and recite the poem he’d written especially for the blonde beauty. And though there was no mistaking the sniggers that were not-so-cleverly disguised by the polite applause that followed, William thought that he saw one or two of the young ladies present look at him with a different eye afterwards, as if he’d done or said something that had quite taken them by surprise.

It was because of Buffy. Because he could practically feel her belief in him like a tender embrace.

That sensation had lingered even into his sleep, hence his inability to remain at the bench, and he went off in search of something that might bring a smile to her face as well. The lilies of the valley had seemed ideal, especially since he was far too excited to sit still long enough to compose another verse, and then feeling her throw herself into his arms, pinning him and demanding to know of his whereabouts…

Nobody had ever cared so much where he was before. So when she had the odd reversal of mood, William had been cut to the quick, ready to flee and steel himself against being such a fool as to believe that anyone---even a dream---could have such faith in him.

But she did. She’d said so. When he’d tried to run, she’d come after him, asserting that he hadn’t been pretending, then following it up with the kiss on his cheek and those words---honored to be in any relationship---that left him dizzy with giddy delight.

And as he stood there, feeling her slim form pressed against him, the divine scent of her hair filling his nostrils as she continued to nuzzle his cheek, William knew. Without a shadow of a doubt, with every fiber of his being, he understood now just what he felt.

He was in love with Buffy Summers.

The ramifications of such an understanding were not something he was willing to consider at the moment. She was only real to him, existing in the nether regions of his imagination like a hidden treasure he didn’t want to share with anyone else. That didn’t make the feelings any less genuine, not when her presumed disdain could wound as deeply as it had. He would just revel in the here and now, and luxuriate in the vivacity that was Buffy for as long as could hope to dare hold on to her.

Carefully, William released his hold on her hands to slide them around her body, settling at the small of her back in a tremulous caress. It wasn’t the first time he’d held her so, but somehow, in the flush of her declaration, he felt like he was treading on new ground, and fear that he would misstep made him overly cautious.

“Buffy…” he murmured, and felt her gentle sigh tickle his neck. When she pulled back, he fought the instinct to cling tighter, refusing to hold on if she wished otherwise. She didn’t leave the circle of his arms, though, and instead looked up at him, waiting in expectation.

William swallowed. What to say? Did he confess his own feelings? He didn’t think she would laugh, but he wasn’t certain that it wouldn’t drive her away, either. And he wasn’t prepared to lose her just yet.

“Buffy,” he began again, a little louder, a little more sure, “can I tell you how glad I am to not see you injured this visit? You don’t even appear to be limping from your unfortunate bite.”

“Super Slayer healing,” she replied. “Part and parcel of the whole Chosen package. And nothing fresh because I didn’t patrol tonight.”

When she extricated herself from his arms, the loss chilled him to the bone, but William remained steadfast. It was better this way. A return to the normal, the expected, albeit with a touch of intimacy that tied them together in a way that hadn’t been there moments earlier. “But you spoke of your…slaying,” he said. “Is there more to your duty than battling with vampires?”

She dismissed it with a casual wave of her hand. “Today was about the boring, researchy part of my job. Not anything worth talking about.” It was obvious the topic was not one she wished to pursue, so when she began ambling across the green, picking at the loose grass that clung to her skirt as she walked, he fell into pace beside her.

His mouth was open to speak again when she beat him to it.

“We’re good again, right?” Buffy asked, glancing up at him out of the corner of her eye. “You believe me, apology accepted, and all that jazz?”

“Of course.” He didn’t even hesitate in his response.

“Good. I’d hate to think I messed up the one thing in my life that was giving me any happies these days.”

It was no surprise he warmed at her words. He made her happy. If only she knew…

“---especially after the fiasco that was Angel,” she was saying.

That name was like a bucket of cold water splashed across his skin. “Angel,” he murmured, and found it impossible to keep his disgust out of his voice. “I detest that he haunts you even here. He isn’t worthy of such attention.”

He could feel her stiffen beside him, though she didn’t falter in her step. “Look, there’s a lot you don’t know, William---.”

“I know enough,” he interrupted. “He professed to love you and yet left. Any real man…” Her exact words came back to him then, how she’d called him a demon and he’d assumed she’d meant it metaphorically. Yet, knowing now what she was, what she hunted…

“He wasn’t, though, was he,” William stated, understanding clarifying the situation and making asking redundant. “You meant it when you called him a monster.”

“It’s not what you think. Angel has a soul.”

“And still, you defend him, even after he’s hurt you so. Why? Does this soul exalt him so much that you can ignore what he’s done?” When she stayed mute, he stole a glance in her direction.

High on Buffy’s cheeks, twin spots of color highlighted her elevated emotions, her eyes locked on the grass at her feet. Her lips were pursed tight, like she was biting back whatever it was she wanted to say, and for a moment, William wondered why she wouldn’t open up to him any more than she had. Surely, he’d proven his good intentions to her by now. And hadn’t she been the one to profess her trust in him?

It took only seconds of silence for him to make up his mind. Reaching down, William grabbed her hand and pulled her to a halt, forcing her to change direction and follow him toward a bench that sat only a few feet away. He felt the muscles tighten in her grip, as if she meant to pull away, but it quickly relaxed, and they finished the minor trek in a comfortable ease.

As he guided her to sit on the stone seat, William watched the sun caress her bare arms, dancing in tiny flecks of gold and giving her flesh even more life than he thought possible. His mouth suddenly dry, his head lowered so that she wouldn’t see in his eyes the desire to take her in his embrace, at least not before he could more properly stifle the impulse, and William dropped to his knees to kneel before her.

“What’re you doing?” Buffy asked.

When he looked up, she was frowning, confusion clouding her normally translucent eyes. “I understand you don’t wish to speak of him,” he said softly, as if he were gentling a skittish colt. Slowly, he reached forward and took her hands in his, never letting his gaze leave hers. “I only ask that you listen to what I have to say now. After this, I swear to you that I will not bring him up again. Are we agreed?”

She searched his face, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she could see the truth of his feeling for her somewhere in it. “OK,” she finally said. “Except, you do know how kind of wiggy the bended knee routine is, right?”

He did the automatic translation in his head. Wiggy. That was Buffy-speak for peculiar or off-putting. Because she must think…

William flushed, but held his ground. “I merely want you to believe me in what I’m about to say,” he said. “Please.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “I don’t think you have it in you to lie.”

“You would be surprised, I think.” He cleared his throat. “But that’s irrelevant to what I want you to hear.” Where to start? She needed to know. “I can’t pretend to understand the world you walk in,” he began. “I find it remarkable that you find the fortitude to fight these creatures and yet maintain some semblance of a normal life. I’ll admit, there is a part of me that’s envious of your strength. I have enough difficulty facing certain vulgarians who don’t even have the excuse of being demons---.”

“I guess jerks happen no matter what century you live in, huh?”

He answered her smile with his own. “Indeed,” William agreed. “And pardon me for saying so, but this Angel, demon or not, soul or not, warrants membership as one of those for hurting you as he has done.”

“He didn’t mean it---.”

“Let me finish.” His hands tightened on hers, his palms sweaty. “You still have strong emotions for him, which is understandable, and so you defend his actions, but the fact remains that he neglected your feelings in making his decision to leave. I can’t pretend to condone such selfish behavior. To me, a real man does everything in his power to make the woman he loves happy, regardless of the personal circumstances.” This was where the worry about her reaction threatened to yank him back from the abyss upon which he stood. Could he say the words? How would she react?

Buffy spoke before he could continue. “That’s a little unrealistic, don’t you think?” she asked gently. “I mean, it’s all good in theory, but there’s this thing called real life where sometimes you have to make the hard decisions, even when they tear you up inside.”

He recognized her reference from her earlier tale, though she didn’t mention it specifically. “You’re speaking of the time you had to kill him,” he commented. When she nodded, turning her head so that he wouldn’t see the shine in her eyes, William released his hold on her hands to reach up and tip her chin back in his direction. “And here, again, is where my admiration for you overwhelms me, Buffy,” he said. “Because you killed the thing you loved the most in order to save the world. Because you sacrificed yourself for the greater good.”

“Fat lotta good it did me,” she muttered, but didn’t fight his fingers or pull away. Louder, she added, “And it’s not like you wouldn’t do the exact same thing if you were in the same position.”

William shook his head. “You give me far too much credit, I’m afraid. Yes, I’d like to believe I could be such a person, but I also know that I’m rather a slave to my emotions. When I…love…” And he faltered here, anxiety a dagger in his gut. “…or care about someone, I find that I want to do everything in my power to make them happy. And if that would mean someone else might get hurt…”

He couldn’t do it. The look on her face, the tiny line between her brows as she tried to comprehend what he was saying…

“You’re way too hard on yourself,” Buffy said, surprising him with her voice. “I thought we’d gotten past all this?”

“I’m not…I’m just trying to say…” William took a deep breath. “I will never leave you, Buffy. Whatever you need, whenever you might need it, I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to make sure you get it. Because I want you to be happy, more than anything else.”

His throat was tight, air refusing to cooperate with his lungs, and he pulled his hands away from her face lest she become aware of the trembling that was impending within his fingers. It was as forward as he could brave at this time, but he feared it wasn’t forward enough; she couldn’t possibly extrapolate his true intention from such a roundabout avowal.

She softened at his words, and as William watched, Buffy slid from the bench to kneel beside him on the grass. “Why can’t we both be happy?” she asked. “You deserve it as much as I do.”

“I haven’t saved the world,” he joked. He was astonished that his voice betrayed none of his runaway nerves, calm and even as he bantered with her.

“No,” she agreed softly. “You’ve saved me.”

And then she was moving, so lithe and sure and quick because there she was, touching him---no, holding him---perched on the lap his bent knees made and pressing herself into his chest as if it was the only place on earth she wanted to be. Her hands were at the back of his neck, tickling the skin beneath the curls, just as the breeze billowed her skirt across his legs, and all William could feel was the heat of her body, her small breasts burning into him, her heart pounding so violently that he could see her pulse running rampant in the small hollow of her throat.

“What…?” he croaked, because his mouth was desert dry. It didn’t stop his hands from falling to her hips, though, holding her in place, even pulling her closer, his arousal be damned. “Buffy…”

All he could see were her eyes, lucent and knowing and determined and vulnerable all in the most vibrant sea-green that demanded he drown---no need to command it, my darling Buffy, I do so willingly---and she was still moving, not her body but her mouth, whispering words that made his spine tingle and his heart want to burst.

“Too much talking,” she said, and her mouth was on his even as spoke, tracing each syllable like feathers against his lips, her breath hot and sweet as he swallowed it down. “Not enough kissing.”

The thought that perhaps she had understood his clumsy attempt to tell her his feelings was banished upon the first contact, and William held himself rigid as Buffy’s lips coaxed him to respond. So gentle, as if she knew without his ever having told her that this would be his first, and answering that clement call surprised him by being instinctive, a fragile rush as the caress remained as tender as her voice had been. Muscle by muscle, sinew by sinew, his body relaxed into hers, until by the time she pulled away from the kiss, he felt boneless, ready to be led wherever she may lead.

Her cheek nuzzled his. “I’ve been---,” she started to say, but before the sentence could be finished, William found himself pitching forward, the weight of her that he’d been using as leverage suddenly gone.

His forehead caught the edge of the bench, sending showers of stars flashing behind his eyes. His last thought before crumpling to the earth was, Buffy, don’t go…

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

“C’mon, Buffy, wake up!” Willow shook her friend’s shoulder, her anxiety a fevered pitch in her veins that made her grip just a little too tight. She’d been at this for a good five minutes, had walked in on a sleeping Buffy desperate to wake her, and been confronted with a Slayer who slept deeper than the dead she staked. Not even a whimper or a groan had escaped Buffy’s lips as Willow’s shaking grew more insistent, and the witch was starting to get more than a little frightened at the non-responsiveness.

“Buffy!” she said even louder. She didn’t have to worry about waking up anyone else in the apartment; after all, that was why she was in the room in the first place.

Her shaking jarred the hand that Buffy had tucked beneath her pillow, exposing the edge of the book she’d bought on Charing Cross. Willow only glanced at it for a moment, her frown deepening as she shook harder. “You’re going to be late for school!” she shouted, in a last ditch effort to rouse the Slayer.

For the first time, Buffy moved of her own accord, her tongue darting out to lick her lips as she murmured, “Will…?”

“Yes!” She jumped at the recognition. “Yes! It’s me! Wake up, Buffy!”

Sleepy lashes lifted, her mouth pursed to speak again. “Will…ow?” she said, groaning as she sat up. “What time is it?”

“Almost six,” she said. “You have to get dressed. Now. We need to go out.”

There was no mistaking the urgency in Willow’s voice, cutting through Buffy’s sluggishness. “What’s wrong?” she asked, pushing back the blankets.

“Hopefully, nothing. But…it’s Giles. He ran out around midnight to get some more milk at that grocery around the corner. He wanted tea to help us stay up and work out some of the spell stuff, now that we’ve got all the ingredients. I must’ve fallen asleep or something, because the next thing I know, I’ve got a big ol’ carpet pattern on my cheek and it’s five-thirty and Giles still isn’t back.”

That was all it took. A potential threat to Giles, and Buffy was alert and ready to go.

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

William winced as he passed from the dim light of his bedroom into the brighter gleam of the hall. His head ached from where he must’ve hit it on his bedstead in his sleep, and the fact that the staff had drawn every curtain in the house on the sunniest day he could remember in recent history did nothing to alleviate his pain. It was a good thing he’d slept through breakfast; he didn’t think he could manage his mother’s post-party good mood. She’d wish to dissect the events of the evening when all he wanted was a cup of strong tea.

Revenants of his dream floated around him as he descended the stairs, the scent of Buffy’s skin still strong in his nostrils, the supple curve of her hip where he’d held her on his lap burned onto his palm. The fact that she’d taken the initiative and kissed him when he’d been desiring the same for days now didn’t shock him; when it came to Buffy Summers, there was little she could do or say that could ruffle his opinion of her. But the conclusions he’d reached during sleep, that he was in fact in love with the mysterious blonde, seemed hazier in the light of day. Could he delude himself so completely as to fancy himself enamored with a creation of his imagination? Was she merely playing Galatea to his Pygmalion?

He was lost in thought when he stepped into the dining room, going immediately to the sideboard and the pot of tea that sat there. One touch, and he knew it was empty, prompting a frown and a hurried gait to the kitchen.

“Is there no tea left over from breakfast?” he asked as soon as he stepped into the warm room.

Cook glanced up from the bread she was kneading. “There was no breakfast,” she said simply.

William’s frown deepened. “Is Mother not feeling well?”

Cook shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, sir,” she said. “Your mum’s been out since before dawn.”

“Where’d she go?”

Another shrug. “There wasn’t a note. It’s thought she must’ve had errands she forgot to tell us about.”

“Oh.” He’d turned away, lost in thought, before he added, “Thank you.”

“Will you be wanting breakfast, Master William?”

“Oh, yes. And a large pot of tea, please.”

All thoughts of Buffy were banished as William wandered back to the dining room. Mother had made no mention of tasks that needed to be completed today, and the party’s execution the night previous should’ve brought a few days of peace to her schedule. Perhaps she just wished a breath of fresh air, he thought as he settled at the table. It’s certainly a lovely enough day for it.

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

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Nathan snarled from the shelter of the cave’s mouth.

Esme tilted her face toward the rising sun, feeling the radiance through her closed lids as it burned a golden corona around her retinas. “If I have to remind you to be patient one more time,” she said evenly, not even bothering to open her eyes, “I’m going to break each and every one of the figures myself, April be damned.”

Nathan bit back the retort that sprang to his lips and whirled to disappear back into the cave, furious that the witch insisted on sitting in the morning sunrise where he couldn’t reach her. She had been gone for most of the night---finishing the preparations for the ritual, she’d said---but returned empty-handed. Now, whatever New Age meditation crap she was doing outside was doing nothing to put to rest his growing doubts about her commitment to the plan.

Today was the day. She’d said it was. Time to release April from the prison she’d been trapped in for the last century, and go back to their wonderful, decadent, malevolent life ravaging the world. Esme assured him that the Slayer and the bastard from the past that the leaves swore would fight against the ritual were taken care of, and that his love would be returned without a hitch. As much as Nathan detested having to kowtow to the witch, he knew that all he could do right then was wait until she came back into the cave. April’s liberation was only hours, even minutes away, and there was nothing that could stop their reunion now.

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

Chapter 11: Mistress of My Passion

The good news was that Buffy doubted she would ever get lost in London again. With as much walking around as she had done that day, and as many corners and alleys she had searched, she didn’t think there was a surprise this part of the city could throw at her at this point.

On the other hand, the bad news was that she was returning to the apartment empty-handed, minus a Watcher, any clue as to where he might be, and the left heel of her new sandal.

As she limped up the stairs, she pushed back the lank hair that fell across her face, wincing as a nail caught the ragged edges of the scrape that grazed her jaw. OK, so maybe storming into the demon pub around the corner demanding answers hadn’t exactly been her brightest move, but at least the ensuing fight had helped her vent some of the frustration not finding Giles had tendered throughout her muscles. It hadn’t been as kind to her shoes, since kicking at something with an exoskeleton equivalent to sheet metal was akin to Manolo Blahnik suicide, but still, the barroom brawl had served its purpose.

“Willow?” she called out when she pushed open the apartment door. The sound of rushing feet was followed by her friend’s pale face peeping into the hallway, but one look at the Slayer was all the other girl needed to answer the unspoken question that rose to her lips.

“The Council called,” she said instead. “They asked for you, and when I said you were out, they asked for Giles, and so I lied and said he was with you and that I didn’t know when you’d be back.” Willow watched as Buffy pushed her sandals off with her toes, kicking them against the wall and making half-moon impressions in the magnolia Artex. “I’m guessing you didn’t have any luck finding him either.”

Buffy’s shoulders slumped at her words. “Can I pretend you didn’t just say ‘either’?”

“None of my spells worked. Well, they might’ve worked, but they were all closed-lippy on the results. So, I tried doing the discreet calling around to hospitals and police stations to see if maybe I could find something out that way? Except, once they started asking certain questions, I started getting paranoid about the Council finding out what I was doing and I just hung up, because you know, that would be bad.” She chewed at her lip, hanging back as Buffy brushed past her into the kitchen. “Why is that bad again?”

She hadn’t told Willow about any of what had happened the previous day, not the bloody handkerchief nor Travers’ attempts to pry what he considered “certain truths” from her. Before she’d sent her friend home again that morning when it became apparent they needed to split up to cover more ground, all Buffy had said was that she still didn’t trust the Council’s involvement in the crystal theft. Willow had just left it at that.

“For all we know, they’re the ones behind it,” Buffy said, opening the refrigerator. “They may not have been happy with some of my answers to them yesterday and decided to play hardball by coming at me through Giles.” It was the only solution she was allowing herself to consider. There were other possibilities, ones that included various scenarios of torture and bloodplay, eventually ending in Giles’ death, but as she didn’t particularly like the outcome of those, Buffy was pretending they didn’t exist. Nope. Best case was to think it was just a bunch of stuffed shirts and leave it at that.

“Then why would they have called here for him?”

“Maybe they were just testing the waters. See if we’d come clean on our own.”

“And wouldn’t there be some sort of ransom note if he was just kidnapped?”

“They could be just waiting for me to crack.”

“But why would---?”

The cups in the cupboard rattled with a muffled clink when Buffy slammed the refrigerator door shut. “I don’t know!” she exploded, and then sagged against the edge of the counter. Squeezing her eyes shut, she held back the tears of helplessness that threatened to overtake her, and took in a deep breath while she waited for her muscles to fall back under her control.

“I don’t know,” she repeated after a moment, softer this time, accompanying it with a slow shake of her head. “I’m sorry I yelled, but…look, I’m tired, and the only thing I can be sure of right now is that my thinking’s about as crooked as it can get because of the sleep lackage, and that I really, really, really wish demons were a little more considerate about a girl’s footwear.”

“Maybe you should take a nap,” Willow offered. “Before we try giving it another go. Not that our go’s ever got started, but I’d really rather not call it giving it another stop, ‘cause that’s just a little too much Miss Negativity, don’t you think?”

She couldn’t fight the smile the babbling coaxed from her. “Yeah,” Buffy agreed. “A nap sounds like heaven right about now.” Her thoughts immediately drifted to William, and the sudden exit from her dream that morning. She figured it was because she’d been woken so abruptly from it, but the details of perching herself on William’s lap, of leaning in to kiss him because it had just seemed so much like the right thing to do, of the emptiness in her gut when she’d opened her eyes to see a frightened redhead instead of his understanding visage, were all still razor-sharp vivid in her head. Curling up with him would be incredible therapy for the rottenness of her day, and besides, wasn’t that why she’d made him up in the first place?

“Have you eaten anything today?” Turning to the cupboard, Willow pulled out a tube of digestives. “It’s not exactly an Oreo, but at least it’s chocolate.”

Buffy shook her head. “I’m not so large with the hunger. Although…some of your tea wouldn’t be turned down.”

She hesitated as her nails slit the wrapping on the biscuits. “You’ve been drinking a lot of that tea lately,” Willow commented slowly.

“It helps me sleep.”

“Which is good, I know, but…”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not actually giving me a hard time about a little Lipton, are you?” Buffy asked, straightening. “Because on the scale of things that are just so wrong in my life right now, I think worrying about my caffeine intake doesn’t rate quite as highly as wondering how we’re going to get Giles back, let alone how we’re going to find him in the first place.”

“No, it’s not that, I just…” But it was obvious that she didn’t know what just, and gaped at Buffy like one of the many fish she’d bought after replacing the ones Angel had killed, wide eyes made even wider by the inability to voice what was going through her head.

And it was thinking of Angel, remembering those awful months when he’d been minus his soul, that made Buffy deflate. What was happening to her? Had she degenerated so much that even Willow got the brunt of Slayer bad moodiness? “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean---.”

“I know. You’re tired. It’s OK.”

“No, it’s not.” She lifted her eyes to face off with the torn hurt she’d ravaged with her choice words, and silently apologized again as she tried to explain. “You and Giles have been trying so hard, you don’t need me taking it out on you because I’ve flopped in such huge ways in fixing this. I just…I can’t lose Giles, too. And I’m running out of ideas on how to find him. Good ideas, that is.”

“So maybe it’s time for us to start doing something with the bad ones, then.”

In spite of her mood, Buffy smiled. “Maybe,” she conceded.

“Do you really think it’s got something to do with the theft?”

“I don’t know. But it has to, right? I mean, it’s just too coincidental that he’d go missing right in the middle of us trying to find them.”

Silence. Long, and loud, and pressing into Buffy’s eyeballs until they felt like they were going to pop. She didn’t want to say it, but she could see the thoughts rolling around behind her best friend’s eyes and didn’t have any good reason other than instinct to keep arguing with her.

“If he hasn’t shown up by tomorrow morning,” she finally said quietly, “we’ll let the Council know. And if I find out they do have him, all bets are officially off.”

Willow nodded. “Is there anything you want me to do tonight?”

“Sleep. You said you’ve done all you can on the magic front?”

Another nod. “Even the divining rod won’t be ready until the morning. I finished up the prep work on it today and now it just has to kind of…simmer.”

“Maybe that’ll help us some way. If whoever took Giles is connected to the crystals, the magic stick will tell us, right?”

“Right.”

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

She didn’t have the heart to ask Willow again about the tea, and closed her bedroom door with a weary sigh. The idea that it might’ve been better if she’d never come to London in the first place was enough to make her collapse onto her mattress, her face getting buried in the thick duvet as she replayed the past forty-eight hours in her head.

This was all her fault. If she had only told Giles about what the Council had confronted her with yesterday, then maybe he wouldn’t have ventured out on his own. He might’ve been more wary about something being amiss, and she wouldn’t be lying there now, blaming herself for thinking she could handle the Council on her own.

She also had little doubt she’d be wide awake most of the night. Between guilt and her tea shortage, Buffy was certain dreams were going to be the last thing on her agenda in the next few hours.

Rolling onto her back, she caught the sight of the tray on her nightstand out of the corner of her eye. It was the remnants of her bedtime relaxant from the previous evening, and she bit her lip as she leaned forward to peer into the cup. Pale milky dregs still rested inside, its pungent odor lingering in such close proximity. She knew she was being silly, that it was just a drink and any effect it had was purely psychosomatic, but the urge to drink it down refused to be argued with.

It was cold from sitting all day, and coated her tongue in a bitter potion as Buffy swallowed it in a single gulp. Her face screwed into a grimace, her vocalization at its distaste escaping her throat before she could stop it, and then glanced guiltily at the door to see if she’d been overheard. I didn’t do anything wrong, she thought after a moment. It’s tea. It’s not like I’m some closet alcoholic or something.

Somehow, the rationalization did nothing to soothe her as she proceeded to get ready for bed. All she could wonder was whether or not she’d seen the last of William.

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

The moment she felt the sun dancing along the length of her bare arms, Buffy exhaled in relief, the worry that had sizzled through her veins when she’d finally drifted into sleep disappearing with the slight breeze that whispered her skirt around her calves. It had worked. Big yay to the power of suggestion, she thought as her feet automatically went to the path.

Her heart jumped into her throat when she saw him hunched over his papers on the bench. As had happened before, William was oblivious to her approach, lost in whatever world he was creating with his words, leaving Buffy to wonder what had inspired him this time. It amazed her how deeply he could bury himself in his work, and still be so unsure as to its validity. Granted, he’d grown in confidence in the short time since she’d started dreaming of him, but how much of that was her brain’s response to create someone who could keep up with her? Over-compensation for the cultural differences, she decided. That had to be the reason.

“Hey,” she said softly, and was rewarded by his smile when he looked up, the lithe rise of his body as he stood to greet her tugging gently somewhere in her midsection.

“You came,” William said, just as quietly. At her perplexed frown, he added, “It’s late. I’d assumed I wouldn’t see you, that...” His gaze slid to her cheek, and his joy faded. “You’ve been fighting again.”

Her hand was up, brushing over the scrape, as he dropped his quill to the bench and strode forward. “It’s nothing,” Buffy said, but allowed him to tilt her head to peer at it more closely when he stopped in front of her.

“It doesn’t appear to be nothing.” His fingers ghosted across the curve of her jaw, not daring to touch the still healing graze. “But if it doesn’t bother you, I suppose I can hardly presume to let it bother me.”

The smile that started to return to his face failed to appear when his eyes locked on hers. “There’s something else,” William said. “What’s wrong?”

Buffy’s ease lessened. “How’d you know?” she asked. “Is it that obvious?”

“I only have to look at you,” he replied. “How could I not see?”

She debated for what felt like forever before shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter here,” she said. Grabbing his hand, she led him off the path to the grass. “Let’s just enjoy the sun while we’ve got it, OK?”

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

If she focused on the clouds, watched the wisps drift like chiffon against the blue, Buffy was convinced she could feel the earth spinning beneath her, leaving her slightly giddy from the dropping sensations originating somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Only the soft trail of his fingertips along her arm, up and down and up again in a breath more comforting than if she’d been hugged tight within his embrace, kept her from falling completely, and Buffy sighed in contentment as she wiggled her bare feet through the grass.

“Have you ever wished you could fly?” she asked.

William’s lips quirked. “I don’t suppose I’ve given it much thought,” he commented, never ceasing in his strokes along her skin. Stretched out beside her, his head was propped up in his hand as he watched her instead of the sky. He hadn’t pursued his questioning once she’d pulled him down to the grass, though Buffy knew he was probably dying from curiosity. She’d also studiously avoided any mention of their last encounter. She just didn’t want to shatter the relief being in his company brought to her when this was really her only respite from the nightmare of a missing Giles.

“Big fat liar,” she teased, and though she had to fight to keep the playful tone in her voice, she jabbed at him with her elbow, her eyes never leaving the expanse overhead. “I’m going to bet you’ve written at least a dozen poems about birds. Probably comparing them to a summer’s day or something.”

“Wrong William,” he said. “Though your estimation of my endeavours is perhaps more correct than you might imagine. I find myself inspired more often than not since our first foray.”

She looked at him then, the grass tickling her cheek as she turned her head and met his steady and soothing gaze. “I wish you were real,” Buffy murmured. It was getting harder and harder to accept the dreams as the non-vital part of her life, not when being with William banished the grey from her life, made her forget for a few stolen hours how hard it was to wake up and remember the loss.

When being with William was so scarily easy.

His amusement faded, the blue behind the spectacles darkening. “And yet,” he said softly, “those are the very words I repeat to myself when I find myself bereft of your presence. Do you read my mind as well as my heart, Buffy?”

She had no answer to that, not one she could voice out loud without sounding like a crazy person. How could she admit, even to the fantasy itself, that she was falling in love with a dream? That she woke up from their rendezvous and counted the minutes until she could go back to bed and summon him back to her side? She’d risked that indulgence in her last dream, by kissing him when she knew he would never make that first move, losing herself in the possibility of them just so that she could pretend to be normal for a change.

His resemblance to anyone real didn’t matter, she’d decided. This was William. His own man, imaginary or not. And she loved being around him, loved his enthusiasm for her calling even if he didn’t understand it, loved how prized he made her feel without treating her like she was glass. The others probably wouldn’t get it, she knew. How could they? They weren’t privy to her subconscious mind. They couldn’t see the look on his face when he made promises she knew he couldn’t keep.

But Buffy saw. And part of her was terrified of her desire for this fabrication of a man. Even as another part screamed at her to make it true.

Breaking away from the solemnity of his gaze, she looked back to the cirrus floating overhead, trying to block out the sensations his gentle fingers were stirring in her thighs. “I always wanted to be Mary Poppins when I was little,” she said brightly, forcing the levity she didn’t feel. “I ruined more than one of Mom’s umbrellas trying to get caught up in the wind.”

“Buffy…”

If she tried, she could pretend that he hadn’t breathed her name, that it had just been the wind whispering in her ear. If she tried, she could pretend that he hadn’t stopped the stroking, that it wasn’t the wind that was now stirring the small hairs on her arm. If she tried…

She didn’t want to try. Trying was what she did when she was awake.

“Don’t.” Her eyes were luminous when she looked at him again, his serious countenance eclipsing the summer day surrounding them. “Can’t this just be about having fun? Ha ha, let’s have a laugh, William and Buffy sitting in a tree. We’re not supposed to be---.”

“I would very much like to kiss you again.”

The statement came out in a rush, his breath heated on her cheek even separated as they were by the many inches he insisted on maintaining. It was uncharacteristic of him, this courage to not ask but state his request, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was her influence that made him so brave, remembering the diffident young man who’d been tongue-tied at the sight of her bare calves beneath her skirt at their very first meeting. Now, just as then, the slight breeze lifted a loose curl from his forehead, revealing the slight sheen of his brow, his nerves belying the smooth baritone.

“I didn’t know dreams could be so polite,” Buffy murmured. It wasn’t no. She wanted it more than he did, she believed. She just didn’t want to be hurt again, and yielding to the phantom who haunted her sleep seemed the surest way for that to happen.

His hand returned to cup her cheek, careful of the graze along her jaw. “And I didn’t know dreams could be so radiant,” he replied.

His lips were soft when they brushed across hers, that full bottom lip she’d so often stared at sending tiny shivers glissading down her spine, and Buffy could feel the corresponding tremors in his fingers. Don’t be frightened, William, she wanted to say. I’m scared enough for the both of us. But she didn’t. Instead, she brought her hand up to cover his, holding it there while they sustained the gentle kiss, so tentative, so necessary, and felt the world fall away around her.

William’s breathing was ragged when he finally pulled back, his glasses slipping down his nose. “You must find me terribly forward,” he said, and his voice was husky with more than the simple rasp of the caress. Self-consciously, he cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’ve been wishing to do that since you disappeared from my arms last night.”

“What if I told you I’d been wishing for even more?” Buffy replied.

His eyes widened at that, and he pulled back, staring down at her in confused disbelief. “You’re not…mocking me…are you?” he stammered. “I thought…after your kiss, I assumed you…but I didn’t…I’m sincerely sorry if I’ve offended---.”

“Stop.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, and rolled onto her side to stretch next to him. The hardness of his thighs was a promise against hers, the draping of their clothes providing little relief from the desire she could feel in him. “No mocking. This is strictly a mock-free zone. Have I ever lied to you, William?” After a moment, he gave a short shake of his head. “I know I’m not exactly the go-to girl when it comes to the hearts and flowers routine, not like you, but if I didn’t want you to kiss me, trust me. I would’ve let you know.”

His manner eased at that, though his distance remained the same. “My most grievous error,” he said, his eyes almost too innocent. “How could I neglect to remember your veracity? After all, it is not as if you ever fell asleep during one of our trysts or anything.”

She colored at his teasing reminder, and slapped at his chest. “You told me you understood about that.”

“And I do.” William’s faux precision dissolved into a wide smile. “Of course, you must understand how your rather fantastic tales of monsters roaming the streets of London may taint your vows of fatigue, though my every fiber wishes to believe.”

The reminder of what she would wake to dampened Buffy’s mood, and her eyes fell from his, the doubts returning on rapacious zephyrs that widened the gap between them. “And we’re back to wishing you were real,” she sighed. “That this was real.”

His fingers tugged at her chin, forcing her to look back up. “It is real,” William assured. Belief burned in his eyes. “You give me voice as no other does. I wake, and I face the dreary day, and when I’m confronted with a situation where I fear I’ll crumble, I find myself asking…what would Buffy do? And I find strength in the answers I get. If that’s not real, then…” He shook his head, his momentary fervor fading. “And yet again, I have forgotten myself. You hardly wish to listen to me prattle on about such nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Buffy said. Without further consideration, she threw her arms around him, pressing her body to his as her mouth sought his yet again. Nothing tentative now, not even a trace of hesitancy on his part when William returned the embrace, as if he could feel the world slipping away and was as desperate as she to cling to it. It was clumsy, and when her tongue brushed against his lips, he seemed momentarily taken aback as to what to do, but it was hardly devoid of feeling, their bodies flush with desire as their hands roamed over the other’s back. He was quick to follow her lead, letting her taste the honeyed breath of the kiss while savoring in kind, and he moaned as his need threatened to overwhelm him.

She could feel the trembling in his hands, in spite of their firm hold in the small of her back, and pulled back to look up into his face. She wouldn’t normally have asked, but these weren’t normal circumstances, and William wasn’t a normal guy…

“Do you want to touch me?”

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

He wondered if she could sense the trembling in his hands, and gripped her tighter in an attempt to fend off the vibrations. As her words echoed inside his head, William found himself unable to tear his gaze away from her eyes, so startlingly solemn in light of her earlier levity. Even more than before, the certainty that something beyond the invisible walls of their haven was distressing her made his heart wrench, yet he knew that to press the issue would only serve to exacerbate Buffy’s reluctance to share. Better to let it go, lest he shatter the tenuous step forward he’d initiated.

“Yes,” he breathed in response to her question. Inwardly, he cringed. Did he sound as desperate to her as he did to himself? “But only if you want me to,” William rushed to add.

Buffy smiled. Her lips were swollen from the fervor of their last kiss, and he couldn’t help but muse on how delectable it made her appear. “Something tells me we could go back and forth like this all day,” she said, every syllable from her mouth entrancing him further. “But playing ping to your pong, while entertaining in theory, doesn’t sound nearly as appealing as maybe…doing this.”

He held his breath as her hand came up to his chest. Instead of touching him, though, her fingers began nimbly unfastening the buttons of his shirt, first one…then two…the tips of her nails where they brushed against his skin creating miniature wakes of fire that made it impossible to exhale. He was unbelievably hard, throbbing inside his trousers, and William wondered if she could tell. He imagined that she had to know; after all, their lower halves seemed almost to mold into one from being so firmly pressed together. But if she knew, surely she should be protesting in some fash---.

Except he realized the absurdity of such a supposition even before it could reach its natural conclusion. This was Buffy, and he most likely wasn’t in England during these sojourns, and she proved to him with her every word, and her every breath, and her every movement, that he couldn’t assume even the most simple of notions when it came to her. He was aroused, and he had to believe that she was more than aware of it.

And now his chest was bare, pink skin exposed to the invigorating rays of the sun, and he watched in fascination as Buffy placed her palm flat over his pounding heart. “So full of life,” she murmured, her voice so distant that he wondered where she disappeared in moments like this. There was silence, punctuated only by the distant flutter of leaves as a bird escaped from the top of a tree, and then her eyes lifted to search his. “How do you do it?”

“How do I do what?” he responded. He found his strength then, and reaching up to take her hand in his, William lifted it to his mouth, his lips dropping single kisses onto the tips of her fingers.

“Make me believe again.” It had returned---that grey ache behind her eyes that he’d tried so hard to dismiss---but now it shone with something else, a light so tenuous and fragile that he imagined a mere puff could extinguish it. “Just when I start to think that maybe I’ve messed everything up royally again, I turn around, and there you are, and I get this sudden rush of…okay-ness.” She rolled her eyes. “And I’m not making any sense at all, am I?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Other than your…creative vocabulary,” William replied, “you’re making perfect sense. The belief you professed in me…those words that I cherish so deep to my heart…you can’t expect that they’re completely one-sided, can you?” Tucking her small hand between them, he leaned forward just enough to brush his lips across hers. “You are the most amazing woman I have ever had the privilege to meet, Buffy Summers. And if I must tell you so until the day the sun refuses to rise on me, I shall.”

His words broke the bindings she’d forced around her control. With a thick sob, Buffy wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts into his bare chest as she devoured him in a kiss. It caught him off-guard, warnings of propriety tightening his muscles, but the ardor behind the embrace made it impossible for him to not respond, hands latching onto her hips with a power that surprised him.

She rolled him onto his back, following him with her body until she was sprawled across his length. Shivering from the full contact, William broke from the kiss, staring up at her flushed cheeks, feeling every little squirm of her pelvis as she ground minutely against him.

More than once, she ducked to try and re-initiate the caresses, but was stopped by his repeated return to her eyes. “What?” Buffy finally asked when he remained silent in his scrutiny. She almost seemed to fade. “I thought…don’t you…want me?”

She was already tensing to flee, and he circled his arm around her waist to root her in place before she could act on the erroneous instinct. “Always,” William said softly. With his free hand, he pushed back the hair that had fallen over her cheek, his thumb skimming her bottom lip as his fingers tangled in the thick curls. “Just as you are always telling me to listen to you, at some point, you really must start listening to me, Buffy. I gave you my vow that I shall never leave, nor do I think I shall ever stop finding you the most extraordinary creature to grace me with her presence. But…while relations with you would bring me unending joy---.”

“Make love.”

He frowned, his hand halting. “Pardon?”

“Make love,” she repeated. “That’s what it’s called back in my world.”

His face softened, his feather caress of her cheek beginning again. “Of course,” William said. “Yet, I do not think this is what you need from me right now.”

Buffy’s brows arched in amusement. “Really?” She ground against him lightly, prompting a sharp intake of breath before he tightened his grip around her. “I think we both want it.”

“I said need.” Firmly, he rolled back onto his side, forcing her to slide off and lay back on the tamped grass. “I understand you don’t wish to discuss what troubles you, and I’ll honor your wishes. But using our desires to pretend is not what you need from me.”

“And you know what I need.” Not a question. Barely audible. And though it dripped in disappointment, there was no mistaking the want to trust in him in her voice.

Gently, William bowed his head and kissed her again, closing his eyes while he gathered the strength to stand by his conviction. “You’re not alone, Buffy,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers, “though you may feel otherwise. Believing in me is all well and good, but…you’ve forgotten how to believe in yourself. Let me in so that I can show you. Just…let me love you.”

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

From her seat beyond the circle of flickering candles, Esme watched as Nathan bounced around its periphery, yellow eyes intent on the prostate form at its center. Its pale skin was marred by dozens of infinitesimal cuts, tiny slashes of crimson caused by the shards of crystal that lay scattered around and above it.

“Is she real?” he croaked as he continued to pace. “She’s not moving. Why isn’t she moving?”

“Give her time,” Esme replied.

The seconds stretched into minutes where the only sound came from Nathan’s boots crunching along the ground as he wandered around and around, waiting for the moment when the witch would grant him leave to break the magic of the circle. Finally, just when he thought maybe the spell had gone horribly wrong and he would be denied his reunion after all, the body began to move.

It unfurled with a lethargic grace only made possible from eons of immobility. Each bend of her body exposed more to the dancing moonlight---a curve here, a swell of breast there---until she stood erect, staring out into the shadows between the pair that waited.

Nathan rushed to stand in front of her, his demon face slipping away as his eyes searched her dead ones. “April?”

The uttering of her name sparked something inside her, and a slow smile curled her too-full lips. “Hello, lover,” she whispered…

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