Two Ladies of Quality
Author's Website: http://www.angelfire.com/rebellion/riani1/
Feedback: riani1@yahoo.com
It's been a quiet summer, since they defeated Glory. The quiet of waiting for the other shoe to drop. And some new shoes are heading for the floor.
Hector Nunoz Ramierez had worked hard all his life, starting in his uncle's Los Angeles landscaping business before he was quite legal to work, sweating in rich people's backyards during the day and attending school in the evening. By the time he was thirty, he was running the business, and by the time he was fifty, all his children were attending very good colleges-- only occasionally helping out with the business, just to remind them that all success is built on dirt.
At fifty-seven, when his wife died, his family convinced him that taking an interest in life again was not a betrayal of her memory. He had as much money as any one man really needed and then some, and he decided that all working twelve hours a day got you was sitting at funerals saying "I should have spent more time with my family." He cut back to a decadent six hours a day and began exploring the brave new world of hobbies.
Cars. As a young man, he'd looked at the cars in the garages of the rich folk, and he could never decide which one he would buy when he was rich. Now that he was really rich, he decided to buy them all. Some of his grandchildren enthusiastically helped, and within a few years the Ramierez Collection was being talked about in the same breath as the Harrah Collection and others.
Hector hardly slept anymore. Nighttime was a good time to catch up on his car magazines and to surf the Internet for possible new acquisitions and prices. At two a.m. on a Friday night in August, he was the only one up when he looked out his office window and saw lights on in the garage.
The alarms hadn't gone off, so he wasn't too concerned. He probably had forgotten to turn the lights off himself when he left--or one of the grandkids had come over to drool over the new California Shelby. Ricky was still trying to negotiate his way out of being banned from the garage for sneaking several buddies in to look at his grandpa's cool cars.
The garage was the reason he'd bought the house in Rancho Santa Fe, bigger than he was really comfortable with. The previous owner had been a dot-com millionaire who had spent his money just as quickly as he earned it. The collection of Porsches and motorcycles had been one of the first liquidations when the bottom fell out, but the house hadn't been far behind. As Hector approached the garage, he saw a red BMW convertible parked in the shadows to one side of the big front doors. Who did he know who drove a Beemer convertible, he wondered as he stepped through the open doors.
"All right, who's here?" he called.
The place seemed empty, except for the twenty-two cars parked down both sides of the long space. Must be one of the grandkids, then, hoping not to be caught.
"I know you're here, I saw your car outside. Who's here?"
"Evenin', mate."
He seemed to have popped up out of nowhere, the slender blond Englishman in the long black leather coat.
"Who are you?" Hector asked. He looked around again. "Who let you in here?"
Another man appeared, down by the '68 Corvette. "I'm sorry, we let ourselves in. We heard about your collection and thought we'd nip on over and have a look."
This man was English, too, and possibly a bit older than the first one. He was dressed in black as well, but more respectably than his friend.
Hector blinked at them, baffled by their casualness. "It's very late."
"We know," the second one said apologetically. "We just got in, though, and thought we could peek in without bothering anyone." The look he gave his friend was oddly challenging.
Hector looked at the garage doors. "You're lucky I apparently forgot to set the alarm, though."
The blond scratched his ear casually. "Yes, lucky, that. I must say," he added quickly, "you've got some nice cars here."
"Oh, yes, I'm quite pleased with them." Hector smiled happily at having new fellow enthusiasts to chat with. "But I swore that I'd keep the collection under two dozen, and I just spotted a 1969 Detomaso Mangusta on the Internet. I may have to sell something to make room." He looked down the line of cars. "But I'd hate to part with any of them."
The second man scanned the collection with a wistful eye. "I'd make an offer for that '62 E-Type over there, if I could."
The blond shook his head. "No, no, no, Ripper, you're the T-Bird type. The '56, over there, that's a nice set of wheels."
Hector nodded. "My late wife's favorite car." He sighed briefly at the pang of memory. "Which car is your favorite?" he asked the blond.
The man reached up and fiddled with a small gemstone that pierced the top of his right ear. "They're all some very sweet cars, mate, I'll grant you that. The Coupe Deville is very nice." He began strolling down the line. "But I have to confess that, if forced to make a choice, I'd go for this one." He stopped and rested his hand on the black hood of one of Hector's more recent acquisitions.
"Oh, the 1959 DeSoto. That's actually a very rare car."
"Yes, I know." He ran his hands over the front of the hood, smiling fondly. "The Fireflite Sportsman, in Starlight Black. That's why we picked this one, because Dru liked the name of the color. She thought she was the only one who knew the stars were actually black."
Hector glanced at the second man, wondering if he should be concerned about the other one's behavior.
The second man smiled calmly. "Where did you get the DeSoto?"
"Oh, at a police auction in a little town a couple of hours from here. I got a very good deal on it." He glanced at the car sympathetically. "The poor thing was in terrible shape, with the windows covered in spray paint and really horrible stains on the upholstery. But we've got her all fixed up and looking as good as new."
The blond man walked slowly up the driver's side, running his hand along the fender. "Looks just like she did on that carlot in Memphis, where we got her."
Hector was beginning to feel faintly nervous. "Where you . . ."
"Yep. A clean, one-owner vehicle, she was." He shrugged. "Well, clean being relative, of course."
"But you're not old enough to have bought that car new."
The smile was disturbing. "Never said anything about buying, mate." He tilted his head back thoughtfully. "The salesman was quite happy to come with us on the test drive."
The other man chuckled faintly. "Let me guess, you've been test driving it ever since?"
"In a manner of speaking." He fished in his coat pocket and pulled out a set of keys, then glanced up at Hector. "Unless you've changed the locks, mate."
Hector shook his head. "I brought in a locksmith, he made new keys. This was your car? You're the one who owned it before the police seized it?"
"Which they had no right to do, as I was being illegally detained at the time." He unlocked the driver's door and swung it open. "Well, that buggering squeak's finally gone." He slid into the driver's seat with a contented sigh. "And you've fixed that damned annoying broken spring in the seat. Thank you. Oi! Where's my stereo!"
"It--was missing when I bought it."
"Rotten coppers must have kifed it, no one else in Sunnydale would have the balls to rob my car."
Hector took a step towards the door, suddenly not very comfortable with these strange visitors. Especially not if one of them was the person responsible for some of the things the police said they'd pulled out of the DeSoto.
The second man put his hand on Hector's shoulder. "Don't leave yet, Mr. Ramierez. I'm sure Spike has other questions about what happened to his car."
Despite everything, Hector could not pull away from that hand. "Please . . . I want no trouble."
"Neither do we, sir. No trouble at all."
The DeSoto's engine turned over and caught without a problem. The blond laughed and revved it a few times before turning it off. "Sweeter than she's sounded in forty years," he said, climbing out of the car. "And a full tank of gas, too. Thank you, mate." He strolled over to join them.
Hector kept shaking his head. "Just take it . . . please. I won't even call the police."
"Of course you won't." He stopped in front of Hector, then glanced thoughtfully at his friend. "Unless you want to?"
"No, I'm fine, thank you. The girl at the club earlier was enough for me."
"Right, then." He smiled at Hector. "And because you did such a nice job on the car, this will be very quick."
Hector didn't even have a chance to finish saying "What?" before his neck was snapped and fangs were in his throat.
When Spike was finished, he let the man's body fall gently and grinned at Giles. "So, fancy a new car, do you? I bet we can find the keys to these beauties around here somewhere."
Giles looked around thoughtfully, then shook his head. "I'm really fairly fond of the BMW. The E-Type would just make people think I'm having a midlife crisis or something."
"You're a baby vampire, Ripper, you're too young to have a midlife anything."
"I am not a baby."
"Are."
"Not." He shook his head. "Just get your car and let's go."
"Right. Let me get the spray paint."
"We'll be back in Sunnydale well before dawn, don't deface that lovely car if you don't have to. We can get the windows tinted when we get home."
Spike hesitated, then shrugged. "If it's not dark enough, then I'll get the paint. Fair enough, home we go." He hopped over the body on the floor and strode back to the DeSoto, bouncing happily. "And I'm getting a stereo put back in first thing!"
"Good! You can get those damned discs of yours out of my car then."
***
Willow took another slurp of her frappachino. "So, where do all the ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties go during the summer?" She looked around the cemetery half-hopefully, half-worriedly.
"I'm not really sure." Buffy jumped to the top of the waist-high wall and strolled along as she sipped her own drink. "I don't really care, either. I like my summers off."
"Not that you had one, this year."
Buffy sighed. "Summer school, ick. It's so high school. But that's all over, and I get three whole weeks before regular school starts up again. Mom says she's going to see if she can get us some time at the beach."
"Your Mom's up to swimming? That's great."
"Well, not so much the swimming, but she's definitely up for the wading and the sun bathing." Buffy stopped and looked up at the sky, blinking hard. "She hasn't used the walker in over a week. And she only needs the cane when she's tired."
Willow reached up and squeezed her foot. "I know. Tara has nightmares every now and then, but she's in perfect shape. And Dawn's good and . . ."
Buffy nodded as she trailed off. That did rather exhaust the list of people who were good. "Have you seen Xander in the last few weeks? He returns my calls, but either no one's home when I drop by or he's ignoring me."
Willow dropped onto the top of a nearby tombstone. "I've seen him, but only because I have a key to his place. I went over there the other day and stayed there till he came home from work. At least, I think he's still going to work. When he did get home, it was way after dark, and I don't think he was putting in overtime."
Buffy sat on the wall. "What do you think he's been doing?"
"Weird guy stuff. Brooding in the dark and stuff." She bit her lip before continuing. "I think he's been drinking, Buffy."
They were silent for several minutes. "Anya's still around, right?" Buffy asked. "I--haven't been to the Magic Box much, and there's this old guy behind the counter."
"Oh, that's Simon. Anya hired him to look after the place when she's gone on, well, business."
"Vengeance demon business?"
Willow nodded glumly.
Buffy stared out at the night. Everything would seem so normal, so good for days on end, then something would remind her that her good fortune came at a damned high cost.
What Scoobie meetings that were held anymore were held at the Summers house. Buffy didn't go to the Magic Box at all if she could help it. The wrong faces were there behind the counter. Twice this summer she'd caught herself a block away from the shop, her mind on some problem and the vague refrain of "Giles will know" in the back of her head.
Xander kept begging off from meetings with excuses of being exhausted after a long day at the construction site. The one time Buffy had pushed him, he'd made an almost snide remark about how swinging a hammer all day might be just a touch more strenuous than sitting in lecture halls on campus.
She had seen Anya at the Magic Box, not long after they'd gotten home from the convent of Saint Eugene. Anya had been pleased to see that Buffy had survived relatively unscathed, but she'd avoided the subject of being a vengeance demon again and why. Buffy had noticed a bride's magazine tucked under some invoices on a shelf behind the counter, and she'd had to leave before she said something out of place. Anya's dreams were her own.
Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention.
"What is it?" Willow whispered.
"Somebody moving through the bushes over there. Stay here."
Buffy put her drink down on the wall and dropped off.
It had been a quiet summer, as usual, demonically speaking. Rather than being a source of tranquility, though, the quiet had just drawn the tension tighter. She knew what was out there.
Or, rather, who.
She knew Spike was out there. Cigarette butts kept appearing under the trees outside the house, and her mother had occasionally been rinsing out two mugs on some evenings when Buffy got home late. Once when she had been looking out her window around midnight, she'd spotted Dawn strolling down the street, *back* to the house. Buffy had been just about to run outside to give her sister some truly indignant whatfor when a familiar figure had stepped out of the shadows behind Dawn, following her down the street. When Dawn spotted him, she'd started to argue, but the finger-wagging and emphatic gestures at the night made it clear who had the stronger position. A firm pointing finger in the direction of home had sent Dawn on her sulking way. Buffy hadn't relaxed till she heard the front door close and footsteps sneak up the stairs. She'd been about to go deliver a scolding when she spotted a red glow under the tree outside. She watched for about twenty minutes until the glow disappeared.
She hadn't seen any sign of Giles. She didn't go look.
Those vampires who apparently didn't have vacation homes elsewhere were still aggressive and bloodthirsty. More of them, though, seemed to recognize her on sight, and a few had run away on seeing her. Almost as if they'd learned not to mess with a Slayer. She didn't want to think about who might be holding classes.
Three male vampires were hiding in the bushes ahead, and they were too busy with their argument to notice someone creeping up on them from downwind.
"I don't care who they are," one of them snapped. "I'm my own vamp, I do what I want."
The other two looked at each other nervously. "You're not thinking of challenging the boss, are you?" the little one said.
"Oh, the boss, big deal. Some jerk blows up out of nowhere, swaggers around, and everybody bends over for him."
The others looked out at the trees nervously. The third one, a red head, whispered, "Dude, this is Spike. William the Bloody. He's over a hundred years old. He's been in town for years."
The first one blinked a little, then shrugged. "Yeah, Spike. Tell me another one. Last I heard, Spike was a pathetic, neutered lapdog."
The other two actually cringed as they looked over their shoulders.
The braggart straightened. "Look at you two, scared of a big mouth who's playing you with a good story. The real Spike would be draping human entrails over the lamp posts, not giving lectures on people to stay away from. What your boss really is, he's a soft coward."
The little one squeaked and covered his head. Red Head shook his head in disbelief. "And the wizard," he whispered. "Ripper. You think he's soft?"
Braggart had to take a moment. "I don't know what he is. All I saw was a guy standing in the corner and watching everybody."
"He does that," Red Head said. "Watches you. And thinks. And you just hope that whenever he's done thinking that you're not anywhere around if he wants to try something out." He patted the little one on the shoulder. "Tooke here was days getting over Ripper's last experiment."
"Experiments, huh?" Braggart leered. "Is that what they're calling it nowadays?"
Tooke shook his head. "Nothing like that. And he doesn't do it for fun. He just wants to see what happens."
Red Head nodded. "I'd rather have Spike pissed at me than Ripper. Spike'd do you quick. Ripper keeps getting distracted by some neat thing about vampire healing or something." He patted Tooke's shoulder again. "Damned scientific method."
Buffy shivered, both in disgust and recognition. The very thoughtful Giles, terribly curious about how things worked. Distracted, her elbow nudged a branch.
The very faint sound was more than enough for vampire senses. All three of them glanced up and began searching the night.
Buffy debated just a moment, then shrugged. "Hi, guys!" she said brightly, stepping out into view.
"Slayer!" Tooke squeaked. He began scrambling away even before getting to his feet.
"Now, that's just rude," Buffy said. "It makes me feel unloved."
Braggart got to his feet. "Slayer, huh? But you're a skinny little thing. I could snap you over my knee."
Buffy pulled out Mr. Pointy and smiled. "You can try."
Tooke took advantage of the distraction to scramble to his feet and run for it. Red Head hesitated, then started sidling after Tooke.
"You damned coward!" Braggart yelled. "Two of us can take her! Your wussy boss is turning you all into cowards! Not fit to be called vampires! It's just one skinny girl!"
Red Head flinched, then grinned nervously at Buffy. It looked rather ridiculous on game face. "He's new in town, ma'am. Doesn't know how we do things here on the Hellmouth."
Buffy glared at him. "How do we do things here on the Hellmouth? You're a vampire, I'm a vampire Slayer. I catch you, I slay you."
"Oh, well, yeah. But there's no reason to be rude about it."
"Look, if your boss is who I think he is, rude does not begin to describe him."
"But he's earned it." Red Head nodded at Braggart. "Him, he hasn't earned it."
Braggart snarled. "I don't have to earn anything! I'm a vampire! I take!" He jumped for Buffy.
A nice, clean, straightforward fight. Vampire vs. Slayer, best being wins. Buffy found herself grinning as she ducked Braggart's first attack.
Red Head watched until the two were completely involved, then began creeping away. The new guy wasn't going to last long, and it was best to be far away when the Slayer looked around for a new target.
He was a good forty feet away when he sensed motion off to the side. One of the Slayer's cronies? He was still trying to spot the source of the movement when a crossbow bolt came out of the darkness and slammed into his heart.
The dust made pretty pattering sounds as it fell.
It was a tough enough fight that she had to pay attention, but nothing that Buffy was too worried about. The big blowhard got in one good kick to her hip, but she rolled with it and came up behind him. She got him in the heart before he could turn around, then jumped back to avoid the spreading dust.
Willow came up, carrying both drinks. "All done?"
Buffy didn't relax as she scanned the darkness. "There were two others, but they ran."
"You sound disappointed."
"If they're running around in the open, I should try to stop them. I'm not used to them being sneaky."
She shrugged and took her drink from Willow. Just as she was taking a sip, a branch in a nearby thicket snapped. She tossed the drink over her shoulder and whirled, stake ready.
"*Levo*," Willow said quickly, catching the drink midair.
Buffy walked carefully to the bushes. Before she got there, she found a pile of fresh vampire dust. She went very still, listening for all she was worth. Faintly she heard Willow's heartbeat and breathing, nearly drowned out by the rustling of her clothes. No one else around that she could tell. After a suspicious moment, she went back to Willow.
"What was it?" Willow asked.
"Dusted vampire. One I didn't do." She blinked, just noticing her drink, floating at Willow's shoulder. Willow grinned around her own straw. "You caught it."
"I've been practicing." Willow waved the floating cup over to Buffy, who sipped cautiously before accepting it as unchanged. "I'm getting so I can have two spells going at once," Willow went on excitedly. "That's really handy."
Buffy nodded, but she didn't listen that closely as they walked out of the cemetery. She ought to be searching for the mysterious vampire staker, but she wasn't sure she wanted to find out. There were a couple of people out there who might be moved to watch her back but who she didn't want to deal with.
Willow continued to chatter, but Buffy kept her attention on the landscape and tried not to feel lonely. Slayers always had Watchers, someone who knew the job, knew the choices, knew the risks. She didn't like having her friends out on the line with her, because of the dangers, but she didn't want to be alone with this job, either.
She'd talked generalities with her mother, who was surprisingly wise when it came to a job you were duty bound to perform, but she couldn't help the occasional Mom-twinge that said to get her daughter as far away from this nasty job as she could.
She missed Giles so much. His phone number was still in her wallet, and more than once she'd dialed the first six numbers and sat with her finger over the last button until the phone raspberried her and cut off.
He was a vampire. Her Watcher was dead. All the writings she'd seen were clear: the vampire is not the same as the living person, the cleanest thing to do was to kill them as quickly as possible and mourn the first death that had replaced the person with the demon.
She'd never lost someone she knew--or at least, knew well. Harmony was as mind-bogglingly shallow as a vampire as she was as a human. Buffy couldn't mourn Harmony, she was too busy shaking her head in disbelief.
She should ask Xander, he would know more how she felt, because of--oh, gosh, what was the boy's name? Jimmy? Joseph? Damn it, she was supposed to know these things.
She started to ask Willow, but Willow was still talking about magic. Buffy supposed it made sense. Tara had been saved by magic, and so much of that siege had involved Willow flinging spells around. Of course the two witches would want to study more, especially as a way to reconnect after Tara's illness. Willow had made jokes before about attending her own summer school.
She turned her attention back to the darkness, wondering who else was out there.
***
Friday night, date night. Xander walked down the hallway to Anya's apartment with a bouquet of chocolate roses. She agreed that flowers were pretty, but she had an odd quirk about having what she called plant corpses around the house. Which made odd, Anya sense.
He paused at her front door to listen for signs of her presence. They'd been trying all summer to recreate something resembling a relationship, but between the shop and the demon biz, free time was something Anya didn't have a lot of. She had been practically living with him before the trip to the convent, but after getting her old job back they'd decided some reorganization time was in order. Which was just as well: when Anya got the call that a scorned woman was looking for some payback, she headed out immediately. Xander found it less upsetting to stop by her place to find a note saying, "Off to Vladivostok, love you," then to have her teleporting out of his place on her missions of unmercy.
The stereo inside was playing something upbeat, so she was home. He knocked on the door.
"Come in if you're Xander!" came the answering call.
He paused to savor the sound of her voice. Even a whole summer later, Xander still had trouble replacing the image of Anya dying in his arms with the ongoing pictures of the perky woman bustling through her world. Perky demon. He shook his head firmly and went in.
For a couple of hours they pretended they were nothing but a devoted couple catching up on the day's news over dinner. They traded stories of the shop and of the construction site over some surprisingly good lasagna. Dessert was apple pie a la mode--Xander suspected supermarket pie meets a few seconds in the microwave for warmth, but he didn't care because it was good--and they took their plates over to the couch to catch some sitcoms on TV while they ate and leaned against each other.
The evening was about to progress to the "kissing leading to sex" part of the schedule when a puff of air moved through the room, followed by a woman's voice saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt, Anyanka! I didn't know you had a guest."
Anya sighed and straightened up from her very comfy spot on Xander's shoulder. "This isn't a guest, Halfrek, this is Xander."
The woman standing in the middle of the entryway--where she hadn't been two seconds before-- was the fluffy, pretty sort. She blinked at Xander in eager curiosity. "Oh, so *this* is Xander. He's pretty."
"Thanks," Xander said with a frown. He raised an eyebrow at Anya, who sighed.
"Halfrek, Xander Harris. Xander, Halfrek. She's a friend from work."
He grimaced. "I'm thinking you don't mean the Magic Box."
Halfrek bounced over to the couch. "No, I'm a vengeance demon, too. Hi." She held out her hand.
Xander shook her hand gently. "So, vengeance demon. Who do you venge for?"
Her smile slipped a few points. "Children. I work with kids."
He blinked in surprise. "Then how come none of my wishes as a kid came true?"
"It's--complicated." Halfrek turned back to Anya. "So, sweetie."
Anya shook her head. "I have tonight off. It's down on the schedule. D'Hoffryn himself initialed it."
"Well, that was before this guy in Paris cleaned out the bank accounts, ran off with his secretary, and left his wife and four kids homeless and bankrupt. It's a two-for-one deal. Plus--Paris!"
Anya started to look intrigued, then shook her head again very firmly. "Night off. Night off with Xander. Paris is . . ." She tossed her head. "I've seen Paris. I haven't seen Xander all week." She leaned back against his shoulder.
Halfrek sighed. "Anya, Mme. DuCharles is whipping up potions and firing up the hand of glory as we speak. The kids are holding candles at the edge of the circle and chanting. We're up, honey."
"No. Get somebody else." But the smile she gave Xander was uncertain.
Xander sighed. "Honey, if you've got to go--"
"No. It's on the schedule. If we start ignoring the schedule, then chaos has won and the bunnies are members of the board." She shuddered and dropped her head firmly onto Xander's shoulder.
Halfrek looked to the ceiling for guidance. "Look, if it's such a big deal, why don't you just bring him with us?"
Anya started to answer, paused, then looked at Xander. "Have you ever been to Paris?"
"I've been to Oxnard."
"Oxnard isn't Paris."
"No, it isn't. But Oxnard is where I've been."
"You'd like Paris," she grinned. "It's very pretty and old, and if you ignore the Frenchpeople, it's a very nice place. We could stroll along the river and listen to the music."
Xander blinked and thought about it. He'd only ever been out of the state of California once, and he hadn't quite given up his dream of traveling and seeing something of the world. The idea of strolling along a river in a romantic city hand in hand with Anya was actually pretty appealing.
Halfrek nodded at the look on his face. "Xander, yes, come along and wait in some nice little Left Bank cafe while we finish with Mme. DuCharles' wish, then you and Anya can have a wonderful time."
Anya sighed. "Yes, we should get that out of the way first. Then I wouldn't be distracted."
"So," Xander said slowly, "we'd have our romantic tour of Paris after . . ."
Anya shrugged sadly. "Can't be helped. Work before pleasure."
"And I'd wait in a cafe someplace while you and Halfrek here . . ."
"Oh, we can talk Mme. DuCharles into something quick for her husband, then we'd have most of the weekend for ourselves."
Somehow Xander didn't see himself sitting in some restaurant, calmly waiting for Anya to finish eviscerating some poor schmoe so they could have a nice little vacation.
He put on his best fake smile. "You go on, sweetie. Have fun in Paris."
Anya frowned. "But I'd rather spend time with you."
Halfrek shifted impatiently but said nothing. Anya looked at her unhappily.
Xander hugged her. "When the boss calls, we jump. Go on, you don't want the big guy pissed at you."
She pouted. "He's going to owe me big time." She leaned up to kiss him. "I'll call you when I get back."
"Sure thing. Be careful."
"Always am. Bye bye." She smiled at him, touched the amulet hanging at her neck, and was gone, Halfrek seconds behind her.
He wandered the apartment, cleaning up for lack of anything better to do on his Friday night. He even washed the dishes, though that was more for avoiding complaints about lifeforms growing in the sink when Anya got back. Which might not be for several days, now that she was out and about with a buddy. She and Halfrek gave off a Buffy/Willow vibe that suggested some serious shopping might be in order after Monsieur Schmuck was dealt with.
The emptiness of the apartment was making Xander think some unpleasant thoughts about loneliness, so he headed home, where he could at least fill the silence with country music. The blinking light on his answering machine, though, gave him hope that maybe there was evil mayhem afoot to distract him.
The voice surprised him. "Hello, Xander, this is Joyce Summers. If you're free this weekend, could I beg a large favor of you? It would involve driving and being out of town, so if you have plans, please don't worry about it. Thanks."
Roadtrip out of town, by the sound of it. Buffy's mom hadn't quite yet been cleared for the piloting of small land vessels yet, so he could understand why she was looking for a driver. Buffy was slowly becoming reliable in a town setting, but open freeways tended to encourage her to put the pedal down and trust to her Slayer reflexes when navigating heavy traffic at 80 miles per hour. Not particularly soothing for a recovering woman.
And being out of town meant being out of town when Anya was out of town. Much better than being in town thinking of Anya being out of town.
Still fairly early. He picked up the phone. Buffy answered. "Summers residence."
"Harris Chauffeur Service, someone called from this location?"
"Oh! Xander!"
He frowned. "Oh. Buffy." Granted, he hadn't had too many heart to hearts with her over the last few months, but that was no reason to sound so shocked to hear from him.
She had the grace to sound apologetic. "I'm sorry, it's just--I haven't heard from you in a while. Um, how's stuff?"
"Stuff-like. How's your stuff?"
"Similarly stuff-like. So, Mom's asking you to drive on her adventure?"
"Looks like. What's up, business trip to LA?"
That uneasy not-sound came from her again. "Um, no. She's, um--"
"Buffy . . ."
"Sorry." Why was she taking a deep breath? "Mom needs someone to drive her up to the Convent of St. Eugene. She's been collecting clothes and stuff that she thinks they need. Xander?"
Dark night, screams of pain, blood on his hands, literally and figuratively. Two mass graves.
A new voice in his ear. "Xander? Are you there?"
"Mrs. Summers, hey. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Xander. Thank you for calling me back, but you don't have to do this if you don't want to." Her voice was very understanding. Too understanding.
"No, I'm fine. I'm free this weekend, I'm happy to help."
"Xander--"
"When do you need me over there?"
Joyce was silent for a few seconds. "Nine o'clock?"
"I'll be there, nine o'clock."
"Wonderful, thank you. Buffy wants to talk to you, just a moment."
The thought of hanging up drifted past in the back of his mind, but he let the thought go.
"So," Buffy's perky voice said, "how's work and everything?"
"Work is work. I'm up for crew chief."
"Well, yay, you."
"What about you? Willow said you were doing the summer school thing."
"Yeah, just finished up a couple of day's ago."
"Did you pass?"
"Yes, I passed. I almost got an A in American history."
"Let me guess, Dawn helped you."
"If you were closer I'd bap you. And she only helped me keep the Jacksons and Johnsons straight with the presidents. She's no Giles, but she's not bad."
She caught her breath after that sentence, as if just realizing she'd used the G word. Xander knew he should comment, but his mind stayed on the mundane path.
"So what are you taking this year?" he asked.
"I've--still got a couple of things to decide on. I got a letter saying I'd have to declare a major this year, no more putting it off. I don't know what to tell them."
"Well . . ." He remembered conversations like this their senior year of high school, Buffy and Willow intently debating options for a future that seemed a whole lot broader than the one open to himself. "What's Willow say?"
"Oh, she just goes on about whether she should double major in computers and psychology or take something simple so she can spend more time with magic. Mom says I should go with history, since I spend so much time looking through old books anyway."
"Makes sense."
"Except I don't think my professors are too interested in the uprising of the Pringer Gnomes against the chaos demons."
"Probably not."
He heard her settling in comfortably, ready for a long chatter about life in Buffyland. Once upon a time these talks were the highlight of his existence, giving him entrance to the mysterious, thrilling world of girls and, especially, Buffy. He suspected, though, that she wasn't too interested in the life of a construction worker and that talking might lead to, well, *talking*. About *things*. Willow kept trying to have those kinds of talks, about how he felt and how he was dealing. He dealt, what else was he supposed to do?
And if he had nightmares that involved burying bodies that opened their eyes and asked him "Why?", how was mentioning that to anyone going to help? If hearing cars backfire gave him the shakes for half an hour, that was nobody's business but his own. And lots of people threw up when they smelled the rank, old blood of meat going bad in the back of the fridge.
"You know, Buff," he said, interrupting her description of the gross unfairness of a professor who required a paper a week in a summer school class, "if I'm taking your mother on a long drive tomorrow, I ought to get to bed."
"Oh. Yeah, you're probably right. Xander?"
"Yeah?" he asked cautiously.
She started a couple of words, then settled on, "I love you, you know."
He swallowed hard. "Love you, too, Buffy. Night."
"Night."