Chapter Text
"And then you..." D'Hoffryn checks the report. "You sent this serial adulterer on an endless therapy session?"
He raises his bald eyebrow, watching Karen fidget nervously in her chair.
Again, what kind of name is that for a ruthless vengeance demon? Karen. Sounds like a weather forecaster. No style. Just as easily, the girl in front of him could have been one of their clients—a tired suburban mom whose housework is unappreciated, or an accountant at a used car dealership who is harassed by her boss every day.
Karen finally remembers that she has a mouth, and she forms it into a smile of a schoolgirl who is unsure of her answer. She explains:
"Well, yeah... You see, he will cry and reflect against his will for the rest of his days. Which will be short, because the cooler in the corner of the office will always be empty, and with so many tears, he will die of dehydration?"
D'Hoffryn sighs. It wasn't so bad. Slow torture, madness dripping drop by drop... And yet...
"But you know there's a chance he'll actually get help and break the curse or worse — will become a better person? You gave him an out."
"But it's fair, isn't it? And I'm kind of... Well... A Justice Demon..."
"Damn that rebranding! That's the trick with this new generation of girls", thinks the lower being, tugging at the tail of his beard. "All so... thoughtful. Fixated on trend for a pretty shinny proviso where there should be a simple neat curse with a deadly trap."
“Did I do something wrong?” Karen tilts her vein-covered head.
D’Hoffryn only sighs.
"No, child. You may go have lunch, I dare not detain you longer."
The girl is not altogether bad. Creative and resourceful.
But where is the fun? Where is the passion for craft in this youth? Where are the consequences for the desperate fool who made a wish? Where are the guts, open fractures, and geese devouring humans alive? Where are the elegant, powerful and proud names, after all? Fucking Karen... Being closer to the client is useful on paper, but on business cards, it's better to have a name like... Halfrek... or Anyanka.
D'Hoffryn misses the old guard.
***
"Amelia, please, can we just finish this stew and go back to the apartment, where we can talk quietly?" Rupert pleads.
Amelia, in her elegant manner of a prim English museum curator who knows she's as hot as the California sun, leans back in her chair, swinging her slender foot with dangerously sharp heel.
"No, Rupert, we will discuss everything right now!"
The man sighs, resisting the urge to reach for a handkerchief to wipe his glasses. If Amelia's furrowed brows and stubbornly pursed lips weren't putting much pressure on him, he might be able to navigate this conversation more smoothly. However, she's a smart woman, and she's learned all his avoidance tactics during the early months of their relationship.
"Don't get me wrong," she continues with icy politeness. "But I believe it's time for you to resign. There's always a honest, well-paying job at the museum, a social package and most importantly, no vampire waiters!"
Rupert winces. This isn't the first time this conversation has happened.
"Darling, I appreciate your concern, but..."
Amelia snorts impatiently.
"You're not a boy anymore, Rupert! It's not fitting for you to run around the streets chasing monsters!"
"Monsters will always be around, and we'll have to deal with it. Unless you want to just lobotomize both of us and then go out into the night to become someone's late dinner!" Giles barks, letting a little bit of the Ripper out.
Anger feels nice. He definitely less a man of action these days, with his high position in the Slayers and Watchers International Organization.
"Your girls can take care of the monsters," Amelia sniffs contemptuously. "Little Charlie's Angels are currently work like a clock, as you say... You're no longer needed there, Rupert."
The words feel like a punch.
"We could spend more time together. We could go to work together every day, and maybe I could move in with you..."
"Amelia..."
"...And I can finally explain to my friends what is that you do, because they think you're some kind of high-end pimp with all these sluts in leather pants..."
"Amelia!" Rupert slams his fist on the table. "I hate that it even came to this, but have you been recently fucked in the head?! Are you seriously jealous of my wards?"
"What am I supposed to think? You break your back for them at any time of the day or night, even though you claim that your job is purely administrative..."
"Well I'm sorry that demons and apocalypses have irregular working hours!"
"Oh demons this, demons that!"
"Yeah, may they eat you on the way out of your warm museum!"
They're yelling at the whole restaurant, but Rupert doesn't really care anymore. He gave everything to the mission, buried loved ones for the sake of the peace. He won't listen rebukes, when, thanks to his contribution, there is now a stable network of protection against the supernatural world!
Amelia had lost her sexy coolness. Leaning forward across the table, she grabs Rupert by his tie and hisses in his face.
"Very well. I wish you a wonderful life, Rupert... In which only your dear demons will fuck you now!
She just grabs her purse, when Giles hears a dreadful creak of a chair at the next table.
"Done," a low, otherworldly voice says.
A chill runs down Rupert's spine as he turns his head slowly.
She is dressed in a striped office suit with spectacularly large shoulder pads. A wild contrast to the frilly blouses and girly skirts she used to love. Her face is a mask of dead-white skin, red and blue veins. Hair is short, even darker than when he saw her the last time... But it's undoubtedly her.
"Anya?"
"Anyanka would be more accurate."
***
Buffy often thinks that her life is strange, sometimes even surreal. But this is a whole new level of strange.
"What's with the hair, buddy?" Xander teases with hypocritical amiability as Spike squeezes the water out of his curls.
The weather in Cleveland is biblically bad. Very fitting for the apocalypse and Buffy's own state of mind.
"Sod off, Harris," Spike says without malice, adjusting an axe on his shoulder.
Seriously, Buffy would be less bewildered if those two gnawed each others ears off.
"He melted his hair six months ago, trying to bleach it the old-fashioned way. It turns out that human scalp can't handle such high doses of peroxide," Faith explains in her most affectionate tone. "Had to shave it all off, and now he's growing the angelic locks that his fairy godmothers gave him."
"Fuckin' bitch..."
"Love you too, Spikey."
"Well, that sounds pretty humiliating," Xander chuckles. "And if it was only two years ago, I would have been happy to see you suffer... But now just think! Our evil old Spike is now a big wise Watcher. What a twist!"
"What a disgrace for my reputation... But at least I'm seein' some action within' confines of bleedin' mortality."
Buffy growls quietly. Two years... Two fucking years, that jerk had been avoiding her! First in Los Angeles, and then in Cleveland. With Angel and Faith, of all people, as if to hurt Buffy the most. And of course, she'd heard that he was literally the only watcher Faith had agreed to after all her strained relationships with the old Council. The most ex-vampire and the rogue slayer. A perfect fucking couple. As if he didn't once offered to kill Faith in her honor. Not that Buffy would have gone for it even then.
Spike tries unsuccessfully to light a damp cigarette.
Someone should tell him that smoking kills when you have functioning lugs. Not that Buffy cares about his ghosting ass.
"Wait until you see his glasses!" Faith's bright crimson lips curve into a smile. "He's so Wesley circa 1999!"
"Yet again, Lehane, sod off... And the glasses are only for readin'. I see perfectly well when..."
"Hush!" Buffy suddenly snaps. "Shut up, you all!"
The team stops. The rain patters on the ground. Somewhere nearby highway hums, reminding them that the world is still full of unsuspecting civilians.
But there's something else in the night... A whistle.
"Faith?"
"I heard it, B"
She feels Spike and Xander moving closer, standing on either side of their Slayers. Buffy has no time to mourn the days when Spike was covering her left shoulder.
The whistling intensifies. Eerie and tuneful, the melody of Faith by George Michael is a clear mocking.
A demon emerges from the rain.
"Miss Lehane... You brought reinforcements."
There's a hint of sneer in the demon's voice. Buffy can't see him because of the rain, but that's not necessary. They're all the same.
"I would have taken you myself, Gunther, but B wanted to dust things up a bit,— Faith says, shaking her wet hair.
"That's cute. But I also brought reinforcements."
Mok'tagar demons appear one by one from the darkness behind Gunther. A whole squad. Or rather, an army.... Or rather, how many Mok'tagar demons are there in Cleveland?! It's not even their home dimension!
"You said there was nothing to beat up for months, pet" Spike snorts, as if reading Buffy's mind.
'Well, do I have to dig them out of all the dumpsters?" Faith rolls her eyes.
"But in the reports..."
"Reports-shmeports! You're getting rusty, Billy!"
"He's about to pump it up..." Buffy grumbles.
She rushes forward. Faith and boys are right behind her, just as the demons start running towards them.
Silent and deadly, the Slayers came out of the side alleys. There are about forty of them. Some of them were personally recruited around the world by Xander for this mission specifically. Plus, some of local girls. They're all graceful, terrifying and are working together perfectly.
It's a glorious big battle. It's been a long time since Buffy's been in one like that, but it's like riding a bike. Or having sex. But considering all the humanized jerks and their outrageous cowardice, let's stick with the bike metaphor.
She wields her scythe as if it were an extension of her arm, hacking, stabbing, covering backs. No other problems bothers her at this moment, and she solves those that exist with steel.
When it's all over and the teams start checking for injuries, Buffy looks for Xander. There he is, limping to the side of the road, nothing serious, and Spike is helping...
Buffy had been beaten, impaled, strangled, thrown against walls. Killed. Her heart had been broken as lovers had walked away into the night. Nothing had ever hurt as acutely, as poisonously, as when some local Cleveland beauty had thrown her arms around Spike's neck, drawing him into a deep kiss.
A reasonable person would have decided that it was really over now. It was time to let go. But when it came to Spike, Buffy could never be reasonable. Fury rises in her chest, and she barely pays attention to anything around her until she and Xander land back in London.
***
"Giles?" Buffy barges into the Senior Watcher's apartment as usual.
Seriously, he really needs to learn to lock doors.
"Ah, yeah! Like that! Fuck me, Watcher!"
On a second thought, maybe Buffy needs to learn to knock.
At first, all she sees is a veined, distinctly demonic back and dark hair bouncing with every movement. Then Buffy sees a little more of Giles than she ever wanted to. Nothing too traumatizing, but she doesn't need to know that her old watcher has legs. Quite hairy ones. Buffy quickly turns away.
The couple is moaning, too engrossed in each other. Buffy feels a shiver run through her, a powerful wave of nausea rolling through her stomach.
"Um... Giles?" she tries, loud enough to drown out the cries of ecstasy. "Do you need help over there? Or is this some new wave of a midlife crisis?"
"Buffy?!"
There's a thud from behind, as if a body has fallen to the floor, followed by a woman's displeased scream. Buffy wisely doesn't turn around immediately.
She hears a rustling of clothes, an awkward stomping, and she thinks that maybe this is just another nightmare. One of the ones where she's naked giving a motivational speech to the Potentials, or the ones where she and Riley are living in a house with a white fence and three snotty kids.
"Um... We're decent. You can turn now," Giles mumbles awkwardly.
Giles looks overly red, and she suspects it's not just from embarrassment. His partner gives her one evil look, then dissolves into the overly thick smoke, leaving Buffy blinking in confusion.
"Buffy? Is something wrong?" finally, Giles gets into business. "Did it went well in Cleveland? Xander told me on the phone that there were no complications, but you look..."
"You have to fire Spike!" Buffy blurts out.
She immediately regrets it. It was very petty. Besides, Giles is going to demand the full story now and will conclude that she's a jealous bitch. And she's not the littlest bit jealous!
"Spike? What did Spike do? He has excellent reports, he gets along with Faith perfectly, and, frankly, he's the best demonologist of all my people. For obvious reasons."
"He's dating a slayer!"
It comes out so pathetic and whiny that Buffy might as well to stomp her foot.
Giles finds his glasses on the coffee table and starts to wipe them with the edge of his sweater.
"Buffy," his tone is fatherly, which means he damn well knows what's going on in her head. "We don't have a policy against colleagues having relationships. We don't hire old men and sixteen-year-old girls anymore. And Watchers are no longer in charge."
"Spike is one hundred and thirty!"
"Again... Not anymore. Biologically, he's not even thirty yet, dear.... And, don't take offense, but perhaps your anxiety stems from..."
"Why is everyone suddenly such a big fans of Spike?" Buffy explodes. "You wanted him dead not so long ago, but now he's got a pulse and everything's swell? Faith's doting on him as if they're an old married couple. Xander of all people invited him to mini golf! And you're giving him kudos while he's shoving his tongue down a throat of a girl Dawn's age!"
"Buffy, please calm down!"
"And I'm not even going to start on what I just saw here! For years, you've been bugging me about Angel and Spike, and now you're all about fooling around with a demon? At least I chose the hotties!"
New clouds of smoke interrupt her tirade.
"I'm very hot!" the demon declares as she emerges from the haze.
Buffy coughs, waving her hands. All those dramatic demons are really getting on her nerves recently. She looks closely. Then gasps.
"Ah... Anya?"
"Please refrain from familiarity. It's Anyanka to you."
"Um... I just saw your butt naked."
"And I heard you screaming for help. How about a little round of gossip between two old friends?"