Chapter Text
Cleveland, November 2007
It’s snowing again.
As someone who's spent most of her life in California, Buffy Summers always gets a little excited whenever she sees white flakes begin to flutter down from the leaden clouds above. She’s lived in Cleveland for the better part of four years, but there’s still something inside her that urges her to rush to the nearest window when it snows. This is the third time it’s happened this week, certainly not unusual for the onset of another cold Ohio winter.
Buffy doesn’t need to scramble to a good weather-watching vantage point today, as she’s already sitting on her bedroom windowsill, legs outstretched along the wood, her back leaning up against the cold brick wall. The single-pane glass sends a chill into her arm, her steady breathing leaving a recurring patch of fog under her nose. She only just registers that the mug of coffee she’s been holding is stone cold; she can’t remember how long ago she made it. Placing it down, Buffy curls her legs up against her chest, hugging them closer to her. It’ll be dark soon.
Patrolling has been her only source of motivation recently, not that she’d admit that to the others. No, as long as they’re still offering newly-called Slayers a chance to come here, Buffy has a job to do. She knows that. More than knows, she feels the weight of this huge responsibility in the pit of her stomach every day. Back before Sunnydale was a smoking crater in the ground, they’d all made the decision to change the way the Slayer line works forever, activating all Potential Slayers as soon as they’re chosen. But it was Buffy’s idea in the first place. She never forgets that. She can’t.
Whatever magic Willow performed on the Slayer line, it appears to be slowing down, pretty rapidly. Willow’s working theory (which she’ll gleefully explain with a flipchart every time anyone asks) is that there was an initial surge in new Slayers right after the spell in Sunnydale, because The First had killed so many Potentials — causing a bunch of new ones to be chosen. Then, as the number of living Slayers skyrocketed and the years passed, the need for Potential Slayers waiting in the wings decreased accordingly. So instead of dozens of Potentials, now there seem to be just a few new Slayers who are Called throughout each year.
With the help of several online covens, Willow helps locate these new Slayers, and each of them is contacted, usually by Giles. They’re offered a temporary place here, in their (slightly ramshackle) operation, to gain basic training and understanding of their new powers. Then they’re free to go wherever they want. This was a policy Buffy insisted on from the early days — with so many Slayers, there’s no reason for any of them to be tied to the notion of an ancient duty; no need for anyone to sacrifice a chance of a normal life. The ones who do choose to embrace it and fight know that they’ll always have support, that they’ll never carry the burden alone.
Their base is an old school boarding house, originally built in the late 1800s. Now, it’s a fairly odd remnant of a bygone era; a detached four-story pile of bricks in amongst an industrial area that was built a hundred years later. Still, it’s private, big enough to house lots of people, and right on the water’s edge, which Buffy loves. Now, instead of a house-full of new Slayers, there’s only six staying here at the moment. And a couple of those are almost ready if they wanted to move on.
Training these fledgling Slayers is the thing that motivates Buffy the most. It used to take up all her time and energy, when there were so many of them. But for some time now, she finds it often leaves her feeling hollow, like she’s running out of purpose herself. Like for so long, she’s been doling away her entire being, piece by piece, into each new Slayer who comes along. Now she has less to give, and fewer people to give it too. Maybe that’s why she’s feeling so little like herself these days; so aimless. She doesn’t know what to do if she’s not doing this.
Patrolling gives her a few hours where she can remember what it’s like to feel her power just for herself. When it’s just her, the dark corners of Cleveland, and the demons, that’s where Buffy finds her true solace these days. It’s not that she doesn’t love her friends, her sister, the other Slayers — she does, fiercely. It’s just that they’ve all got their own stuff going on here, and they’re making future plans for their own lives…and Buffy can’t help but feel like she left all her certainty and everything that was truly hers back in a smouldering crater in southern California all those years ago. She’s happy for them, though, and proud of them. And maybe that’s enough, she tells herself.
Yeah, sure.
More snowflakes begin to cascade through the sky into the black waters of Lake Erie below her window, and Buffy watches them, allowing her eyes to lose focus and her brain to disconnect. Her trance is soon broken by the sound of crockery smashing from further within the old house, followed by a tense exchange of words too far away to make out. She closes her eyes briefly, recognising Kennedy and Bess’s voices. Those two just do not seem to be getting along.
Bess had arrived around eight months ago from some small town in Texas, and her and Kennedy had taken an instant dislike to each other. In training, Bess had proven herself to be a capable, smart Slayer, but some of her attitudes towards life had disappointed everyone, including Buffy. She’d explained to Bess, sternly, that this place was somewhere for Slayers of all backgrounds to come and train. Everybody was expected to pitch in and help around the house, and all new Slayers are equal as soon as they came through the front door. Bess had sworn she’d open her mind, make more effort. It seems Kennedy wasn’t able to move past first impressions, though, and has been going out of her way to antagonise Bess ever since. Maybe they’ll be able to deal with this themselves… Buffy muses, right before she hears the voices escalating in volume.
Sighing heavily, Buffy shifts away from her spot on the window ledge, ignoring the stiffness in her limbs. She pads across the floorboards past empty bedrooms, familiar squeaks following her steps at various points as she heads down the corridor and down four flights of stairs. Her hand skims down the old wood of the banister, polish long worn away, her pace increasing as the words of the argument become audible from the room up ahead.
“—the matter with you? Seriously?”
“Why don’t you shut the hell up, Kennedy?”
“Hey, don’t speak to her like that, you started this!”
Now Rona’s involved. Buffy tenses her jaw. This won’t end well.
"Ugh, whatever.”
Ronnie, their newest Slayer, rushes past Buffy before she can cross through the doorframe. They don’t make eye contact, and look pretty rattled. Buffy watches them leave, then continues in to find Rona and Kennedy scowling at Bess, whose arms are crossed in defiance. The countertop is a mess, full of discarded sandwich ingredients. A smashed bowl and dry Cheerios cover the floorboards between the three Slayers. All of them stop to look at Buffy, Kennedy’s scowl deepening.
“Buffy, this is too much!” Kennedy gestures at Bess.
“What’s going on?” Buffy demands, keeping her voice calm. Bess squares her jaw, staying silent.
“Bess smashed my bowl of cereal because I asked her to tidy up after herself in here.” Kennedy yells, face full of fury as she glowers at Bess. “Look at this place! She’s a pig!”
“That is not true.” Bess objects haughtily. “And it’s my box of cereal, she had no right to be eatin’ from it in the first place.”
Rona scoffs at her angrily, before looking across at Buffy. “Bess stirred all this up. Not to mention she was giving Ronnie shit again.”
Buffy tries to keep her anger from bubbling over. “So last week you’re starting trouble, now there’s yelling, you’re smashing our stuff?” Bess’s obstinate stance falters a little under Buffy’s gaze. “You will do your share of housework. You’ve been warned before, and I am not gonna warn you again. And you will respect everyone in this house. No exceptions — no more excuses. And Kennedy?” Buffy shakes her head in exasperation. “Don’t eat other people’s food!” Buffy lifts her hands, unable to keep her cool anymore. “You guys are Slayers! Listen to yourselves, for god’s sake! Clean this up and figure this out.” She turns on her heel and stalks out, hoping to find Ronnie, but there’s no trace of them.
Seething, she retreats down the corridor and nearly bumps into Xander coming out of the study.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on back there?” He asks, peering past her to the kitchen.
“Ugh, absolutely nothing.” Buffy says, rubbing the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off the dull headache that’s now pressing against the back of her eyes.
“Damn kids acting up again, huh?” He jokes, corners of his mouth curling into a grin.
“They are driving me insane.” Buffy hisses through her teeth. This spat is just the latest in a series of tetchy annoyances between the trainees recently. “What is with everyone at the moment?”
He shrugs. “Not a lot to do, winter’s coming in. Just stir crazy, I guess.” His eye twinkles knowingly at her. “But you, uh, wouldn’t know anything about that, huh?”
“OK shut up, insightful guy,” she grumbles. “I’m not stir-crazy. I’m just…” she pauses, unable to finish her sentence. Xander raises his eyebrows expectantly. She sighs, “…OK fine. Maybe we’re all a little stir-crazy. Things are slow and it’s kinda boring, there I said it. At least I’m not picking fights over cereal and dirty dishes.”
“Hey, those are the kinds of things which tip people over the edge, trust me.” He warns. “Now if you’d cough up for that maid I’ve been saying we should hire —”
“Uh-huh, well, you’re the only one living here who makes any decent money, remember?” She walks towards the living room, Xander following her in tow.
“You don’t think Giles’s new Notcher friends would chip in? Saucy french maid would certainly boost my morale —”
“‘Notcher friends’?” Buffy asks, brow furrowed as she sinks into the corner of a large, well-worn couch. All of their furniture was sourced either at thrift stores or in home clearances, so it’s all old, but solid and comfy at least.
“Oh, that’s what me and Will have been calling Giles’s secret society buddies, whoever they actually are. You know, the guys Giles so adamantly tells us are certainly Not Watchers. Not-Watchers. Notchers.” Xander clarifies, looking pleased with himself as he reclines at the other end of Buffy’s sofa.
“Ah.” Buffy nods. “And no, I suspect after buying us this place, outfitting the basement gym, those whoever-guys are probably not gonna put their hands in their pockets for your — by the way, very cliché and gross— fantasy servant girl.”
Willow walks in, eating some chips. “Uh, what are we talking about?” she asks, looking between the two of them as she sits on another couch.
“Xander’s being a creepy guy fantasising about a girl in a French maid outfit.” Buffy answers casually. “It’s boring.”
“Hey!” Xander starts, then shrugs. “No, you’re right. God, this place is so dull, even my subconscious is lame now.”
“Wasn’t it always?” Buffy asks innocently.
“Hey!” Xander says again, this time a little more outraged.
“Things have been super snore-worthy around here recently.” Willow huffs, munching away.
“Nothing about any new incoming Slayers, then?” Buffy asks, reaching her hand across hopefully, fingers making pinching motions.
Willow dutifully offers her the bag of chips. “Nothing. This has definitely been the slowest quarter so far. It’s like the new Callings are just kinda, trailing off.”
“Hmm. Well, right now, I’m fine with that. Think I’ve got just about all the Slayers I can handle in this house.” That’s a lie, but right now Buffy’s quite happy not to add any more personalities to manage coexisting. She pops a corn chip into her mouth, savouring the salty flavour. “It’s like, if one more person asks to me settle a squabble instead of teaching them how to land a kickflip, I’m gonna explode.” She looks pointedly at Willow. “And your girlfriend is at the top of my list today.”
Willow winces. “Was it her and Bess?”
“Mhm.” Buffy nods, reaching out for more chips.
“Ugh, Kennedy shouldn’t let her get under her skin. I’ll talk to her again. I think it’s a rich-kid recognising rich-kid thing.” Willow sighs.
“Speaking of you handling Slayers, don’t suppose Faith’s checked in recently?” Xander asks.
“What?” Buffy blurts. ‘Speaking of me handling Slayers?’ She can feel her cheeks warming and hopes it doesn’t show.
“As in, it’s down to you to do all the newbie training ‘cos Faith isn’t turning up anymore?” Xander says clearly, like she’s being slow. “What did you think I—”
“No, haven’t heard from her.” Buffy answers quickly.
“Well, no surprises there. It’s been what, like, a year at least since she’s been back?” Willow asks, sounding unimpressed.
“Yeah,” Buffy says quietly, looking down at her feet.
She learned a while ago to stop hoping Faith would change her mind and come back to Cleveland to be a permanent part of their operation. There was a time a couple of years ago where Faith had been here a lot. Where it had looked like this could be their joint project, Buffy and Faith together. The two of them got close, very close, and Buffy really wanted Faith to stay. Like, really wanted her to stay. And then, that night had happened, and Buffy’d ruined everything. In a heartbeat her mind casts her back. She hears the sound of Lake Erie lapping gently against the concrete wall they leaned on, the dying evening light softly illuminating Faith’s face as she tilted her head, looking deep into Buffy’s eyes, then down to her mouth —
“ — Buffy?” Xander’s voice snaps her back to the present.
“Huh?”
He smiles slightly bemusedly at her. “I just said maybe with Thanksgiving coming up, it’s a good opportunity to call her. Invite her over, show her we could still use her help, y’know, remind her we exist.”
“Right.” Buffy plasters her poker face back on. “Sure. But, I mean, Faith knows she’s always got a place here.” She feels a bubble of regret and hurt feelings, but tries to keep her voice level. “My guess is she’s stayed away from us because that’s where she wants to be.”
Across the hallway, the basement door bangs open, followed immediately by a bubble of voices and movement, and Buffy’s glad for the intrusion.
“Oh, yikes…” Willow’s eyes widen as they see Cleo and Caridad supporting Taliyah out of the basement, each with one of her arms slung around their shoulders. Taliyah’s not the newest of their recruits, but in the short time since she arrived from Nigeria, she’s certainly proven herself to be accident-prone. She’s conscious, but looking dazed, blood flowing freely from her nose.
“What happened?” Buffy asks, rushing over.
“It was not my fault!” Cleo exclaims quickly, her eyebrows raised with worry as she glances between Taliyah and Buffy, like she’s expecting a recrimination. “She messed up block routine… I-I told her, ‘guard up’!”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Caridad reassures her, shifting Taliyah’s weight before addressing Buffy. “They were practicing with quarterstaffs, Tal missed the count, got clocked pretty bad.”
“Is the nose broken?” Cleo’s normally calm, lilting voice is shrill and guilt-ridden. “Oh, la, Tal, I’m so sorry, désolé…”
Taliyah waves a hand as if to dismiss the Belgian Slayer’s apologies, whilst being lowered onto the couch by the others. Willow re-appears with an ice pack and a first aid kit, handing them to Buffy, who in turn passes them to Caridad.
“Y-you want me to —?” Caridad asks, looking unsure.
“Yep. You were leading training when an accident happens, you patch them up. Part of the job.” Buffy says, not unkindly. More recently, she’s been trying to encourage the most experienced Slayers (Rona, Caridad, and Kennedy) to take a more active role with training up the newbies. They’ve had four years working here as Slayers, and sometimes Buffy wonders if she’s coddled them too much. To their credit, all of them have been eager to step up in their own ways, but Caridad can be more squeamish than the others. This’ll be good for her, show her she can handle it.
“A-are you sure?” Caridad looks a little pale.
“You got this. Just be careful and use the sterile wipes.” Buffy instructs Caridad, before kneeling in front of Taliyah, taking a closer look at her injuries. Already her vision looks more focussed, her skin less ashen. “You’ll be okay.” Buffy tells her, patting her gently on the arm, “But rest up. No training tomorrow. I’ll come check on you later,” she promises, standing up again.
Buffy takes a beat to watch Caridad carefully tipping Taliyah’s head back, cleaning the blood from her face, instructing Cleo to grab a bowl of warm water from the kitchen. Satisfied the crisis is in hand, she nods her head to Willow and Xander to hint for them to follow her into the hallway.
She lowers her voice so they can’t be overheard. “Can you guys just make sure Cari does alright with this? Let her take the lead, but call me if…if she can’t.”
Willow and Xander nod solemnly. Two more Slayers who survived Sunnydale had originally come with them out to Cleveland. It’s been nearly three years since the Sj’ikra demon cult had attempted to open this Hellmouth; three years since the fight which took the lives of Chao-Ahn and Violet. Chao-Ahn’s death was quick, mercifully. She didn’t even see the demon swordsman who decapitated her in one swift strike. But Caridad had tried to carry Vi out of danger after she’d been wounded. Too late, she could only watch as Vi bled to death in her arms. The group had stopped the demons, then taken their time grieving for their fallen dead. The two cherry saplings they planted for Chao-Ahn and Vi behind the house are several feet tall now, and flower beautifully in spring. But in that battle, Caridad lost most of the confidence and strength she’d gained in Sunnydale.
“You gonna be long?” Xander asks quietly as Buffy grabs her coat and shrugs it on her shoulders. “It’s pretty cold out there.”
“No, I just…I gotta get some air. I’ll do a quick sweep. Must be something out there I can smoosh. I’ll pick up some more chips on the way home.” She says, trying to make light of how much she suddenly feels the need to get out of this house.
* * *
The delicate flurries from earlier have turned into a snowstorm, and Buffy knows this patrol is going to be fruitless. Any vamp with sense wouldn’t bother coming out to try and find prey tonight; Buffy has only seen a couple of other people since she left the house. Still, she shrugs her neck deeper into the plush hood of her insulated jacket, tucking her chin behind the zip and continues to walk. The cold stinging her cheekbones feels like a blessing; a tangible discomfort which she knows she’ll be able to find relief from later. A solvable problem.
She finds herself following an ancient, disused railway line. There are so many of these around the Cleveland area, and they provide some kind of guideline for her otherwise aimless wander. Eventually, the wind drops, and the snow becomes more gentle. She pulls down her hood, and instantly recognises a heavy, familiar sensation at her back. She’s being watched. She doesn’t slow her pace, careful not to make any indication that she’s realised anything’s amiss. She peels away from the tracks, heading towards some quiet side streets.
Her enhanced hearing can only detect her own footprints, light as they are, crunching the fresh layer of powdered snow on the ground. Which means whatever’s following her isn’t human. Eventually, she tires of playing ‘mouse’, and stops walking.
“And I was thinking I wouldn’t find a vampire stupid enough to go out in this weather. But lucky me!” She turns to face the ‘cat’. “Here —”
“— you are…”
Apart from his trademark black jacket, edges slowly flapping in the gentle gust of wind pushing down the alley, Angel’s hardly dressed for Cleveland weather. Everyone else has winter jackets, scarves, gloves and the like. In black jeans, a loosely buttoned maroon shirt under his jacket, he looks like he’s just stepped out of his L.A. office. As such, he stands out like a sore thumb. He lingers about twenty feet from her, with that same sombre expression he always wears in her memories.
“Hey, Buffy.”
Even now, she still gets a rush of adrenaline when she sees him. She used to interpret it as a sign of love, but now she sees it for what it is: fight or flight instinct. She shakes it off.
“Been a while, sorry about that…” Angel murmurs, pacing closer.
“Yeah, well, I’m sure being CEO of Hell Incorporated keeps you kinda busy.” Buffy throws back, seeing her words cause his eyes to flicker narrower.
When it comes to Angel, Buffy believes that he, personally, would never hurt her. When it comes to Wolfram and Hart, however, Buffy will never trust them or their greater purposes. Angel has headed up the whole operation for a while now, looking after clients who are unspeakably evil. The law firm haven’t interfered in the Slayers’ business yet, but everyone in their Cleveland camp knows that, by extension, Angel can no longer be trusted. Buffy’s always felt a little personally betrayed by his decision to involve himself so heavily with the enemy. He made so many sacrifices to keep his soul…then ended up selling it to the devil anyway.
He pauses, studying her face, eventually offering, “How are you?”
“Cold.” She snaps.
“Right.” He squares his jaw at her frosty response. “I have some news. Don’t have all the details, but I suspect you’re gonna be interested.”
Buffy lets out a dry huff of laughter, sending a little cloud into the snow. “Can you never just call ahead?”
“Didn’t realise I needed to…” Angel’s words don’t stir the soft snowfall in front of his face.
She knows she’s being harsh, but honestly, him ambushing her out of nowhere feels pretty unwelcome tonight. She sighs, crossing her arms.
Angel clears his throat. “We’re getting reports — intelligence. Vampires are moving north, en masse. Something’s happening. ”
“OK?” Buffy responds, confused.
“The firm has several freighter vessels. Intercontinental shipping, that sort of thing. We had a container ship go missing.” He pauses, as if waiting for Buffy to respond. She just raises an eyebrow, prompting him to continue. “That doesn’t just happen. These things are massive, tracked by satellite, or should be, anyway. It turned up six weeks too late, on the wrong side of the world. Onboard crew all dead, or unaccounted for. Looked like there’d been a massacre.”
Buffy’s brow furrows. “And you think vampires?”
He nods. “Another company came to us for our services, saying the same thing had happened to one of their vessels. They paid us to keep it all on the downlow, of course. And there’s more, here,” He moves closer, pulling a large brown folder out of his jacket. He hands it to Buffy, who starts flipping through the contents. Reports and interview statements, all neatly typed up on headed paper; various stories of bodies or disappearances across many major European railway networks. Some grainy photographs from nighttime CCTV, showing gangs of ‘people’ surging onto trains, tearing through anyone in their way. Various NDAs between Wolfram and Hart and major news channels, of course.
“Any ideas why vampires would be moving like this?” She asks.
“Some.” His expression darkens, he seems reluctant to continue. “I’ve been…approached recently.”
“I’m guessing not by Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
“Order of Aurelius.”
Buffy’s blood runs cold. She’s not heard that name since….“The Master —?”
“He’s dead, Buffy. His resurrection is impossible without the bones, which you destroyed.” Angel reassures her, looking like he wants to reach out to her. He doesn’t. “The Order existed long before him, and although I thought they’d disbanded, their ambitions always went way beyond following the Master. Besides, I got the impression his reputation with them was permanently besmirched when he let a young Slayer kill him.” He gives her a small smile.
Buffy pulls herself together, ignoring the pale, batlike face leering in her memories. “You say the Order approached you?”
“Yes. Well, the two of us were asked for a meeting. Said it was time we embraced our lineage.” He makes a face of distaste.
The two of us. Buffy hasn’t seen Spike for four years, since she found out he was mysteriously back from the dead in L.A. She’d been furious at him and Angel for trying to keep that a secret from her, but their eventual reunion was painful, and didn’t bring either of them anything good. Being back, working onside with Angel, it only took the shine from Spike’s heroic sacrifice in Sunnydale, and gave both him and Buffy the opportunity to realise just how hollow her final declaration of love to him had been. Spike had been such a huge, complicated chapter in Buffy’s life, but that chapter was well and truly over.
Angel continues, “I told them if they set foot in my office I’d have them dismembered. But I doubt it’s a coincidence they reached out during all this.”
“Well, now they know you’re not interested, we can’t use you.” Buffy sighs, then grimaces at her poor choice of words. “Sorry. I just meant —”
“I know what you meant. Chances are they would probably have killed me anyway. I think my reputation with them also got permanently besmirched when I fell in love with a young Slayer…”
Buffy looks away. That really isn’t what she wants to be talking about right now. “Sure you and Spike weren’t tempted to rejoin your old gang?” Her words have the desired effect, and Angel’s stance stiffens defensively.
“They were never our — listen, if vampires are gathering on this scale, globally, there must be a reason. I’ve got people I trust looking into it, but the Slayer, Slayers, need to find out where they’re going and why. Fast.” His voice has an edge to it that wasn’t there before.
Buffy nods, her mouth set in a line. “Lemme guess, you’re not sticking around to be a part of that?”
He looks uncomfortable. “You know I can’t.”
“Right. Your clients and shareholders would probably feel pretty unhappy knowing you’re actually helping the side of good, for a change.”
“It’s just appearances.” he mumbles. “I have to look like I’m maintaining neutrality…”
They’ve had this argument enough times before for Buffy to know where it’s going. It’s not neutrality, is it? Your clients do evil things. They worship evil things. You protect them and help them. You and Spike. Both of you, who went so far to do good. Now you sit together, working on behalf of the things I’m trying to stop.
Tonight, of all nights, she cannot get into this again. She nods, gesturing to the file. “Well, thank you for this, at least. I’ll take it back to the gang and see what we can dig up.” There’s an awkward silence.
“Buffy —” Angel starts, in that tone in his voice Buffy remembers so well.
“Angel.” She interrupts, gently but firmly stopping him. “Take care of yourself. ”
He holds her gaze for a moment, before nodding his understanding. “You too.”
Buffy turns and walks away back in the direction of the house, pulling her hood up against the breeze, whistling through overhead power cables as it picks up speed again. She knows, without looking back, that he’s already gone.
* * *
“Ooh, here’s something!”
Dawn’s voice is far too chipper for someone tasked with looking into recent reports of murders on railways. Buffy blinks herself back into the room, reaching to take another swig from her coffee.
Dawn leans over the big oak table in Giles’s office to pass Buffy a printout. There’s so much information on the page, mostly numbers and words in different languages. Buffy makes a “huh?” type noise, prompting Dawn to grab the paper back with a huff, circle a point in pink highlighter, then thrust it back at her. “See? This passenger roster is incomplete. This overnight service never arrived in Hamberg like it was supposed to.” She looks at Buffy like this should mean something to her. “That’s the second time that’s happened on that line in one month!”
“Same thing happened on this night train to Helsinki. Although there was some debate as to whether it ever left St Petersburg, the Russian accounts are — ouch — sketchy at best.” Giles muses, grunting in mild discomfort as he reaches across to select an article from a mountain of newspaper clippings and print-outs. His movement is hampered by his right leg, propped up on a chair opposite him. The solid cast needs to stay on for at least another four weeks, much to his dismay. As he tells anyone who’ll listen, it’s not the fact he broke his leg that annoys him; it’s the fact he did it slipping on an icy pavement on his way to buy groceries, rather than battling demons or averting an apocalypse.
“Why isn’t any of this being reported?” Kennedy asks, frowning. “This marina in Gothenburg had a whole bunch of private vessels stolen in one night.”
“Well, honey, they are being reported, kinda.” Willow answers, her eyes glued to the screen of her laptop.
“Hence the gigantic-ass pile of reports.” Rona adds dryly.
“It’s just that to most people, these things are all unrelated, and they’re all across different countries, so it’s unlikely anyone would look to connect them.” Willow continues.
“So, looks like Angel was telling the truth. Huh.” Xander grumbles. “Still very much the bringer of glad tidings, that guy.”
“Okay, so we know vampires are heading north. But to where?” Buffy asks, frustrated. “I mean, north is a pretty big place.”
“No location springs to my mind that would be of significance. There certainly aren’t any Hellmouths further north than us.” Giles shrugs, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
“Anything on the Order of Aurelius?” Buffy asks Xander hopefully, who’s been pouring through a few leather-bound books.
“Nothing that stands out from what we already knew. Blah, blah, ancient vamp cult, worshipped the Old Ones, yawn, waiting for them to return and rid the world of pesky humans, blah blah blah.” He shuts one of the books with a slapping noise. “Bupkis in here about their penchant for stealing boats or hijacking trains.”
“I have asked my contacts if they can shed any light but, well, they aren’t always exactly punctual getting back to me.” Giles offers. “We’ll keep tracking these events. Once we can see a pattern, we may be able to predict where they’re headed.”
“And I’ve just started a thread on iGaia, so if anyone knows anything, we’ll know it soon too.” Willow smiles thinly at Buffy. Her connections to numerous online covens have been infinitely helpful over the last few years.
“Thanks, you guys.” Buffy manages, although she’s feeling frustrated at their lack of insight. She’s always hated this stage of the research process. A few crumbs of half-information only serves to make her feel even more uninformed than she was before she knew any of this.
"Ooh, speaking of, Will —” Kennedy gives Willow a pointed look, indicating the clock on the old mantlepiece.
“Shoot, thanks, I gotta go!” Willow stands, before giving Kennedy a quick peck on the cheek and gathering her belongings. “See you in a few hours!”
Everyone bids Willow farewell before she heads off to her weekly M.A.A meeting: Magic Addicts Anonymous. One of the unexpected benefits of living on an active Hellmouth; Willow’s found a group of likeminded magic-users, including a support group for those recovering from addiction. Although, (she confided to Buffy) she hasn’t told her group the full extent of just how close she came to ending the world.
“Bye!” Buffy’s surprised to see Dawn getting ready to leave too.
“Wait, bye?” She asks her sister. “You just got back. Thought maybe you could have dinner here with us tonight…”
Dawn looks a little sheepish. “I, uh, already agreed to have dinner with David and his mom. She’s making stroganoff!”
“Oh.” Buffy tries not to let the sting of hurt feelings show in her voice. She’s happy that Dawn’s getting on with her boyfriend’s family so well, of course. They’ve been dating for almost a year, and he seems like a good, normal, non-evil guy. Buffy just wishes Dawn was home more than a couple of times a week. “Will you be back tomorrow?”
"Um, no, sorry…there’s a band we like playing in Pittsburgh, David’s gonna drive us down…” Dawn trails off. “I could cancel? If you need me here for this?” she offers, not very enthusiastically.
“Nah. We’re not gonna make much headway until we know more. Go have fun.” Buffy does her best to plaster a smile on her face. “And tell David I say hi? He hasn’t been around for ages.”
“Well, yeah, ‘cos the house full of near-adult “foster kids” who regularly fight each other with weapons in the basement! Not the sanest home life to explain.” Dawn raises a good point. “It’s just easier for me to go there, Buffy. Sorry.”
After Dawn’s said her goodbyes, Buffy volunteers to go make a fresh pot of coffee, in the hopes that dousing their brains with yet more caffeine will somehow produce answers. She trudges towards the kitchen, dragging her slippers across threadbare rugs, stretching out her neck. As she walks, she hears soft laughter ahead of her. She walks into the kitchen to find Ronnie and Ebba, sitting pretty close together at the large dining table. They look like they’ve just shared a private joke, leaning their foreheads towards each other. Buffy thinks it’s the first time she’s seen Ronnie really smile since they’ve been here. Both of them clam up awkwardly when they see Buffy. Ronnie almost jumps backwards out of their chair, knocking their elbow loudly against the table in the process.
“Sorry…” Buffy mumbles, feeling guilty for interrupting whatever moment she’s just walked in on. “Just getting coffee…”
“It’s no problem!” Ebba breezes, in the effortlessly reassuring way she seems to command. Since the day she arrived in the house two years ago, she very quickly became popular with everyone. She’s someone who always seems happy to talk and listen, and always has something positive to say in a way that feels genuine. Her smile is infectious, and her physical strength and size makes her a strong fighter to boot. Buffy’s not allowed to have favourites, she knows that, but Ebba’s definitely up there. Seeing her growing closer to Ronnie has only given her more points in Buffy’s book. “How’s it all going in there?” she inquires brightly.
“Hmm, fantastic.” Buffy says dryly, preparing the coffee pot. “Apart from the complete lack of progress.” She leans against the countertop with a sigh. “How about you two?”
Ronnie’s freckled face flushes almost as brightly as their shock of bright red hair. Ebba just grins, “Well, we’re good — but I need to go phone my parents,” she checks her watch, shaking her head fondly. “They always start going a little crazy this time of year, I have to keep checking in on them.”
“What’s this time of year?” Buffy asks, savouring the smell of freshly brewed coffee as she pours herself a mug.
“Ah, Skammdegi is beginning,” Ebba answers, stretching up to her height (nearly six feet) as she stands, laying a hand briefly on the back of Ronnie’s chair. Upon seeing Buffy’s confused face, she clarifies, “The start of the long winter back in Iceland. People, families, they stick together more when the days get shorter.”
“Must be hard for them, you being so far away.” Buffy wonders sympathetically.
Ebba bobs her head. “Yes, maybe, but they know I am where I want to be, so they are happy for me.” Her phone starts ringing in her pocket. “Ah, there they are. Like clockwork!” She answers the phone as she walks away, already chatting animatedly in Icelandic.
Left alone with Ronnie, Buffy wants to take the opportunity to reach out to them. “I also know how hard it is when you don’t have anybody calling to check in on you,” she offers gently. Ronnie’s home life had been far from happy or stable back in Oregon. The way Giles tells it, their father had only objected to them going to Cleveland with a complete stranger on the grounds that with them gone, there’d be nobody to earn him beer money. Apparently Ronnie already had a bag packed, stashed away under their bed. They’d been ready to escape for years.
“S’OK.” Ronnie shrugs. After a long silence, they add in a quiet voice, “I do like it here, y’know.” Obviously Buffy hasn’t been all that subtle in her worrying about Ronnie.
“Yeah?” Buffy’s pleasantly surprised. “You, uh, don’t give a lot away. Plus I know Bess has been…challenging for all of us. But probably you the most.”
“She’s just an idiot.” Ronnie sounds dismissive. “That’s all.”
“Right.” Buffy nods. “But I’ve told her she needs to fix her attitude. She’s on thin ice, and she knows it. I just want you to know I’ve got your back. I’m not gonna let her, or anyone, make life hard for you here. Okay?” Buffy tries to convey how earnestly she means that when Ronnie peeks up at her. The young Slayer gives a tiny nod, and an even tinier smile, “Maybe we oughta try a little…Skammdinger…or whatever Ebba said. Pulling everyone together at the start of this long winter thing, right?”
Ronnie shakes their head. “Right, but we don’t have that. You have to be somewhere with a high latitude.”
“OK, you’ve lost me.” Buffy frowns. “We are going into winter. I know because I got snow inside my boots again today.” She feels dumb. “Is this a geography thing? ‘Cos, I had Mrs Peterson back in High School for that and she was the most boring —"
“Long winter. That’s what Eb called it.” Ronnie looks at Buffy with a raised eyebrow. “You know, Iceland has the whole ‘Midnight Sun’ thing in summer? Well in winter, they get the opposite. Polar Night — sun never properly rises. People can go kinda crazy for a month without sunlight.”
“Oh.” Buffy nods.
Then a penny the size of Ohio drops in Buffy’s head. Ronnie looks concerned.
“Oh…” Buffy says again. “Ronnie, that’s — thank you!”
“Uh, no problem?”
Buffy hurries back towards the others, bursting back into the office, startling Xander awake from where he was dozing on top of the book he’s supposed to be reading. Kennedy, Rona and Giles look at her questioningly. “Was there no coffee…?” Giles asks vaguely.
“Polar Night!” Buffy blurts out, ignoring him. When nobody responds, she continues, “Midnight Sun? Skimdeggey!?”
“Is this some Sunnydale in-joke thing?” Rona asks Xander.
He shakes his head. “No, no. Buffy’s finally lost it.” He raises his eyebrows, smiling as though talking to a child. “Hey Buffster, what’cha talkin’ about?”
Frustrated, Buffy gesticulates at the map in the centre of the table. “Ebba said in Iceland right now it’s the start of this thing called long winter — where the sun never really rises. Right when vamps the world over are heading north. Sounds a little coincidental, doesn’t it?”
“Hmm,” Giles adjusts his glasses, looking down at the map again, “Well, that’s actually a bit of a misnomer, I believe…” He trails off as he grazes the surface of the map with his finger, looking for something.
“Sooo…?” Buffy prompts, frustrated. “You’re saying Polar Night isn’t a real thing?”
“Oh, it is. And it has many different names, depending on where you are. But specifically in Iceland, the sun does in fact rise just over the horizon for a few hours each day. No, you have to go much further north to experience true Polar Night, twenty four hours without direct sunrise.” Giles points at a large line on the map. “You have to be within the Arctic Circle.”
“These places, how long are we talking no sunrise? Like, days?” Kennedy asks.
“Well, it would depend on exactly where you are, but I believe some areas go for over two months without the sun ever climbing over the horizon.”
“Two months?” Rona echoes, eyes wide.
“OK, well, I’ll bet the farm that wherever all these vamps are heading for, it’s in the Arctic Circle.” Buffy places her hands on her hips, triumphant.
Giles doesn’t share her enthusiasm, in fact, he seems decidedly rattled. “The implications of a horde of vampires moving north, to take advantage of an absence of daylight…it’s an opportunity for extreme carnage, of course.” He shakes his head, like he’s not convinced. “But why now, why haven’t they done this before? This long winter happens every year.”
“There has to be more to it, then.” Xander figures. “Maybe this year someone’s set up a stage, got some undead bands on the roster. Like Vampstock!”
Giles ignores him entirely. “We need to find out exactly where they’re headed. Focus our efforts — keep looking at news reports, folk legends, whatever stands out, only in places with latitudes further than sixty-six degrees north.”
“Aye aye, Captain…” Kennedy drawls, heading to sit at Willow’s computer, switching the monitor back on.
“Surely this narrows it down a little though?” Buffy asks hopefully, taking Giles’s arm as he struggles to stand out of his chair. She hands him his crutches from where they rest against the table.
“Some, perhaps.” He grunts in discomfort, then exhales as he bears his weight on the crutches. “But really, unless we find more leads soon, I’m not sure what else to suggest.” He hobbles into the hallway, Buffy following him.
She has a gnawing concern, which she voices a little ashamedly. “Do you think I should’ve asked Angel — Wolfram and Hart —”
“No.” Giles interrupts her, gently. “You know my opinion regarding…that place.” He’s holding himself back, but his expression has darkened the way it always does when they talk about the law firm. “You — we — have worked hard to maintain a professional distance between us and them. The fact that they keep reaching out, well, it only serves to confirm that they’re keen to have us in their pockets. We must refuse their involvement, despite how tempting it might be to ask for it.”
“I know, you’re right.” Buffy nods. “It’s just, Angel’s info was good, and I know he wanted to help.”
“I believe he probably does, yes.” Giles raises his eyebrows. “His personal agenda may not match the firm’s. But ultimately, whatever he might have convinced himself, they hold the power. Not him.”
“Yeah.” Buffy drops her eyes to the carpet. This will always feel weird. She tries to shake this discomfort. “Anyway, have you done your exercises today?” she asks Giles, putting on an air of faux-discipline. “You’re never getting out of that cast if you don’t keep up with your physio, mister.”
Giles sighs. “Yes, of course, I’d never dream of missing out on my daily dose of swinging myself up and down the corridors by my armpits.”
Buffy smiles, walking slowly alongside him in support as he practices moving around the house on his double crutches, the occasional soft curse slipping from his gritted teeth.
* * *
The water is dark as night, roiling and tumultuous, even though there’s no wind to stir up such waves. She stands at the edge of an unfamiliar rocky shore, pebbles and stones poking uncomfortably at her bare feet. She watches the black sea lap closer and closer to her toes, knowing something awful will happen if she lets the water touch her skin — but she doesn’t step backwards.
A deep, rumbling sound makes her look up again. The sky fades from deep cobalt, to indigo, then finally into a steely charcoal grey. There are no stars, no sun, nor any point to indicate where it might be hiding just beyond the horizon. She squints her eyes to focus on a shape approaching from the distance. The rumble goes sub-sonic, filling her ears and vibrating her flesh, reaching inside her to grab at and shake her heart, lungs, kidneys, spleen, her viscera.
There’s a glittering sheen from this object as it approaches, drawing closer and rising out of the deep. It’s huge, looming, but Buffy can’t seem to identify anything about it other than its jagged edges; flat, reflective surfaces, and the overwhelming sense of dread gripping her heart. In horror she watches a jerking, dragging movement writhing around inside it, like the old science videos from high school showing footage of shark embryos developing within a mermaid’s purse. Through the waves the huge object moves slowly, the accompanying rumble now carrying indecipherable, overlapping whispers to her ears.
With a gasp, she feels an icy sensation on her toes. The water has reached her feet. She looks down to see it’s no longer trickling clear over the shingles, but leaving an oily, viscous trail across everything. She tries to pull her feet up and step back, but she knows it’s too late. She’s stuck there.
All the while the thing draws nearer, carrying its coiled, twitching contents towards Buffy. The noise filling her head is so unbearable and overwhelming, she can’t even hear her own scream as it tears from her lungs. Instead, she hears only three words whispered from every direction at once.
“For the dark!”
* * *
The next morning, when Willow calls Buffy into the dining room to tell her she’s found something, Buffy already has a feeling she knows what it is. It had taken her a good fifteen minutes after waking in a panic to stop herself from shaking, but she can still hear the breathless voices from her dream ringing in her ears. She stays quiet, letting Willow finish animatedly reading the post she found on some conspiracy website.
“— and it’s not even like this is just being covered in Norwegian news that hasn’t made it over here; it’s not being reported anywhere,” she beams, glancing back at the screen. “I mean, if you wanna make something super conspicuous, that’s how to do it…”
“Unless it’s not being covered because it’s not really happening,” Xander scoffs. “Not to burst your bubble, Will, but isn’t this website run entirely by tinfoil hat people?”
“No!” Willow frowns. “Well, yes…” she ignores some sighs of disappointment and raised eyebrows. Everyone in the house is now aware of what’s being researched, and the Slayers have developed varying levels of disinterest. “…but some of the posts do directly refer to otherworldly phenomenon, so don’t be all, pooh-poohing about it!” Xander raises his hands in surrender.
“So, what was this blurry-ass photo supposed to be exactly?” Rona leans over Willow’s shoulder to squint at the screen again.
“We don’t exactly know. It was taken by some environmentalists working off the coast of Norway on their way to Svalbard. They’re saying it looks like an offshore excavation taking place illegally, work only happening at night using floodlights…all these small vessels, hooked up with lines connected to something in the water…”
She clicks the mouse, then scrolls further down the page, reading aloud. “Onlookers described a huge piece of ice having surfaced in the middle of the boats, subject to a significant amount of scrutiny.”
“They found ice? Near the North Pole?” Bess says, clearly unimpressed. “Who’d’a thunk.”
Willow continues reading, “…Considering the scale of this operation, the tools they employ, and the veil of secrecy under which they operate, this writer believes this to be a potential discovery of a complete set of remains, perhaps neolithic, or possibly older still.”
“So what, we’re talking Jurassic Park on ice here?” Caridad asks, wide-eyed. “If this is linked to the vampires moving north, why the hell would they be so interested in some frozen dinosaur?”
Buffy’s been feeling a chill creeping up the back of her neck since she woke up. Before her eyes she watches that chill take hold of Willow, Xander and Giles, as the same bells ring in their minds.
“Wait…dinosaur carcass…” Xander murmurs to himself.
“Because it’s not a dinosaur.” Buffy supplies, feeling numb. “It’s a demon.”
The room falls silent for a beat. “Buffy, we don’t know that any of this is true.” Xander says quietly, his eyes searching for hers. “This could all be just, y’know, internet bologna,”
“It’s true. I…” Buffy falters, glancing to Giles. “Last night, I dreamed about it.”
“You dreamed about a dead demon popsicle?” Kennedy asks. Willow gently lays a hand on her arm, and Kennedy quietens.
“Good lord,” Giles breathes, blinking as he removes his glasses. “Buffy, you think this dream was prophetic? You haven’t had one of those in years.”
“I don’t think it.” She answers surely. “I felt it. I know it.” She looks at Kennedy. “And it’s not dead.”
“You say this vampire cult, Order of Aurelius, they worshipped the “old ones”? Big scary demons?” Cleo asks uncertainly. “You think they finally found one?”
Buffy nods, taking a deep breath, drawing herself to stand a little taller to address the younger Slayers. “Some of you have been with me a while, some of you, not so long. But I’m sure all of you know that in our line of work, we don’t get to believe in coincidences.” She begins to feel the flicker of strength and electricity fill her body that comes with a renewed sense of purpose. “This is their play, it has to be.” A plan begins to form in her head.
“Xander, call Dawn home. We need to find out everything — and I mean, everything there is to know — about the Old Ones, these demons the Order worship. Stories of any of them being frozen, banished north, whatever. We need to know what this demon is and what the Order are gonna try to do to wake it up.”
“Willow — I need you to reach out again online. Bring the covens in, but only talk to people you trust. The Order wants to keep this secret, and we can’t risk them knowing we’re onto them, not when we have so little to go on.”
“Kennedy, Rona, Caridad; you’re leading training today. I want everyone running drills, going over the basics. Hand to hand, stake-only work. We need everyone sharp, because you’re gonna hit the streets. I want you in two teams out tonight, hitting the demon bars and shaking down any local bloodsuckers for information. Someone’s gotta know something.”
“And Giles?” Finally she looks to her Watcher, whose eyes are twinkling with something that might be pride. “You and I are on logistics.”
“Logistics?”
“I need you to call whatever very secret, hopefully very rich ex-Council friends you have.” In spite of the uncertainty of what’s ahead and the lingering fear in her gut, Buffy feels a small smile forming on her face. “‘Cos we’re gonna need some plane tickets.”
* * *
A little over forty-eight hours later, Buffy leans her head against the off-white plastic plane wall and wills herself to relax. They’ve recently taken off from Chicago, starting the second (and by far the longest) leg of the journey to Norway. It’ll be nearly nine hours before they get to Oslo, where they’ll make another change to catch the final flight to Tromsø. After that, they’ll have to figure out getting themselves further north to Gorsvær, the nearest settlement to where this mysterious “excavation” is supposed to be taking place.
She’s grateful Rona let her take the window seat on their row. Buffy’s never been overly fond of flying, but being able to gaze out at the sky is helping to calm her down. Rona doesn’t seem to mind; she appears to be fast asleep. In the row in front, Buffy can see Kennedy also snoozing, propped against the window side as Ebba flips through an in-flight magazine next to her.
There had been a somewhat heated debate about who would be going to Norway. Xander, Willow and the more experienced Slayers had all volunteered themselves to come along, keen for a change of pace. But Buffy had insisted that in the first instance, sending a small group was the right thing to do. They needed information, and to keep the element of surprise. A small army of nine Slayers moving across the world would attract attention. Instead, she’d picked three of the strongest fighters. Giles had been grumpy that he wasn’t able to come with them, although he did admit that having a leg in plaster would make him more of a hindrance for fighting and stealth travel.
Not taking Willow was a tougher call, and Buffy still wasn’t sure whether it was the right one. She needed Willow on the Hellmouth, there to protect the rest of the Slayers (and the world) if something happened to Buffy. But Willow assured her she could still keep track of them with magic, and provide some protection from afar.
The newer Slayers (any of them who’d been training for under a year) hadn’t been given the choice. Ronnie and Taliyah were pretty upset, but really there’s no way Buffy could’ve taken them along with a clean conscience. Bess had seemed positively delighted that she wasn’t being asked to risk mortal peril and sub-zero temperatures.
Dawn had been trickier to talk round. Not because she’d wanted to go to Norway, but because she’d objected to Buffy and the Slayers heading out there with so little information. And really, Buffy couldn’t blame her for that. Dawn had been angry, called Buffy irresponsible, pointed out just a few of the unknown factors which could easily result in them walking into a deathtrap. Eventually, in her rage, Dawn had accidentally slammed the fridge door closed on the tip of her own finger. The sudden pain had broken her anger, and she’d started to cry. Buffy looks across the white, cottony blanket of clouds, and remembers hugging Dawn, apologising for everything, reiterating that she has to go, promising to be back before Thanksgiving. Buffy has to do this. Even though the job is shared now, it’s still her job.
Buffy stares out the window for a while, the brilliant blue contrasting against snow white, burning into her retinas. She closes her eyelids, and her mind begins to wander. It flips the image, morphing it into a blue-grey expanse of water under a darkening evening sky. Now she’s in a different, more familiar memory, one that’s played out dozens upon dozens of times in Buffy’s mind.
Their usual patrolling route became an evening stroll together, as they talked openly, amicably. Like two people who know each other better than they know themselves, Buffy thinks, observing the memory with a fondness, narrating for herself despite the fact she knows what’s coming. She’d kinda become my rock by that point — not that I ever told her that.
They stopped to stand by the water, Faith opposite her, much closer than she normally got. She gingerly extended her fingers to make contact with Buffy’s hand where it rested on the concrete wall. The words had stopped, but the conversation carried on in silence. Faith looked into Buffy’s eyes, as if waiting for some recrimination for her boldness. She’s so scared.
Instead, Buffy curled her fingers up against Faith’s, interlinking and squeezing gently. Buffy wants to shout at herself, Tell her! Tell her, ‘I’m here with you. I know what you’re saying and it’s okay, I want you to say it. I’m ready’.
Then Faith’s eyelids dropped a little, the micro-changes in her expression moving from anxious to hungry. She tilted her chin, her gaze flickering to Buffy’s lips. Please, please, don’t fight this, Buffy begs herself.
In slow motion, Faith moved closer. There could be no misreading of her intentions at that point. Buffy’s heart flutters in her chest, anticipation and arousal all at once, as she slips fully into the memory, trying to recall every detail of how it felt. Yes…
Faith’s lips were pillowy soft, her kiss surprisingly delicate. She was pretty sure Faith was holding her breath. Buffy was holding hers too. For a couple of seconds, they barely moved. Then, Faith adjusted her angle, moved in again with more pressure. Buffy reciprocated, both of them breathing deeply. When Buffy opened her mouth, Faith let out a murmur, the tip of her tongue gently glancing Buffy’s.
God this is amazing… Buffy felt her body running hot all over, the skin of her cheek tingling where Faith cupped it in her palm. Faith’s hair was soft in Buffy’s left hand, and the leather of her jacket creaked quietly where Buffy found her right hand gripping Faith’s hip.
But then, Buffy noticed a cold ache against the small of her back, and realised she’d let Faith manoeuvre them to press Buffy up against the wall. The chill seeped up through her spine, breaking the delicious heat filling her body. It was an unwelcome breach, a draft, which only let in more cold. With it came doubt. Panic. Fear.
Suddenly, Buffy felt Faith’s weight against her as oppressive, rather than intimate. Her kisses seemed aggressive, instead of passionate.
No, please, don’t do this again. This time, don’t do this to her, Buffy pleads with herself. But she never listens, and the memory continues to play out, like it always does. So engrossed in it, Buffy can’t help but feel everything that happens next just as acutely as she did on this night two years ago.
Buffy broke the kiss, her mind overwhelmed with visions of Faith when she was young, rage-filled and lost. The Faith who stole her body, made her feel violated and used. She didn’t want to think about this; she knew Faith had changed. She wanted to be here with her Faith, because that’s who she was to Buffy at that point. Her Faith. All the trust, the closeness they built together in Cleveland; it had brought them to this, and Buffy knew she wanted it. So, why couldn’t she feel anything but confusion, alarm, and shame?
“B, are you —” Faith asked, her eyes filled with worry. Like she’d known this was coming, but she’d allowed herself to believe she was safe. You made her feel safe, then you tore that safety apart.
“I-I can’t…I can’t do this…” Buffy stammered, pushing herself away from the wall, and in the process, shoving Faith away from her. Too roughly. Too unkindly. “What are we…god, what are we doing?”
"W-what? But…” Faith’s voice broke, a disbelieving smile on her lips. She could only watch as Buffy backed away. “Wait, c’mon…”
“No, just —” Buffy shook her head, feeling sick. She bitterly tells her past self, You’re not sick about the kiss, like you thought. You’re sick at yourself for how you’re reacting. And you should be, you coward.
“Please, I’m sorry…Buffy…” Faith’s expression from that night remains burned into Buffy’s mind, indelible and inescapable. She looked so hurt, so devastated. “Please, wait!”
“— Don’t follow me,” Buffy snapped at Faith, then turned on her heel and jogged away. She broke into a run as she heard a small, sharp noise behind her, wrenched from deep within Faith’s chest. Buffy ran away from that noise, from Faith’s big, desolate eyes, from the taste of her still on her lips.
A sharp, two-toned alert blares out over the plane’s intercom system. Buffy jolts awake. The steward makes an announcement about breakfast being served to all passengers in fifteen minutes. Rona stirs next to her, and before she can look over, Buffy manages to quickly wipe away the tear that tracked down her cheek while she dozed.
* * *
Trudging into the domestic arrivals area in Tromsø airport, the four Slayers probably don’t do a great job of looking inconspicuous. Collectively, they’re exhausted, grumpy, and in need of hot showers and soft beds. Compared to the smart Norwegian commuters and early Christmas holiday-makers, the gang of jetlagged Americans aren’t exactly undercover. Despite this, Buffy’s just glad they made it here in one piece. Miraculously, so did the group’s only checked item of luggage: a huge, wheeled duffle bag containing some bulky winter clothing, and a sizeable stash of concealed wooden stakes. Other than that, everyone had packed light, only bringing a backpack of belongings each. Being unable to take any decent metal weaponry — not to mention the Scythe — wasn’t something Buffy was at all happy about. But Giles, in his wisdom, assured her he had measures in place.
“So, who are we looking out for?” Rona asks, rubbing her eyes and peering around the airport.
“Giles’s guy,” Buffy answers flatly, tugging the duffle bag behind her.
It appears the airport is in the process of putting up its holiday decorations. Warm string lights adorn the walls, and delicate origami-style paper snowflakes hang from the ceiling. Two airport staff work in a roped off area around a large Chrismas tree, one of them up a stepladder hanging more string lights from its branches. It’s beautiful, but Buffy can’t bring herself to feel particularly festive.
“And he will provide us with accommodation?” Ebba sounds hopeful, a sentiment Buffy’s gut advises her against sharing. Beyond the tree is the large glass frontage of the airport. Outside, small vehicles with orange flashing lights are bustling around, shifting snow onto verges, piling up already several feet high. A light snow is falling, but the angle (not to mention the bumpy landing they just experienced) indicates the windspeed is picking up. A large wall clock shows eight PM local time, but Buffy’s brain swears it’s four in the morning. They really don’t want to be traipsing around out there looking for somewhere to stay. She prays Giles’s contact has done his job, even if only for tonight.
“Right…” Buffy says, “Giles said we stay in the city tonight, then tomorrow —” she trails off.
“Tomorrow this guy takes us north.” Kennedy finishes. “Hopefully we arrive in Gorsvær in some kind of armoured vehicle, with a lot of weapons.” She looks intently at Buffy. “He is bringing weapons, right? Real ones? With sharp edges?”
“I really hope so.” Buffy’s head is pounding. Out of the way to one side of the hall, she drops the duffel bag, taking the chance to grab some water from her backpack. The others follow suit, taking seats on the floor or leaning against the wall.
“Okay, but really, how much could Giles have arranged with so little time?” Ebba sounds skeptical.
“Secret, underground, ex-Watcher connections, I guess. Those guys used to have a lot of resources at their disposal. Like, double-oh-seven money and power. Except, less Pierce Brosnan, more demons and tweed.” Buffy wrinkles her nose at her mental image of demon made of tweed, then shakes thoughts of the Council away. “Look, Giles just said his contact would meet us at the airport. So we wait. ”
Buffy sighs, really wishing she’d asked Giles for more details about this person before they’d set off. She suddenly feels very far away from home, very dependent on someone she’s never met. “Why don’t you guys go find some snacks or something? We don’t know how long we’ll be waiting.” She scans the hall, looking for anyone who might seem as out of place as they are.
“But how will we know when he’s here?” Ebba asks.
A hundred yards away or so, a large group of German tourists all jostle towards the exit, making their way outside towards their coach. The sudden buzz of noise fades in Buffy’s ears, the bustle of activity blurs behind a solitary figure in a black parka jacket, who’s just walked in through the crowd and now stands still, dark eyes fixed on Buffy.
Buffy’s vaguely aware that Rona and Kennedy are next to her, staring, having also spotted Giles’s contact. Well, at least that means I’m not seeing things. Her mouth feels dry, her feet rooted to the spot.
“Oh, we’ll know.” Kennedy calmly tells Ebba.
Faith blinks, takes a breath, then walks towards them with purpose across the arrivals hall.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *