madimpossibledreamer

        “Promise me you won’t hesitate.” Buffy still won’t meet his eyes. “I’m serious, Buff. I don’t want you to end up like Miss Calendar or me. Or Jesse.” It probably won’t do much, and he hates asking this of her. He trusts her to do the right thing, to stop the monster her boyfriend has become if she has to, but she’s still not a monster herself. She’ll probably hesitate, because that’s, y’know, what shows you’re human, with a conscience, and he absolutely hates that that literally is a weakness right now, in terms of strict reaction time.
        “I’ll try not to need the cavalry,” is what she responds instead. Because we both know you can’t come rolling to the rescue with CPR this time, she doesn’t say out loud, and it hurts even unspoken. It’s a realistic promise. He can’t decide if he likes it, because it means she really will probably be trying, or hates that she can’t lie to him any better than he can lie to himself in his own head.

         Xander’s aware he’s not the only one, thanks to his therapist.  People fall asleep to true crime podcasts or horror movies or the like.  And it makes sense for him, because a sense of familiarity is necessary to fall to sleep.  Quiet is bad.  Quiet means they’re plotting things.  Quiet means something bad is on its way.  Pain is on its way.
         And in his defense, some of the stuff he finds is the goofy horror.  The kind run on the BBC budget with “actors” kidnapped off the street.  SciFi type movies.  (Maybe it makes him an old man but he refuses to call it by its new name.)
         It really doesn’t make him feel normal, but maybe that’s more of a mental block than a personal one.

        “So it’s a new year soon enough,” the blond ghost mentions, and Xander glances up with a quizzical look, taking a break to switch hands on the wrench and wipe one on his shirt.  Even if his arm doesn’t get tired, his hand is getting sweaty.  And as much as he wants this fixed this instant, it’s obviously not.  His extra strength isn’t helping, since it’d just break the pipes further if he’s not careful.
        “That’s right.  We can celebrate another year.”  They might have sparkling juice somewhere.
        “You think you’re going to forgive the hotel mouse?” he asks, and it’s mere idle curiosity, despite how it sounds.
        Xander considers that for a moment before shaking his head.  “Nope.  I do that, and chefghost won’t forgive me, and I kinda need himher for food and the feeding of moi.  The vendetta stays.”
        “Fair enough, Master,” Kryvi states, with a laugh in his voice, and Xander gets right back to work.

         Xander doesn’t wait to be invited in.  He just barges in.  Cait complains about it, finding it horribly rude, and Tony agrees until Xander’s friends come up.
         And they all do it, and they don’t even seem to realize it’s weird.
         It’s probably the small town thing, Tony reflects.  You trust your neighbors in a small town.  The alternative is vampires, but that explanation is ridiculous so he discards it.

        It’s beat up and it’s definitely less cool than the motorcycle, but if she’s not mistaken Xander’s definitely tearing up at the sight.  He is such a dork.
        “Where—and how?”  And he’s definitely at a loss for words, too.  Note that one on the calendar.
        “I was practicing the telekinesis spell, except I somehow messed up because I somehow ended up with this and my old computer and I am not saying no to two computers because maybe that means that someone will stop hoarding our only computer to play games.”  Xander manages to look sheepish even if he’s still dancing in place. 
        “And, let me guess, you’re showing me this because you wanted a break from Giles lecturing you.”
        “Is it so bad I remember skater Xander with fondness?”  She’s still smiling, so she’s probably not that bothered.  “Stop giving me those puppy dog eyes.”
        He grins, unapologetically cheeky.  “Hey, if I go spiky, I could actually wag my tail.”
        She waves him on.  “Just go, and remember the style-not-getting-hurt thing.”
        “Ehh, the pavement has nothing on me,” Xander waves it off, and Willow rolls her eyes and gets up the moment the door closes to see if she can’t find at least a few bandaids.  It’s not likely he’ll need the bandages, and she definitely knows where those are.

        “I’ve dealt with three spirits so far and nothing’s happened, so why?” Yashiki rages, and Mashita’s actually struck dumb for once.  He’s never known Yashiki to get angry, and is almost convinced that this is the work of some spirit.  Not quite, though, and it’s almost a relief, because he’d been half convinced the man wasn’t human, with how little he’d reacted to the news of his oncoming death.
        “Well, Mary mentioned something about spirits playing with their victims, didn’t she?  It seems like this spirit has more control over the Mark than the others.”  Mashita toys briefly with the thought of offering to come help before dismissing it.  Whether it felt unnatural or not, Yashiki’s own cool head was the one thing that had kept them all alive so far.  “Serial killers do that too, and given the amount of victims they’ve probably taken so far, it’s probably not too far off to describe them that way.  At some point, they usually want to gloat.  It’s the most dangerous situation because they’re coming after you personally, but it’s an opportunity too.  You better take care of yourself.  I’m not consoling the brats if there’s a funeral.”
        The pause this time is longer, as Yashiki considers that, before he states warmly, with no thought as to how embarrassing his tone is, “I’d miss you too, Mashita.”
        He hangs up before the ex-detective can even yell at him.  Stupid sexy man.

        “So he’s trying to figure out a new last name.”  Buffy’s thoughtful.
        The voice startles—startles, mind—her.  “Might I suggest Steel?”
        He’s lucky he didn’t just accidentally set off her Slayer reflexes and get pasted or something.  “Okay, for one, how the heck did you get in here?  For two, you really aren’t used to not getting what you want, huh?”
        “I’m not used to romance,” Steel corrects quietly, but there’s an earnest quality to the voice that Summers isn’t used to.  She squints.
        “Yeah, with you going around killing people, I can see why you’d have an empty dance card.”  He’s a criminal.  No sympathy here.
        “The woman I loved died.  I hope even you can see why I wouldn’t be so eager to sign up for more heartbreak.”  Which means the crush happened accidentally.  If he didn’t happen to be the most dangerous mortal in the city, it’d be kind of funny.

        “Will you listen if I beg?  Because I’m not too proud to do it for kids.”
        Marcone does look vaguely amused, but just waits, like he’s having too much fun watching me break down, and I turn away, a snarl on my lips.  I should have realized appealing to his good nature wouldn’t work, because he doesn’t have one, and even my humiliation and protecting kids when they’re outside his jurisdiction don’t seem to be enough motivation.
        “If you have finished with your tantrum…”  He starts strapping on even more knives and guns than his usual, which is a little disturbing.
        “What…?”  I’m having trouble processing.  I’d already started trying to work out a solo strategy that didn’t involve me getting killed in unpleasant ways.
        The mob boss, on the other hand, is the very picture of calm, cool, and collected.  “You came to me as a last resort, which means if I turned you down, you’d go alone.  I have come to the conclusion that you’re better alive than dead.  If I help you, I’d only ask you consider that perhaps the reverse might also be true.  And, of course, I have no intention of dying for you, which means Miss Gard, at the very least, will be accompanying us.”  His smile, while revealing no bloodstained fangs dripping with pain, is a tiger’s, amused and dangerous.  “I’m not entirely certain whether it’s within her contract, but the promise of bloodshed might be just enough of a bribe to win her favor.”
        Hell’s bells, what had I gotten myself into…?

        “So, uh…” I hesitate, but I’ve gotten this far and she hasn’t torn my throat out. Might as well keep going. “Why the pretty lady look?” It can’t just be vanity. For all I know, vampire standards of attractiveness—for Reds, anyway—differ pretty significantly from humans.
        Chase’s smile is amused. “Why wear ugly clothes, when you could wear pretty clothes?” That—
        I can get my head around that. So it’s not like her self-worth is tied up in looking pretty for humans. It’s just an aesthetic choice. “There’s also the truth that you humans are blind enough that some accident of birth dictates a good portion of your social structure, and I’m practical, but really. I could rule this city looking like Quasimodo if I wanted.”
        I could definitely believe that. She’s got a strong enough will that she just acts, assuming everyone’s going to fall in line, and for the most part they do, because who’s really gonna argue with a hurricane? That being said…probably me, actually, because I’m that reckless. “Not by yourself. Steel would give you a run for your money.”
        I expect her to frown, the minute I open my unthinking mouth. To hiss, or yell at me, or something. Instead, she smiles, big and wide and kind of disconcerting, like the cat that got the cream. “I’m sure he’d be positively thrilled you return at least some of his regard.”
        I…really don’t want to know what goes on in these political games of cat and mouse. I really, really am better off not knowing.