So. Apparently? It was Monday. Somehow, the weekend had been eaten up -- and her money was on an experiment -- and now the village was left with two days missing. Such a situation had encouraged many a person to seek refuge in the local pub. Throughout the late-afternoon, Buffy was kept on her feet.
But people soon started to remember that it was a Monday and that Mondays were generally not the best days for drinking. Very untoward and yadda yadda yadda and so eventually there is a strange silent moment in the evening. The bartender is alone with one patron: Guy Burgess.
"I can always count on you to keep me company in the slow hours, Guy." This was said as she topped up his glass.
Guy tried not to take too much notice of the fact that several days were gone. He could blame it on the fact that his Friday had been spent mulling through the conflicting sentiments that surrounded the adjustment period of Julian Bell, graced with wings and walking amongst the Lucetians.
Friends. They had reconciled as friends. Guy would give anything to be just that close again, but that did not stop him from wanting so much more. To miss one star terribly all day.
He sought the bar because it was a constant and a familiarity and he sought it because it was a place different than where Julian would go. Or so he surmised. He didn't mind the lack of people because it gave him space for mindless things, and the only thing he seemed to have a care for was talking to Buffy. She was a most pleasant company and consistently so.
"A home away from home, your bar." He wraps his fingers around the glass, a casual tip in his head as he leans back a bit. "You're also very good company, so keeping it comes easily."
"Oh. Sure. I make great company for the sloshed and the rabble-rousing. What does that really say about me, huh?"
She poured herself a very liberal glass of what was probably just cranberry juice. Maybe a bit of soda for sparkle; yet she still dressed it up with a slice of lemon and a pretty little cocktail sword with skewered cherries.
"It seems you are in luck as I am neither at the moment." He takes a good sized drink. "Though only time will tell just how interesting this shift of yours will be."
He watches her pour herself something with a trained eye to notice such details. "Not a drinker yourself, or one more for rules than I thought?"
Part of him is surprised he's never noticed before, or hasn't asked. He's been a bit lax recently with noting such details.
"Ah. Right. Hero-type meets villain-type meets picket-fence romance and there's not much room left for reality, right?" Buffy watched the cigarette. "Nah. Believe me. Jack's a saint in comparison to the kind of folks I usually tangle with."
And her tone suggested that she wasn't talking about the fun kind of tangling.
"Vampires, Burgess. As in the walking undead. As in pointy teeth. As in -- yes, I've met Dracula."
Her head tilted. Just slightly. Revealing a cluster of scar tissue. More than one bite but the actual number was hard to place. Perhaps three. "And he left me with a souvenir." She tapped the marks with a confident, steady finger.
"Wizards, women in bloody space suits who work for the United Nations--which hasn't even been bloody created yet in my time, mind you. The intelligence is spotty and I've always had it from three sources in three different bloody--and can break enigma. ENIGMA! Along with turtles who practice ancient martial arts and now... creatures of the night. Bloody fucking vampires."
He drained his glass and looked at the marks intently, a small wrench of horror and fascination in his face.
"At first," she concedes. Though Dracula's bite hadn't been so agonizing as, say, Angel's. Probably the hypnotism. "But blood-loss is a tricky thing."
Gently, she righted her collar and cleared her throat. "They're not exactly public knowledge, back home. The vamps. Most people go about their lives never ever knowing the real danger lurking in their dark alleys."
The horror remained on his face, though it warped to a more disgusted frown. It isn't that he found what she said repulsive... it's what was done to her.
"...and nobody knows."
That secret, that weighty, weighty secret shocks him. He's a man who has been sticking his nose in all the wrong places since he was a child. He's been learning and treasuring information that no man should have. This... is a wild secret he can't possibly imagine.
"Slayer -- comma -- the." Or formerly the. Now just a Slayer. But that was such a recent development and it gave the wrong impression of what the profession truly entailed. "Since I was fifteen."
"Slay them," she corrected him with a long-suffering tone. As though it was a particular point of contention even within her own mind. "You can't kill what's already dead, Guy. But -- it's sort of a fate thing. One girl in every generation draws the winning -- hah -- number and she alone has the powers to fight vampires and demons and the forces of evil. My number came up. I didn't even know those things existed before I was called."
Such a young age indeed. Heavy responsibilities for a girl still trying to navigate high school crushes.
This was fascinating and horrifying. It's one thing to feel as though you've a calling somewhere, and another to actually have one. He can't help asking question after question. He's gone into a mode of gathering, of comprehending, of filing away the information because it might be important. Because she might be important, in the end.
"The whole thing sounds utterly demonic. Cult like. With all the religious implications and... fuck. Does the government know?"
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january 30th; good spirits; action
But people soon started to remember that it was a Monday and that Mondays were generally not the best days for drinking. Very untoward and yadda yadda yadda and so eventually there is a strange silent moment in the evening. The bartender is alone with one patron: Guy Burgess.
"I can always count on you to keep me company in the slow hours, Guy." This was said as she topped up his glass.
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Friends. They had reconciled as friends. Guy would give anything to be just that close again, but that did not stop him from wanting so much more. To miss one star terribly all day.
He sought the bar because it was a constant and a familiarity and he sought it because it was a place different than where Julian would go. Or so he surmised. He didn't mind the lack of people because it gave him space for mindless things, and the only thing he seemed to have a care for was talking to Buffy. She was a most pleasant company and consistently so.
"A home away from home, your bar." He wraps his fingers around the glass, a casual tip in his head as he leans back a bit. "You're also very good company, so keeping it comes easily."
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She poured herself a very liberal glass of what was probably just cranberry juice. Maybe a bit of soda for sparkle; yet she still dressed it up with a slice of lemon and a pretty little cocktail sword with skewered cherries.
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He watches her pour herself something with a trained eye to notice such details. "Not a drinker yourself, or one more for rules than I thought?"
Part of him is surprised he's never noticed before, or hasn't asked. He's been a bit lax recently with noting such details.
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A healthy sip.
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"How does your rogue do with that? Very well, I take, from as long as I gather you've been together."
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Buffy tapped her cocktail sword against the rim of her glass. "We make it work. More booze for him, I guess."
She only drank when things got dire.
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"I hardly meant your aversion to drink. More along the lines of how you favour the rule setting."
He clicks open the tin left on the counter to pull out a cigarette for himself. The ashtray beside him holds several butts already.
"Though even pirates have a semblance of order, even if it does leave a bit to be desired by comparison to the world."
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"Ah. Right. Hero-type meets villain-type meets picket-fence romance and there's not much room left for reality, right?" Buffy watched the cigarette. "Nah. Believe me. Jack's a saint in comparison to the kind of folks I usually tangle with."
And her tone suggested that she wasn't talking about the fun kind of tangling.
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He leaves the cigarette perched between his fingers for now. There isn't any rush to light it.
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She toyed with the truth a moment longer. Sizing Guy up.
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Buffy glanced back around the bar. So empty. "I'm talking about vampires."
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"Vampires?"
Well, fuck.
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Her head tilted. Just slightly. Revealing a cluster of scar tissue. More than one bite but the actual number was hard to place. Perhaps three. "And he left me with a souvenir." She tapped the marks with a confident, steady finger.
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He drained his glass and looked at the marks intently, a small wrench of horror and fascination in his face.
"Painful?"
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Gently, she righted her collar and cleared her throat. "They're not exactly public knowledge, back home. The vamps. Most people go about their lives never ever knowing the real danger lurking in their dark alleys."
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"...and nobody knows."
That secret, that weighty, weighty secret shocks him. He's a man who has been sticking his nose in all the wrong places since he was a child. He's been learning and treasuring information that no man should have. This... is a wild secret he can't possibly imagine.
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He knows what that is like, and his look is understanding even as he sorts through the information.
"Which makes you what, exactly?"
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Such a young age indeed. Heavy responsibilities for a girl still trying to navigate high school crushes.
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This was fascinating and horrifying. It's one thing to feel as though you've a calling somewhere, and another to actually have one. He can't help asking question after question. He's gone into a mode of gathering, of comprehending, of filing away the information because it might be important. Because she might be important, in the end.
"The whole thing sounds utterly demonic. Cult like. With all the religious implications and... fuck. Does the government know?"
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