Chapter Three
Buffy wanders around the French Quarter for at least an hour to absorb herself in window shopping and people watching. The people watching on Bourbon Street is definitely distracting. There are throngs of drunken tourists pouring in and out of bars, restaurants advertising crawfish and raw oysters, the occasional strip joint, and stores filled to the brim with cheap souvenirs and Mardi Gras beads.
On the street corners, she witnesses the occasional kids tap dancing and singing for money and police officers directing traffic so that the horse drawn buggies can pass by. At one point, she spies a maroon demon darting in and out of a cluster of staggering college students and a man on stilts wearing a majestic mask with a long chin and bushy eyebrows. She follows the demon for a while from a distance, but she catches him ducking in a dark alleyway and adjusting his realistic-looking mask, marking him as human.
Tired of the push of the crowd, the stench of urine and stale food, and the seediness of the infamous tourist trap, she takes a quieter side street past Pat O’Brien’s. She hears loud voices and live jazz music flowing out the entrance. She suddenly feels a raw penetrating loneliness, so she hurries toward Royal Street where couples are leisurely pausing to peer into the windows of the closed art galleries and antique stores. Buffy does the same for a while, but again, the couple-y thing gets to her, and she moves on, plunging into darker through streets.
Somehow she finds herself beside a quiet French Market. Everyone has long gone home. She stops with her hands in her pockets, stares into the deep hollow darkness, and tries to imagine the marketplace filled with the busy hustle and bustle of shopkeepers selling their fruits, vegetables, and other wares to unsuspecting tourists and savvy locals. All she can envision though is Spike in that cavern beneath Sunnydale, spreading the light of his soul to save the world.
Distraction no longer working, Buffy makes her way back to the condo, briefly marveling at the ghost tour that’s standing outside her door. Once in her safe haven, she flips every light on in the tiny place, plugs in her phone for charging, and resumes her earlier perch on the edge of the bed.
She briefly puts her head in her hands. No tears come, and honestly, she feels gutted. . . like someone came along and scooped out all her insides, including her heart, and left her numb and cold.
Spike is human. . . Spike is William, and he’s happy with a beautiful girlfriend and a normal human life. He’s successful, too, with the book fans and the writing. Buffy remembers that he once told her about his love of poetry, so she finds his current occupation fitting, especially after she saw him in his element tonight. She can totally picture him sitting in the window of an apartment in New York, typing on his laptop with a mug of hot chocolate nearby.
She can’t help but smile a little. Dawn told her that she and Spike made a lot of hot chocolate together the summer Buffy was gone.
Buffy catches a glimpse of Spike’s book out of the corner of her eye. Darned thing is taunting her.
Sighing, she takes a breath and holds it as she opens the novel to the title page to read the inscription.
Buffy frowns as she takes in the message which innocuously starts with “Dear Buffy.” But then, he scribbled out something about hoping she enjoyed the book and instead wrote, “I don’t normally do this kind of thing, but I’d like to meet you tonight after the book signing. Café du Monde, 10:30 PM?” He didn’t sign his name.
Normally, she would blow off a line like that, but this is Spike, and there was something between them tonight.
She knows it.
Leaning over the bed, she unplugs her phone and types “Café du Monde” in her GPS. After seeing the route, she vaguely remembers from her earlier wanderings that the café is just around the corner from the condo.
Before she can overthink it, she is out the door and back into the night.
* * *
As Buffy passes the cathedral on the way to the café, she notices that there are definitely fewer tourists mingling around and all of the shops are closed. In front of the old church, small clusters of people linger around the palm readers and fortune tellers, whose low tables are littered with soft glowing candles and tarot cards or runes. She briefly thinks about Willow and smiles, wondering what her friend would make of this display of charlatans and faux psychics.
The park in front of the cathedral is empty, the black iron fence that surrounds the park bare where local artists hung their wares earlier that day. Ahead, the lights of Café du Monde beckon Buffy, promising coffee and something sweet. A few people grace the little tables beneath the striped green and white awning, making small talk and sipping drinks. The smell of chicory clings to the air, and powdered sugar is everywhere on the ground and on the table tops.
Spike isn’t there yet, so Buffy accepts an open table in the back and sits facing the street, so she can watch for him. Despite night’s firm hold on the city, it remains hot and humid, so she orders a frozen cafe au lait in an effort to cool off. She fidgets because waiting isn’t her strong suit, and she’s been waiting all evening. She vaguely thinks about whether this is how Spike used to feel while he waited for her.
Just as Buffy’s about to throw in the proverbial towel and go back to her condo to mope Angel-style, Spike arrives.
Even though he’s human and he doesn’t have his duster, his stride and the way he swings his arms are the same. His bright eyes scan each cluster of people, searching for her, and there’s something about the intensity of the movement that makes Buffy relax. When he spies her, she gives him a little smile and stands up, almost knocking over the tiny table because the metal chair is difficult to scoot over concrete.
When he reaches her, he self-consciously puts his hands in his back pockets and smiles at her in that way that always used to make her heart soften. . . that makes it soften now. “Hey. I, um, wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure I should.” At least, she’s being honest. She sits back down, this time managing to more gracefully move closer to the table.
Spike lounges in the chair across from her, legs splayed. “Did you order anything?”
“Just this.” Buffy shakes her styrofoam cup and sucks on her straw.
“I could use one of those.”
She grins, the straw still in her mouth. “Thought you had some hot chocolate.”
“I did, but it’s been a long day between the flying and the book signing. I could use some caffeine.” Spike turns to flag down a waiter and continues, “And some of those little doughnuts with the powdery white stuff on top.”
“Beige nets. . . Beg nets,” Buffy tries to pronounce the word she saw on the menu. “Are they good?”
“Beignets?” He pronounces the word ben-yays, which almost makes her snicker.
“Is that how you say it?”
“Yeah. They’re delicious, pet. You’ve never had any?”
“Nope. Never. I’ve never been to New Orleans.”
The waiter shows up, and Spike orders, never taking his eyes off of Buffy, “I’ll have what she’s having, and. . .” He glances at the plastic covered menu on the table. “A couple of orders of beignets.”
“All right, sir. That’ll be out in a few minutes,” the waiter comments, sounding worn down.
“Thanks.” Once the server leaves, Spike leans forward, being mindful of the table’s sticky surface. “So, you’re probably wondering why I wrote what I did in your book.”
Buffy’s heart starts beating faster. “Kinda.”
“Honestly? I’m not really sure. It was just. . .” He thinks for a few seconds, gazing into the darkness behind the cafe. “It was just something I had to do. . . . I felt it here.” His hand automatically goes to his gut. “And I had to do something about it. That ever happen to you?” His eyes find hers again as he finishes, and then, he glances away. “I sound like such a ponce. . . You must think I’m an idiot.”
“Y-yeah. Actually. That’s happened to me before.” Buffy wants to say, “Like right now,” but she can’t. She has to start somewhere. . . to steer the conversation in a different direction, so she chooses, “So how long have you been a writer?”
He chuckles. “All my life. Started writing poetry when I was a teenager and had a crush on this girl. Oh, god, it was bad, too.”
Buffy smiles. “I bet she loved it though.”
He’s thoughtful, remembering a life that isn’t really his, “No, no she didn’t appreciate it at all.”
Buffy plays with the edge of her cup lid, staring at the little tear in the plastic. “Well, from what I’ve read, which is admittedly only one book, you write very well. You had me in tears. . . it felt so real.”
“Thank you.” She looks up at his words, and he adds, “For saying so. For some reason, when I was writing this one. . . well, it felt real to me, too. . . more real than the others, but I’m not sure why.”
The waiter ambles up and plops Spike’s drink and a plate full of warm doughnuts in front of them. “Need anything else?”
“No.” Buffy just wants the young man to go away. He thankfully takes the hint. As soon as he’s gone, she comments, “Look at that sugar! It’s like a mountain! I could ski down that mountain. . . or build a snowman.”
Spike laughs and nudges the plate toward her. “Ladies first.”
“If you insist.” Buffy picks up the top one with the most powder and sinks her teeth into the hot dough. Her mouth filled with sweet nirvana, she chews and swallows as Spike chooses one out of the stack. “Oh my god. This is delicious.” She holds up the little doughnut. “Beignets, where have you been all my life?”
Spike grins. “Told you.” Then, he takes a giant bite.
They eat in companionable silence for a while, but then, Buffy can’t help but ask another burning question.
“So where’s your girlfriend? Or is she your wife? She doesn’t share your love of beignets or meeting random strangers in cafes?”
Spike snorts and takes a sip of his coffee. “Becca? Becca’s not my girlfriend or my wife.” He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Well, she used to be my girlfriend, but we broke up about a year ago.” At Buffy’s skeptical face, he clarifies with the same ease that he elucidated the ending of his book, “It was simple. She loves me, but I don’t love her. . . not in the way she deserves, so we broke up. She’s already dating someone new and that helps because she still manages my book tours, so I can focus on the writing part. We got the friend thing down now.”
Buffy chews on her lower lip and remembers a time when Spike, even without his soul, truly loved her, and she wasn’t in a place to love him back. “I think I understand.”
Spike’s expression is one of interest. “I really want to know about you though.”
“I don’t know where to start.” She doesn’t, not when she can’t really be honest with him.
He rescues her, “Well, where are you from?”
“California.” But right now, she has a temporary apartment in Cleveland and a more permanent one in Rome.
“And what do you do for a living?”
She slays things. . . things like vampires and demons. She saves the world from imminent apocalypse while being perpetually single because no human guy can handle what she does for a living. “Research. . . I research stuff like in books.” Well, Giles would be happy with this approach.
“Huh. What kind of research?”
“Old things,” pops out of Buffy’s mouth before she has time to think. She feels her eyes go a little wide as she says it. Spike can tell something is up because he raises an eyebrow.
So she stays in this vein, trying to repair and elaborate in a reasonable way. “Old people, old places. You know there’s a beauty in visiting places that have been around for so long. It’s like you’re revisiting a part of history that you thought was long forgotten, touched but untouched by time.”
Oh no, she sounds like a really bad museum docent, but somehow, her mouth keeps moving and she keeps talking, “Like New Orleans. The place I’m staying is really old, too, and you can just feel the history there even with the new furnishings and updated appliances, you know?”
Spike still isn’t buying what she’s saying, but he doesn’t question. “I can agree with that, pet. Where are you staying?”
“Some place where the haunted tour stops. It’s next on my research list.”
He laughs. “The French Quarter has a lot of stops on the haunted tour. Doesn’t mean they all have spooks. . . if you believe in that sort of thing.” He regards her. “You know, pet, I feel like you do something more. . . something important.” He holds up a hand when she opens her mouth to protest. “Not that research isn’t important, but there’s something about you.”
“Bet you say that to all the girls.”
“No. I’m not really an all-the-girls type,” he says with complete sincerity. “I think I may be more of the one girl type.” He pauses and does the studying-her-face thing he did earlier at the book signing. “I just can’t put my finger on it though. You feel so familiar to me. Like I know you from somewhere. . . from some other lifetime. I don’t believe in reincarnation, but. . . .”
Spike reaches out to touch her arm, and Buffy unintentionally pulls back. Isn’t she supposed to want him to be happy? Didn’t Angel say to leave him be? What is she doing?
Pain and uncertainty flashes across Spike’s features at her reaction, and the expression on his face is so recognizable that Buffy’s heart breaks.
Oh god, she’s hurting him.
She bolts up, jarring the table so that it wobbles a bit. “I-I’m sorry. I have to go.”
She practically runs out of the little café.
“Buffy, wait!” he appeals, but she doesn’t turn around because then, he’ll see her tears and he’ll know there’s something to what he said.
Not thinking, she veers right at the exit and almost crashes into a homeless man. She mumbles an apology, but he starts following her, trying to gain her attention.
“Ma’am. I think you have my shoes!”
Buffy picks up the pace to put distance between them but not rouse suspicion from the people around her. He matches her speed until she finds herself on a darkened street with closed shops and no lingering tourists.
The homeless man snatches her arm.
“Look, mister, I don’t have your shoes!” She spins to face him and hears a memorable growl and catches a glimpse of flashing yellow eyes. This gives her the fuel to quip, “And even if I gave you my shoes, they definitely wouldn’t fit!”
Buffy punches him in the nose with her free fist and bends to pull a stake out of her boot. She bounces back up right as the homeless vampire regains his bearings and returns the cuff, which lands solidly on her cheekbone. He tries to come back with a left hook, but Buffy ducks and dances sideways, roundhouse kicking him in the side, and he falls to the ground with a thud.
Before Buffy can land the stake home, she hears more figures approach from behind, and she knows they’re vamps before she sees them, not that she can see much in the dim light. She vaguely thinks that the city should invest in some good street lights in the Quarter.
“Slayer,” one of the shadowy figures hisses.
“Yep, that’s me.”
“You’re not the usual Slayer,” a second notes.
“You’re right about that. I’m definitely not from around here.” Buffy can’t recall the name of the Slayer who handles the New Orleans beat, but Buffy imagines that she has her hands full what with the city’s reputation for attracting beings of the supernatural variety, especially after Hurricane Katrina.
“She has my shoes,” the homeless vampire whines. . . directly in her ear. He twists her wrist, she sucks in her breath at the sharp pain, and her stake clatters to the ground, rolling into the black.
With that, Buffy slides into her usual fighting routine, hitting, kicking, dodging, and taking blows. She focuses on trying to wear the vampires out while also scanning her environment for items that could be potential stakes. After several minutes, she realizes that this isn’t working, partially because the street is dark and unfamiliar territory and partially because her emotions about Spike have been erratic. She’s usually more focused.
Then, she sustains a particularly sharp blow to her head, and she’s sent sprawling.
She’s jumping to her feet when she hears Spike’s voice pour out of the dark, “Buffy! Catch, love!”
She instinctively raises her hand, and her stake lands neatly against her palm.
There’s a crack, and Spike grunts, which sends Buffy into a frenzy.
Before the vampires realize what’s happening, they’re all dust floating in the air.
Buffy hurries to Spike’s side, and without thinking, she offers her hand to help him up. As soon as she touches him, her whole body hums, and for the briefest of moments, she’s back in a Sunnydale cemetery, teaching Slayers-in-training how to hunt vampires. She feels a strong pull to throw her arms around him.
But his words stop her, “Buffy. . . were those vampires? Are you a Slayer?”
And with that, she’s running. . . again. Except this time, he runs after her.