Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1

Buffy hates being the new girl.

Not that she’s had much experience with it, but she’s experiencing it now, and she’s gotta say—pretty sucky in the fun department. She doesn’t really know anyone here except for Cordelia, and how’s she gonna find one girl in this crowd, anyway?

She finds the bar instead and gets a soda. Sips her Diet Coke as she looks around. Someone sits down next to her.

“Hey,” Buffy says, expecting to see Cordelia there.

But it isn’t Cordelia.

The girl to her left is wearing a long black, lace dress. She lifts one hand in a tiny wave and smiles; her fingernails are painted red and white.

“Uh, hey,” Buffy says again. “I’m Buffy.”

The girl smiles more widely. “You’re much more than that, aren’t you?”

Buffy narrows her eyes, immediately wary. “Who wants to know?”

“No one knows. Not yet. The Slayer’s arrival should have shaken the earth, shattered the grounds, rocks down a mountain. Didn’t. Will.” The girl puts a finger to her lips, suddenly, and lowers her voice. “Shh. They’ll hear you. Musn’t find you.” She pulls a small silk bag from the front of her purse and slides it across the table to Buffy.

“Yeah,” Buffy says, “you’ve got the wrong girl.”

She turns to go, but the girl’s soft voice stops her as forcefully as a hand to her wrist.

“Please.”

“What? God, can’t you people take a message? I just want to be left alone.”

The girl shakes her head repeatedly. “Too much,” she says. “Too much. Too much.”

“Too much what?! Hello!” Buffy says impatiently. “I’m the Slayer, not the Riddler!”

“They’ll find you. They’ll always find you.” She walks her white-tipped fingers along the bar, inching closer to Buffy as she does. “The Harvest is coming.”

“Right. Thanks. That clears things up. Who are you?”

But the girl just shakes her head and slides off the barstool. She smiles again and then slinks away onto the dance floor. As she moves, she lifts her hands up above her head and sways to the music, paying no mind to anyone around her til she's swallowed up by the crowd. Buffy watches her go, utterly confused and more than a little annoyed.

The little bag is still on the counter. Her curiosity getting the best of her, Buffy tugs on the drawstring to open it and dumps the contents into the palm of her hand.

It’s a tiny golden cross on thin gold chain. The cross itself is ornate, but because of its size it manages to be elegant rather than tacky. It looks old. Buffy can’t guess how old, but… old.

With a shrug, she fastens it around her neck.

2

“I have to make you understand,” Giles says, “that—”

“That the Harvest is coming. I know. Your friend told me.”

“What did you say?”

“The Harvest,” Buffy repeats. “That mean something to you? ‘Cause I’m drawing a blank.”

“I’m not sure. Uh… Who told you this?”

“This… girl. Dark hair. Pretty. Kinda goth-y, but makes it work? I figure you two were buds.”

“No,” Giles says. “The Harvest… Did she say something else?”

“Something about the Earth shaking. She was high-key bizarro. You sure you don’t know her?”

“Look at them,” Giles says, ignoring Buffy’s comment in favour of watching the crowd down below. “Throwing themselves about, completely unaware of the danger that surrounds them.”

“Lucky them,” Buffy says softly.

She’s never known loneliness like this before.

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3

Buffy sees the girl as soon as she steps into the mausoleum, lurking in the shadows. She almost feels like a part of them, all black clothes and fluid movements. When she notices Buffy has arrived, she shakes her head.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a key on you?” Buffy asks, annoyed.

“The Slayer doesn’t need a key.”

“Right. I forgot. You know all about the Slayer thing. You know, I just wanted to meet some normal people here. Make some normal friends. People who don’t spend their nights worrying about death by vamp bite.”

“You musn’t go.”

“Deal with my going.”

The girl shakes her head. “The Harvest is this evening. This evening, the Master walks again.”

“If this Harvest thing is such a suckfest, why don’t you stop it?”

The girl looks Buffy in the eye. It’s unnerving; Buffy looks away immediately.

“I’m afraid,” she says simply.

The honesty of the statement softens Buffy’s annoyance.

“Who are you?” she asks. “Your name. If you’re gonna be popping up with this Cryptic Wise Lady act on a regular basis, I deserve that much.”

“Drusilla.”

“Really?”

Drusilla says nothing.

Buffy shrugs. “Okay. Look, Dru. I’ve got a friend down there. Or at least, a potential friend. So you can either help me or stay out of my way.”

“They’re expecting you,” Drusilla says softly, and looks upward. “They have the boy. They think the Slayer will come for him. She’s a storybook hero. Goodness and grace.” She looks back at Buffy. “The easterly wind will lead you to him.”

“The boy’s name is Jesse,” Buffy says.

“Jesse,” Drusilla repeats carefully.

“Do I want to ask how you know all this?”

Drusilla shakes her head. “Wouldn’t believe me. They never do.” She turns away again, slinking into the corner of the mausoleum like a cat. “Never do,” she mumbles to herself, only semi-coherent.

Buffy frowns after her. “Good talk,” she says finally. “You gonna wish me luck?”

But Drusilla doesn’t turn around.

It’s minutes after Buffy has disappeared into the tunnels that she whispers the words to herself, over and over, like a mantra. “Good luck. Good luck. Good luck.”

Chapter Text

4

Buffy dreams about the dolls. Dolls hanging from the ceiling, lifeless limbs threatening to bop unsuspecting passersby in the face. Seriously wiggy. There had been several dolls hanging in the Madisons’ attic, but in her dream there are hundreds and hundreds. Buffy walks through the attic—which seems never-ending—and taps their little doll shoes with her fingers as she passes, making them sway in their restraints.

“It’s the future.”

Buffy spins to see Drusilla steps behind her, clutching yet another doll to her chest. This one is different, though. Less psychotic Barbie and more… soft. She has big eyes and locks of wavy blonde hair. There’s a red tie around her mouth, as if preventing her from speaking.

“That had better not be me,” Buffy says warningly.

Drusilla smiles. “She’s Miss Edith.”

“Right. And, uh. What’s up with the tie?”

“She doesn’t need a mouth to speak.”

Buffy nods, nonplussed. “Why are you in my dream?”

Drusilla sits down on the floor, legs crossed, and holds Miss Edith in her lap. She pats the space in front of her, inviting Buffy to sit too.

Buffy does.

“And why are we spending quality time with the hardwood?”

“The Slayer learned about magic today. Magic that switches and tricks and traps. The girl knows.”

“Amy?” Buffy asks, frowning.

Drusilla nods. “She was stolen. Her mind—stolen from her body. The Slayer knew. The Slayer could see the girl there, hidden away behind wrinkles and greys.” She reaches out, softly, and taps Buffy on the knee with a red nail. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she says: “The Slayer could see.”

“Yeah,” Buffy says slowly. “Is there—is there something else I’m supposed to be seeing now? And what was that about the future, ‘cause you can’t leave me hanging like—”

“Me.”

“You what?”

“See me.” Drusilla takes Buffy’s hands and moves them to either side of her face, pushing Buffy’s fingertips into her long, dark hair. “See… me.”

Buffy pulls her hands away and jumps up, scuttling backwards, her head bumping into Catherine’s dolls and sending them flying every which way.

Drusilla looks up at her from the floor, her expression sad.

“They never do,” she says, repeating words she’d said to Buffy once before.

Wouldn’t believe me. They never do.

Buffy wants to say that she does—I do, she thinks, I do believe you—but finds that she can’t make a sound.

There’s a red tie around her mouth.

Chapter Text

5

Buffy spots Drusilla in the crowd almost immediately: it’s her distinct way of moving, slinking cat-like amongst the dancers. She meets Buffy’s eye as she dances, smiling widely with her hands held high above her head and her hips swaying to the rhythm of the music.

“I don’t believe it,” Buffy says, pulling away from Willow and Xander.

“What?” Willow says, but Buffy is already too far away to answer.

“What are you doing here?” Buffy says, coming to a stop in front of Drusilla.

“Dancing.”

“I’m sure you just happened to want to go out dancing at the same time I decided to go out with my friends.”

Drusilla drops her hands—trails her fingertips down her sides as she does—and laces her fingers together in front of her. She says nothing.

Buffy wants to ask why Dru won’t leave her alone. Why she’s gotten stuck in her brain the way maths and rules never do. That would mean admitting that she’d been dreaming about her, though, and Buffy doesn’t want to sound like even more of a weirdo. Not even in present company.

She shrugs. “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but then we both know that’s a big fib. Hey,” she adds, distracted, as Drusilla turns slightly. “What happened?”

Drusilla’s blood-red dress is torn, gashes in her sleeve revealing parallel cuts on her upper arm.

“He’s coming,” Drusilla says.

“Who? What?” Buffy has been injured fighting before, but these cuts are something new. Different. It looks like— “Someone with a big fork?”

“He will rip out your insides.” Drusilla shivers, unclasping her hands and holding them up, fingers curled, claw-like. Her nails look sharp. Very sharp. They look like they could cut throats.

“Okay,” Buffy says. “I’ll give you improved marks for that one. Ripping out insides—that’s a strong visual, it’s not cryptic!”

“He’s fast. Fast as the Slayer. But he’s scared, too. Of her.”

“Me?”

Drusilla shakes her head. “The insect,” she whispers, leaning in closer to Buffy. “Bzz. Bzzz.” She pulls back again, smiling. “Sweet dreams.”

“Is that it?” Buffy asks.

But Drusilla is gone.

Or rather, she’s still there, right in front of Buffy, but she’s dancing again—swaying to the music as if she’s deaf to everything else. Her eyes are closed.

Buffy thinks about the Drusilla in her dream, cross-legged on the floor with a sad smile on her face. Despite Dru’s apparent innocence, though, Buffy thinks that she should be afraid.

Why isn’t she afraid?

6

Buffy senses Drusilla before she sees her.

“Hey,” she says, as Drusilla sits down. “Guess I should thank you for that tip.”

Drusilla just smiles.

“‘Course,” Buffy says, “it would make things easier if I knew how to get in touch with you… or who you are…”

“Hmm,” Drusilla says.

“You know,” Buffy continues, “if I knew where you lived, or what your phone number is…”

“Don’t have a phone. Don’t have a home. Home is a beating heart.”

Buffy frowns. “Does that mean you’re for-real homeless, or just single?”

“Don’t have a beating heart,” Drusilla says again.

Buffy doubts that very much.

Chapter Text

7

Buffy feels a hand on her shoulder and spins to see… Drusilla. Of course. She seems to be the only one capable of sneaking up on her. It should be disconcerting, but Buffy’s too distracted by Dru’s attire to consider that at all.

“Hey,” she says, eyes wide. “Drusilla.”

Drusilla’s wearing a floor-length black lace dress and a red shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders as a finishing touch. She looks like a princess. Not the helpless kind that sits in a tower, waiting for some guy to save her, but the kind that stares down dragons in her spare time. Buffy respects that.

“I knew I’d find the Slayer here.”

Ah, Buffy thinks flatly.

“Yeah,” she says aloud, voice a little colder than it had been a moment ago. “The Slayer. Everyone wants to see the Slayer, but does anyone ever wanna see Buffy?”

“He will be chosen tonight. Chosen, as the Slayer was Chosen.”

“Ugh. Not you, too.” Buffy turns her back on Drusilla, begins to leave, but—

“It is written that the Slayer will die,” Drusilla says insistently.

Buffy rounds on her again, impatient. “I get death threats every day. Everyone’s all, ‘Slayer, prepare to die!’ but here I am, still kickin’! I’ll find this Anoint-y One, kill him, and we’ll all move on with our lives! Okay?” She turns to away, looking toward Owen as he picks his way through the crowd. “You see that guy over there? He came here to be with me.”

“A date?” Drusilla says, looking surprised and not the least bit mysterious.

“Yes! Why is it such a shock to everyone?!”

Owen approaches with two cups and hands one to Buffy, who accepts it, looking between Owen and Drusilla uncomfortably. “Um, Owen, this is Drusil—Dru. Dru, this is Owen.” She puts her arm around him, making a point. “Who is my date.”

Drusilla throws her head back and laughs, merry. Buffy glares at her.

“Uh,” Owen says, confused. He attempts a smile. “Hey. Where do you know Buffy from?”

“Dreams,” Drusilla says, just as Buffy says, “Work.”

Owen turns to Buffy. “You work?”

Buffy thinks it’s going to be a very long night.