 |
|
Chapter Three—Hellish Days Outside Medford, WI November 2, 2006 10 minutes to 10 PM Apocalypses came and apocalypses went, but crappy days lasted an eternity. Buffy inhaled the cold, stinging air, dragging it deep into her body. She let it out. From between her lips, hot breath flowed down over her silver cell phone, warming her hand. It felt good. She did it again. She was running out of time. Of course, it had been a long trip. They’d left for the airport at 3:30 in the morning. In the 10 or so hours it took to get them from Rome to Newark, because of the time zones and the magic of time gain-age, only 3 hours had passed. This rubbed Buffy the wrong way. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the extra day light. But somehow, it totally invalidated her lengthy, painful experience on board hell flight 109. Buffy had a new opinion. One she wasn’t shy about sharing. Compared to traveling by private jet, commercial transportation sucked. Waiting for two hours at the airport, struggling to get onto the already full airplane, and then dealing with all of the annoying other people was bad enough. But then, much to her sister’s amusement, Buffy tripped over a gorgeous, smirking jerk’s man-bag and twisted her knee, just before she had to get off the plane and race across the airport to another airline. Ok, super healing powers. And, granted, first class seats. But still. Total suck-age. Racking up another 4 ½ hours in the air and 4 on the ground, it was 5 pm before they arrived at Green Bay’s Austin Straubel International Airport. When they finally got to the rental car place, it was forty minutes before they got their car. During the wait, Dawn had called Willow, only to learn that Rona had missed her last check-in time. Holding out all day for non-airline food, starving, they headed straight for the nearest drive-thru, only to receive wilted salads for their trouble. Miserably putting the meal back in the bag after the first few bites, they moved on to Lisa’s apartment to check it out. After knocking a couple of times, Buffy kicked in the door with her good leg. Lisa’s toothbrush and some clothes were missing. There was nothing to indicate a struggle. The machine was full of Willow and Rona messages. The fridge and cupboards were stocked. Everything was as they expected. They paid the irate apartment manager to cover the cost of a new door and got out of town. Now they were lost. Buffy shook her head at their rotten luck and followed Dawn through the creaking, beat up door. Right away, she noticed the filthy windows. It was usually the first housekeeping faux pas she noticed. Her mother had always been a clean window devotee. Unless of course, the window in question had been smashed to smithereens by the demon of the week. In cases such as these, smudges, cracks, particle board, etc. were somehow permissible. Then Buffy saw the dirty, shabby curtains and her eyes sought out the other trouble areas, traveling around the room, right away she noted that the thin veneer of paint remaining on the walls was peeling. Looking up, she confirmed that thick dust covered every surface not kept clean by regular human traffic, from the baseboards to the rafters. On the bright side, though, plenty of wood to be broken into stakes in here, if the need arises. Then it hit her. The smell. After their recent trek through the darkness, her senses were on full alert. Sharpened beyond even her normal hunting awareness by an ocean of stress chemicals surging through her veins, Buffy held her breath against the barroom stench and tried to talk herself down. Maybe it was coming back home to the US after so long, but on the flight she had a nightmare about Dawn being stolen away. Instinctive concern for her sister had her adrenaline levels pumped to maximum—like a wolf keeping watch over her young in enemy territory. Buffy's eyes shuttered and she shook her head. She so needed to relax. She had been busy on the phone before they had come to the Roadhouse. Distracted. She saw the lights from a distance and didn’t think about what kind of place it was, and whether or not it would be safe for Dawn. She just wanted to get her sister out of the open woods, and in from the freezing, wintry night air. Taking a test breath, Buffy nearly gagged again on the smell of spilled, stale alcohol and cigarette smoke-soaked wood and leather. What I wouldn’t do for some of Willow’s incense, she thought, trying to breathe slowly and deeply. Funny, but now those little personal air filter/necklaces that she and Dawn had laughed at in the in-flight magazine seemed downright sensible. She was taking it all back now. Those things were not a bad idea. At all. Dawn muttered something about locating the bathroom. Buffy nodded, making a crackling sound in her ear as her cheek brushed against her cell. The rental car guy returned to the line and squawked at her. Buffy had been on hold five minutes, after being cut off twice. She needed this guy’s help, and yet, she was seriously displeased with his customer service skills. What was a girl to do? She looked down at her knee. Still swollen. She so was running out of time. Stay calm, she chided herself, as she listened to the world’s biggest moron making excuses for his manager’s total lack of backbone. Finally, she’d had enough. “What do you mean it’s my responsibility to maintain the engine while I’m in possession of the car?” she demanded angrily. “I’ve had the car for all of 5 hours and I’ve been behind the wheel almost the entire time. How much maintenance could I possibly do from inside the car, in that amount of time, to make up for your months, possibly years, of vehicular negligence?” Silence on the line. Someone in the room chuckled. His warm, deep voice was ice sliding down her backbone. She looked up. He was in front of her and to the left, sitting on top of the bar. A man. Exasperatingly sexy from head to toe, he stared at her. There was something rugged about him, something cowboy-ish about the eyes, but his clothes were Banana Republic meets mountain man. In other words, deadly chic without trying. Layered together, his black t-shirt and navy button down rode the line between form-fitting and uncomfortably tight. His jeans were too long. Not like they were meant to be, but like he couldn’t be bothered to have them hemmed. Even his bare feet—peeking out from underneath the ragged denim hem—were undeniably, unbearably sexy. Buffy dropped into the closest chair and tugged off her cream cashmere scarf. The man slid down from the bar. She eyed him warily. He didn’t approach her. He wasn’t threatening her in any way. And yet he disturbed her. Leaning against the bar with his fingers curled around the edge, he looked at her like he knew her, like they had shared something once and he was willing her to remember. “No. Really. Tell me. Please,” she said to the blockhead on the phone. “How am I responsible for your fiasco?” “Ma’am,” said the doofus. “Our lot is about to close. What do you think’s gonna happen tonight?” “What I want you to do,” she insisted, “is bring me another car.” More excuses from the whining imbicile she chose to tune out. The upside though, if there could actually be an upside during this day, was that her list of insulting names to call someone was getting a good, solid workout. Suddenly, she was glad she was in a chair. Her leg was now officially on fire. Tension knotted her shoulders as she pulled the rental agreement out of her ivory knit bag. She should have let Dawn drive. On the way out here to the back woods of Wisconsin, she could have iced her knee. Buffy peeked at the man standing opposite her. He was still staring. Assessing her. Undressing her. Irritated, she offered him her deadliest smile. Cupping the phone with her hand, she whispered, “Lover’s spat. Sorry.” He paled a little before he regained his composure. She smirked. Gotcha. Dawn came out and sat down at the table across from Buffy. She’d shed her long shearling coat to reveal her current favorite outfit, a hoodie and velvet jeans. Dawn was right, it was hot in there. Moron on the phone was being moronic again, shredding her last remaining nerve, so Buffy set the phone aside long enough to drop her pea coat over the back of her chair. Swiftly, she picked up the phone, hoping that her inattentiveness had gone unnoticed. Good, she thought, the guy’s still talking to himself. Then he lowered the boom. “No!” Buffy shouted into the receiver and suddenly stood up, startling Dawn and the stranger. “Not later tonight, and definitely not tomorrow. I’m calling you from a bar,” she said, slamming her hand down on the table. “I walked almost five miles to get here. In heels. With an injury. There are no hotels in sight. Hence, you are bringing me that car NOW!” The line went dead. He’d hung up on her. Grimly bracing herself, Buffy pocketed the phone and sat back down. Dawn feigned a cheerful grin. “Not coming until tomorrow?” “Shut. Up.” Absently, Dawn traced the hearted initials carved into the surface of the pine table. “What else is there to say? We’re stranded until the morning.” Hottie, the speechless wonder, walked away, heading down the back hallway. No doubt he needed to recruit some help to deal with Dawnie’s scintillating wit. Dean was glad for once that he was being ignored by a beautiful woman. As soon as he rounded the corner, he raced back to Ash’s ‘office’. He'd been trying to figure out how to let Sam know the girls were here without freaking Ash out. Pulling it together before opening the door, he fisted the knob, jerked the door open, and leaned inside the doorway. “Aw man, tell me you didn’t scarf up my chili cheese fries!” Ash moaned. “Nah, not done yet. Just thought I’d let you know there’s a couple of hotties out here.” Ash snickered, “Ladies of the hot-tay persuasion? Here? I think not.” “You don’t want to come say ‘hello’ to the girls?” Dean asked. Sam was still on the couch, one arm slung over his face. He shifted and rolled over to look at his brother. “Come on, Dean. Before we got here, we spent six hours clearing that poltergeist out of the canned dog food plant. We reek like Alpo and dirty warehouse and sweat and who knows what else.” Dean looked down at his shirt, tugged a piece of the fabric to his nose and sniffed. Then he shrugged. He didn’t smell that bad. Maybe Sam did. Just in case, he decided to stay upwind of his brother. Ash refused to get up as well. “I need my beauty sleep,” he groaned, flopping onto his other side. “OK,” Dean acquiesced. “Let’s go get a shower and crash. We can come back by here on our way out of town tomorrow.” Sam studied his brother. Something was up. Dean was acting strangely. There was a nervous eagerness in his eyes that hadn’t been there when he went to get food earlier, which was unusual, because even though he enjoyed them, Dean didn’t usually get this excited about a couple of disposable, one night-er girls. Either his brother was about to play the mother of all practical jokes on him, or these women were very much worth seeing. Reluctantly, Sam agreed and the two brothers headed for the door. In the other room, Buffy sighed and took her hair down. Running her fingers through it, she whispered, “Can’t you just fix it?” “What? Magick it all better?” Dawn rolled her eyes. “Sure, if I knew what was wrong with the car and how to fix it. But as it is, I’d have to do a full Gaian healing ritual on an inanimate, metallic object.” “So…big, bad spell?” “Yes, big. It’s a full blown ritual, Buffy.” Buffy made a face. “With candles and stinky herbs?” Dawn’s eyes got very big. Sarcasm alert. “And a trailing circle of orange magically delicious light!” Buffy nodded. “Ah.” “And no, not bad,” her sister smirked, “if you want to send up a space-shuttle-sized flare, giving away our position to the bad guys. Just think, that would be great for us! And oh-so convenient for them,” Dawn said, leaning forward so she wouldn’t be overheard by whoever was banging pots in the kitchen. “Then, they could come kills us in our recently repaired, Indiglo car, or just—I don’t know—get away before we find them.” “You can’t mask one tiny little ritual?” “I could try. But it depends on what kind of baddie we’re dealing with.” “Fat lot of good you are,” Buffy sighed. Dawn raised her shoulders once and dropped them. Reaching up, Buffy wove the sparkly black chop sticks back into her hair. “I gotta pee.” “Go then.” “Where is it?” Incredulous, Dawn stared at her. “Think it over. I just came from there.” Buffy knew she’d said something completely inane. But she stared back at Dawn tenaciously, just to be difficult. Looking around the room, Dawn raised her hands and shoulders in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture and replied flatly, “I can tell you this much, it’s not out here. Go. Seek. Find.” Shaking her head as Buffy left, Dawn got up and made her way over to the jukebox. Sometimes it totally bit to be a Slayer’s little sister. Especially when said cranky Slayer had grown used to having everyday things like travel totally go her way. Maybe a little musical therapy was what they both needed. Pressing the black rectangular buttons, slowly she flipped through the titles. Just before he and Sam reached the bar room, Dean said, “Ah man. I forgot my boots. Go on out, I’ll be right back.” Sam thought it was a little weird, but didn’t say anything about it. Heading into the bar, shock slammed into him, instantly rendering him fully awake. He stopped cold. Bracing his hands on both sides of the door frame, disbelief, desire, and something a little more sentimental, battled for supremacy in his eyes. Unaware of the man behind her, Dawn smiled to herself. OK. Serious lack of post-1977 rock right here. REO Speedwagon? Uh… No. Boston? No. Foreigner. No. She debated the merits of Pink Floyd as she flipped the CD page one more time. Yes! They had The Black Keys! Quickly, before Buffy got back, Dawn shoved five bucks into the machine. Selecting “I’ll Be Your Man,” she closed her eyes and waited. Louder than she expected, the music poured over her. She could feel the drums pounding in her chest. Her skin tingled. Lost in the moment, she began to sway. Clutching the top of the jukebox, she tilted her head back, rocked back and forth, and rolled her hips to the beat. Softly, she began to sing, “Need a new love? Hey, I’m ready…” Stymied, Sam sensed the presence of his brother behind him. “How? Why is she--” Sam whispered disjointedly as he watched the slender wisp of a girl move in time to the music, dancing just for the joy of it. “For the love of—Have you ever seen… anything so…” “Actually, I just did. About 2 minutes ago when her sister was in here,” Dean said, wedging himself between his brother and the door frame, looking around for Buffy. Sam grabbed Dean by the shirt, pushing and pulling him back down the hall. “This is insane,” Sam muttered. “Buffy and Dawn are both in the building….” “Yeah.” “How?” “Dude, their car broke down,” Dean laughed, his eyes shining like a little kid on Christmas morning. “Get. Out.” Suddenly two doors along the hall opened at the same time, the bathroom door to their left and Ash’s door to their right. Buffy crossed the ladies’ room threshold just before Ash came out of his office. As soon as he saw her, a gurgling sound erupted from the back of Ash’s throat. Then he whispered, “Buffy! The Slayer! Is here!” As the song ended, Dawn heard a scuffling noise. Her eyes snapped open. Coming back to herself and feeling a little self-conscious, she let go of the jukebox and looked the room over. No one was there. Choosing the rest of her play list—one heavily guitar-ed, bluesy song after another—she gave serious consideration to resuming her dance. From behind her, she heard a squeaky door open, and a woman called out, “Dean, I didn’t know you-” Dawn pivoted, ready to do battle, and a whole tray of chili cheese fries tumbled toward the floor. Dawn waved a hand and stopped it. The woman who dropped the fries only seemed mildly interested in the frozen upside-down plates. She reached out and pulled them back onto her tray as if she plucked fries from the air every day. Maybe she was shell-shocked by the magicks? Dawn wondered. Either way, the woman set the tray down on the bar and stared at Dawn. What was the deal with these Midwestern people? What was so fascinating about her, compared to floating food? Didn’t their mothers teach them about not staring? “Hey. I’m Ellen,” the woman croaked finally. Wiping her hand on her jeans, she moved toward Dawn. How is it that this rural woman is so comfortable with magick? Wasn’t this the Bible belt or something? Dawn thought as she accepted the trembling, chili-free hand with a bewildered smile. “Dawn Summers,” she said. Down the hall someone yelled. Then there was a crash, a series of grunts, and some pounding noises. Without warning, a man came flailing into the room. Buffy emerged. She was not happy. The outgoing Ellen notwithstanding, Dawn waved a hand. All the exterior door bolts in the building slid into the locked position. Ellen and the men were visibly startled, but no one was talking. “How do you know me?” Buffy asked the man on the floor. “How do you know I’m a Slayer?” He slithered back from her, crawling on his elbows and hands, anything that would propel him backwards. From behind Buffy, two more men emerged—the man who was sitting on the bar and another one. Dawn didn’t like the look of him. The second one. He smiled. She couldn’t help but smile back and it tore little pieces from her. He grinned in return, hopefulness in his expression, like he was asking her to just forget how insufferably attractive he was, and just take the rest of her life getting to know the man on the inside. Dawn turned away. He was absolutely flawless in face and form, with a light sprinkling of the reluctant hero thing going for him, just to keep life interesting. He was Conall Cernach. St. George. Frickin’ Lancelot. He turned his head and his adorable, overly-long bangs fell across his eyes. She fought the urge to gag. Men with smiles that riveting were always horrible demons in disguise, especially the ones with perfect abs peeking out from under their shirts when they crossed their arms. This was true so often, it was practically the law. Everybody knew that. Dawn stole a look at him and weighed the evidence. OK, 1) this man was just a little too perfect to look at to be human, and 2) he seemed sweet and earnest on the surface, and...So, logically, he was a demon. 'A' plus 'B' always equaled 'C'. Had to be. Even if she were wrong this one time, in her experience, it was always better for a girl to be with someone like the other man. The bad boy type. Especially if said girl was smart enough to see him for what he was. Entertainment. Nothing more and nothing less. Besides, bad boys were almost always human, rarely disappointed you—if you knew going in to protect your heart—sometimes they surprised you with rare, random acts of grace. “Ma’am,” Mr. Perfect said to Buffy, “If you could just calm down.” Dawn winced. His rich, soothing tenor rolled over her skin and heated her blood. She so hated it when demons played their annoying little mind tricks on her. Just don’t look at him, she reminded herself. Think of something else. Like… chocolate. No. Like sex. No! The Joe Dirt wannabe on the floor twittered nervously. Had she said that out loud? Sex & chocolate! No! No! No! “Dawn!” Buffy growled, and immediately Dawn knew her sister, who was edging toward her, was asking her to be prepared to defend herself. Flustered, Dawn looked back at the man. No, she definitely didn’t think much of Mr. Perfect, with his perfectly chiseled features, and his perfectly hard—toned! Toned! she corrected herself---body, and his perfect hair that was too long in the front and did that little flippy thing at the ends in the back. She didn’t get it. What was the purpose of the flippy? Her fingers itched for some scissors to snip that ridiculous stuff off. “Dawn!” This time, Dawn summoned her favorite battle axe to her hand from the car and settled down in her stance, preparing for an attack. The strangers inhaled sharply. For a tense moment no one spoke. Not like Buffy’s big, highly-anticipated attack was going to be strenuous. Glancing down at her blade, Dawn noticed that even in the dim light of the bar, it was glint-y. She really preferred the battle axe to the sword, as it always seemed to deliver more cleaving power against a smaller target area, like a man-shaped demon, for example. There was even a little chain at the end of hers, so she could wear it on her arm or tie it to her horse, if she had a horse. Plus, it was light, compact, and Celtic accessories were sooo pretty! Of course, swords were still good for larger demons- ‘DAWN!’ Buffy yelled at her telepathically. ‘Alright, alright,’ Dawn called back, inside her head. ‘I’m focused.’ Ellen must have realized they were distracted. She rushed between Buffy and the men. “No! Wait!” she exclaimed. “We’re not demons. We’re Hunters. They’re Hunters.” “Hunters?” Buffy asked testily, as she sidestepped Ellen to get to the men. “What do you hunt? Werewolves?” The two men standing shrugged and almost assented, but man on the floor clambered to his feet. “No!” he insisted. “They’re free-lance demon hunters. Like their daddy…” “Oh,” Buffy said, turning toward them. “Why didn’t you just say so? Is that how you know me?” “Whistler had a picture of you,” mullet guy said. “He showed us.” Buffy looked doubtful. “You know Whistler?” “Doesn’t everybody?” “I guess,” Buffy muttered, glancing back at Dawn, who had her eyes focused up like a circus juggler and was busy flipping her axe in the air and catching it. The panic in mullet guy’s tone told Buffy that they feared her, which meant that she was a threat to them and probably not the other way around. Distracted by her thoughts, her throbbing knee, and a new round of hunger pangs, she tilted her head toward the topsy-turvy pile of plates and fries on the bar, and asked, “What happened there?” “Oh, I forgot all about those,” Ellen said vaguely. “Your sister surprised me, and made those float.” This startled Dawn, whose axe fell blade-down to the floor, lodged in a wooden plank, and vibrated. Buffy turned and glowered. Embarrassed, Dawn groaned as she waved the axe back to the car and watched the clean up scene unfold. Naturally, Mr. Perfect came charging forward to help. She moved in to help as well, but before she could get there, the dishes were gathered and on their way back into the kitchen. Buffy nodded to her. Dawn unlocked the doors before sitting down at the round table. She laid one hand on the surface and the table tilted to the left, making a satisfying ‘thump’. Dawn did it again. And again. And again. Mullet head pulled up a chair next to her. “Soo… Ladies.” Buffy, who was about to sit down and tell Dawn to knock it off, wrinkled her nose and backed up. Then Dawn caught a whiff of it, too. “What is that smell? Sewage?” “It was him. My brother, Sam,” the handsome bar-sitter said, shifting the blame and gesturing toward the kitchen. “It’s lingering.” Buffy grimaced. “I don’t think it was only him.” “Ash!” the bar-sitter exclaimed, “Did you forget to take a shower again?” Ash sniffed the air around him and grinned at Buffy. Proudly, he proclaimed, “Yes I did!” Like it was a good thing. “Ellen! Ash forgot to shower again. Maybe you should drive him home,” the bar-sitter hollered at the kitchen. The man called ‘Ash’ began to protest, but Ellen was back and ushering him toward the door. Then to Buffy, the bar-sitter said, “He’s had a little too much to drink. Don’t judge. It’s sad. Really. She’s taking him home to sober up.” “Ah,” Buffy said, and then continued pointedly, “But not you. You haven’t had too much to drink.” “I can handle my liquor.” Buffy frowned. “Fabulous.” Through covert glances, Buffy watched as intelligent, cautious eyes scoured her for information. He was looking for a way past her defenses. Something in the back of her mind shifted and whispered to her, ‘He wants our weakness.’ Too bad. She wasn’t feeling like trading war stories tonight with enthused amateurs. He was too beautiful, too painful to watch, let alone get to know. It would be disastrous, she reminded herself. Look away. Look anywhere. She couldn’t. She was staring. He didn’t seem to mind. Seconds ticked away as she looked him over. The planes and angles of his face were sharp as sheet metal, cut and layered over flesh. His shoulders and chest were so broad they went on for miles. He was tall and taut—a crossbow string pulled back, preparing to fire. By cruel contrast, his lips looked so… soft. Buffy shook herself inwardly. The other man, Sam, the one who bothered to put on shoes today and had helped the woman in the kitchen, was in every way superior. He had kind eyes, and a warm, approachable way about him. Buffy liked him immediately. Unconscious of what she did and the impact on both men, she beamed at Sam as soon as he returned, warming to the safety he represented. He felt like Xander, somehow less compelling than the barefoot guy, and therefore, less dangerous. After the Immortal had totally annihilated her, heart and soul, she found that she had a new appreciation for ‘nice’ in a man. Then Sam turned and stole a covert, hungry look at Dawn. Buffy’s back shot up. “Can I buy-” he began. “We!” interrupted barefoot guy. “Can we buy you ladies a beer?” Dawn snorted. “Not unless you want to play Clan of the Cave Girl.” “What?” the men asked in unison. “Really? Can we? Please?” said the barefoot guy, turning his challenging, seductive eyes on Buffy. Her right hand drew itself into a fist in her lap. Oh, how she wanted to take a shot at his smug, perfectly-bronzed face. Through clenched teeth she said to Dawn. “Had. To. Be. There.” Then Buffy returned her attention to the man. “Since you weren’t, let’s not. It’s better this way.” “I don’t think that’s possible,” barefoot guy said, denying her any relief. Dawn’s eyes met Buffy’s, and Buffy knew she was in trouble. Leaning forward, Dawn braced her hands on the table, and stood. Conspiratorially, she murmured, “None who survived that fateful night got out unscathed.” Buffy tilted her head to look at the men’s faces. They were captivated. Taking the long way, Dawn moved slowly around the table toward them, offering barefoot guy a sexy smile. He watched her like a cobra watches its charmer. Just beyond the reach of his hand, she locked eyes with him and eased by, whispering, “Buffy’s an animal.” He gaped at Dawn like he’d just been sucker punched. However, Dawn should have been paying more attention to her sister. Buffy stuck out her good foot and tripped her. Sam lurched forward to catch Dawn. Buffy raised an eyebrow at barefoot guy. He shifted uncomfortably. Interesting. Sam had good reflexes, which Dawn apparently didn’t appreciate. “Thanks,” Dawn grumbled, pushing against his chest and disentangling herself from his arms. He shrugged and offered her a boyish grin. “It’s what I live for.” “Seriously though,” barefoot guy asked Dawn. “What happened?” “Seriously though,” Buffy replied sarcastically. “We don’t drink. End of story.” “Vandalism,” Dawn whispered eagerly, leaning against the table. “Arson. Attempted murder. We were scarred. All of us. For life.” Buffy offered the man her best combat glare. “You don’t want that,” she growled. Something tightened inside him, down low, and Dean shifted. Smiling wickedly, two words rumbled up from deep in his chest. “I might.” Buffy sighed impatiently. “Sorry. Not good with the hint-y games. You want to have sex with me? Is that what you’re saying?” “Well… uh,” he hesitated, beginning to understand that her seeming aversion to him wasn’t a flirtatious round of playing hard to get, nor was it going away any time soon. Buffy mocked him with a blissful smile. “I can tell you’re really excited about the possibility. I love enthusiasm.” She winked. “It really turns me on.” Dawn grabbed Buffy’s hand and pulled her toward the door. “What is with you?” “Me?” Buffy cried, a little too loudly. “Stinky barefoot started it.” “He’s a total hottie, and you know it.” “I didn’t say he wasn’t. He’s also stinky. And he seems to have misplaced his shoes. I think you’re focusing on the least important of our three, vital—not to mention only—pieces of information about him.” Dawn took another look at him. “Which are?” “Stinky. Shoeless. Hot,” Buffy said, counting them out on her fingers. “In that order.” Dawn glanced over her shoulder again. He looked at her, and there was a kind of desperate, destitute pleading in his eyes that tarnished his looks a little, but gave the terminal rogue’s face a brief halo of sincerity. This troubled Dawn. Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to her there might be more to him than any other street-wise player with intimacy issues and attitude. She shook her head and looked Buffy in the eyes. “No. I don’t think so. You can bathe him and put shoes on him, but that much hotness does not wash off. It’s permanent, as in very, as in yummy.” “Then for the sake of your nose, please try to talk him into taking a bath. I’m heading back out there to see if I can pick up Lisa and Janine’s trail tonight.” Buffy turned and began to move toward the door. Dawn locked it from 10 feet away. Buffy whirled around. “Open the damn door, Dawn.” Sitting down at the bar, Dean and Sam watched the sisters’ argument escalate. Leaning over, Dean asked his brother, “Hey, how come you got the nice one?” Nonplussed, Sam replied, “Hello. I called her.” “Right.” Under her breath, Dawn hissed, “I’d love to help him into the tub, believe me. But, unfortunately for him, he can’t take his eyes off of you.” Buffy looked over at the men. Taken aback, she asked, “Who?” “Ugh! You know. Stinky.” “They’re both stinky. And I’m out of here,” Buffy replied stubbornly, preparing to tear the door off its hinges if necessary. Dawn knew that look. She sighed, unlocked and opened the door for Buffy. Suddenly, Sam rushed in to do the rescue thing again. “Ladies! Please. If you could just… just wait a minute. We haven’t even had the chance to introduce ourselves. My name is Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean.” As if she were completely disinterested, Dawn said, “Hey.” Buffy crossed her arms and looked at the ceiling. “We’re sorry that we haven’t showered yet,” he apologized. Dawn cast a searing look at her sister. The guys had heard the whole thing. Sam noted the exchanged, and continued smoothly, “But we worked almost all night last night, and then came here to see Ash. He has a room in the back. We stayed up late watching TV and fell asleep. We just woke up, and haven’t had a chance to get back to our hotel for a shower.” Buffy had a flash of Dean stretched out on a couch, hair tousled, sleepy eyes, soft lips… Soft lips on her skin… She could almost feel them. Shaking herself, Buffy shoved the images out of her mind, fighting down the impetus to run far, far away. “Ok,” Dawn nodded, her exhaustion coming through in her voice. “Sounds plausible. Right sis?” “Maybe,” Buffy said, leaning against the doorjamb, letting the damp night air in, not giving an inch. “In the loser dimension.” Sam looked like he had been struck. Dean was clearly about to say something rude. “Buffy!” Dawn cried. Buffy shook her head, rubbed her eyes tiredly, and relented. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just not having a very good day.” Dawn grinned widely and played the intermediary. “Good. See guys. Making progress. I’m Dawn Summers, and as you know, she’s my sister, Buffy.” Then, smiling at Sam, she asked, “You mentioned a hotel?” Previous Chapter Fruit of Her Hand Menu Chapter Four - Fugitive Motel |
