Chapter Text
Crestwood Cemetery
"Duck!"
"What?"
"Duck, Will!"
Dropping to a crouch on the damp graveyard dirt, Willow watched as Buffy suddenly hurled her wooden stake through the air like a Roman spear, spinning with acute style as it whirled its way directly into the heart of a suit-clad man. Any normal person witnessing this chain of events would have assumed Willow had just allowed this blonde girl to, rather archaically, murder a man in cold blood. What these blissfully ignorant folks would have failed to notice, however, would have been the pasty nature of the man's skin, the unnatural grooves dragging from his forehead to the tip of his nose, and the pointy pearly-whites snarling in Buffy's direction. This was no man, they would only realize as he sunk his fangs into their necks, but a vampire. As the stake pierced his chest, the vampire stopped short, glancing down at the new hole in his body — the third one in the last twenty-four hours, counting the two semi-fresh ones in his neck — then back up at Buffy. If the words oh shit could become a facial expression, this guy nailed it perfectly. Almost as if on cue, his face fell from pale to ashen, as he exploded into a pile of soot.
Buffy smirked, swiftly grabbing the fallen stake from the ground behind Willow, and twirling it between her fingers. "Sorry about that."
"It's fine, just next time, maybe say something a little more specific?" She bounced back up, brushing dust and soil off her pumpkin-orange pants.
Buffy frowned. "Like what? I figured 'duck' was pretty good."
"Yeah, but, y'know… it could've been anything! Like a duck monster, or maybe you just saw something that reminded you of a duck."
"We're in a cemetery, Will."
"I know," Willow conceded, "But what about when you're not in a cemetery? Some poor duck-enthusiast is gonna get their hopes up, then bam! Dead."
Buffy chuckled, tucking her stake back into the duffel bag hanging off her shoulder. "Death by duck, huh? You may have a point. A weird point, but a point no less."
The two girls began walking along a grey gravel path further into the graveyard, passing row after row of tombstones. As far as cemeteries go, this one wasn't so bad. Oak trees were spread throughout the land, with the occasional bundle of wildflowers lining the stumps. On the less than vamp-active patrols, Buffy would allow herself to walk all the way across the yard, over to the small pond the city put in a couple years before she moved to Sunnydale. At night, she could hear the chorus of crickets hidden amidst the tall grass, and the ribbits of frogs resting on water lilies. The moon would sparkle on the still water in tandem with fireflies flashing amber, almost as if they had coordinated this performance just for her. On one quiet day, she decided to go back — the life of a Slayer didn't often allow her this kind of peace, no matter the hour. However, it seemed that even her "breaks" weren't quite as restful as she imagined. The normally vacant pond was surrounded by couples, young and old, sitting on checkered blankets with bountiful wicker baskets and goo-goo eyes. It was like something out of a romance movie, and she nearly gagged on the gooeyness of it all. Hey, Buffy was all for romance, but this was obscene. Yet… a small, teeny tiny, itty bitty part of her wanted this. The normalcy of it all was like salt, it offset the sugary cliché just enough to make it appetizing. Perhaps what made it especially desirable was the fact that she knew she couldn't have this. She wasn't meant for it, literally. According to a bunch of old guys from eons ago, Buffy was meant to slice-and-dice, stab, cut, kick, and punch her way through life — and die doing it. There was no time for romance, friends, family: these are not the sort of privileges a warrior gets. She already fudged the rules around friends and family, but romance is more… complicated, especially when your boyfriend is a vampire. Well, was. Was her boyfriend, she had to remind herself. At the time, Buffy wished she could have this kind of date with Angel, without the obvious "he doesn't eat food" and "he'd burst into flames" issues. But then, he left. He told her he was leaving, took her to prom, helped her explode a giant snake who just so happened to be the mayor… then he left. Really just your average high school break up, featuring a little homicide and destruction of public property.
"Buff?"
"Wha?" She snapped out of her thoughts, noticing Willow's slightly bunched brows.
"You were zoning." Willow worried her lip, looking at Buffy as though she could see the memories bumbling around her brain. "You wanna talk about it?"
"No, it's… don't worry, Will," Buffy assured her, adjusting the strap of her bag to sit higher on her shoulder, "I'm good."
"Really?"
"Really." She allowed a small smile to take temporary residence on her face, as she swung her hands to clasp in front of her. "So, what should I say? Instead of duck."
"Oh." Willow paused. "Maybe a good 'ol fashioned 'eek?' Definitely eliminates the idea of an actual duck."
"Hmm, bye-bye duck-enthusiasts." Buffy nodded with thought, as though this were truly a serious matter. "Not really with the specifics, though."
"Well, that's the beauty of it!" Willow grinned. "It says enough to send people a-runnin', but it doesn't outright say 'vampires are amongst us! Grr, argh!' Y'know?"
"Mhm. I guess it's settled, then. 'Eek' is our winner." She turned off the path, searching engravings on the headstones before her eyes lit up with recognition.
Willow stopped with her in front of the grave. "This our guy?"
Buffy shrugged. "I think so. There can only be so many Patrick Webers in Sunnydale."
She spun around, meeting Buffy with wide eyes. "Wait, Mr. Webers? From the movie theatre?" Willow gasped, letting her bookbag fall off her shoulder and into the crook of her elbow.
Buffy winced. "You didn't know? I thought Giles told you."
"Does this look like the face of someone who knew?" She slumped forward glumly, turning to face the headstone. "He used to give Xander and I free popcorn when we were little."
"Sorry, Will." Buffy grimaced, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. "You wanna go home? I can wait for him to rise by myself."
"No, but thanks. I'm… strangely used to it, now," Willow sighed, taking a step back,"You still need help with your course selections, right?"
"I was kind of hoping you'd forget. Along with the entire registrar's office." Buffy frowned, kicking at an uneven patch of dirt. "You don't have to help me with that, though. Really."
Willow's face brightened, ever so slightly. "No! That's, like, the best kind of pick-me-up. Don't you know how fun it is looking at courses?"
"It is?" Buffy scrunched her nose, voice filled with doubt.
"Oh, totally. There's so many cool classes, you'll be surprised. Pleasantly, I promise." She took Buffy's arm, ushering her around the side of a nearby grave — close enough to keep watch of poor Mr. Webers.
The two girls plopped side-by-side on the dewey ground, leaning back against the cold stone slab. Shrugging the bags off their arms, they began digging out the essentials: a pencil, an eraser, a crossbow, another stake, along with various sheets of paper. Thumbing the pencil in her hand, Willow flipped one of her papers to face Buffy.
"See? Look!" Willow beamed.
"I'm… definitely seeing. Seeing is happening." Buffy squinted, leaning in to look closer. "What's Psych105? You have it circled. In red. Twice."
"That's Professor Walsh's class," Willow gushed, "She's so cool. I read some of her old studies in the library… y'know, before it exploded?"
Buffy hummed noncomittally, quickly pointing to another course before Willow went off on one of her tangents. "And that?"
"Oh, I just thought that one was funny: 'Debunking the Undead.'" Willow grinned mischieviously. "Bet you'd have a lot to teach them, eh?"
Buffy chuckled, turning to look back at Patrick Weber's grave. Stakeouts always sucked more when she knew the person when they were alive. Even though the sallow blood-suckers digging their way out of their graves aren't technically the same as their living counterparts anymore, the formalities remained. Once in L.A., Buffy had to kill her undead dentist, and she kept expecting him to ask her how school was going before shoving some metal tool-thingy in her mouth. A little ironic, going from lecturing her on oral health, to suddenly trying to rip her throat out with his own teeth. Still, despite not really knowing this 'Mr. Webers' very well, she couldn't help but feel a little extra bad. It was hard not to imagine the poor man behind the popcorn counter at the small local theatre, handing buckets of buttered popcorn to smaller versions of Willow and Xander behind his manager's back with a conspiratorial wink.
"Hey, Buffy?"
"Mhm?"
Willow's green eyes flicked between her and the headstone. "If you hear him… you'll 'eek?'"
"I'll 'eek.'"
Sunnydale Motor Inn
After a slightly longer journey than necessary, the Impala finally rolled into Sunnydale late in the night. As far as small towns in the middle-of-nowhere California go, it looked pretty average. Green grasses, white picket fences, little convenience stores and family-owned shops — practically the suburban dream, for whoever's dreaming about suburbias. And yet…
"I don't like it." Dean had proclaimed, as him and Sam passed the 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign.
"What did you expect? It's California. You hate California," Sam reminded him, now sitting up front next to his brother.
"Ugh, don't remind me." Dean practically shuddered. "But seriously, I mean it, man. Something isn't right here."
"Nothing's ever 'right' where we go."
"I know, but…" He paused, glancing over at Sam as he pulled up in front of the tiny motel, "Can't you feel it?"
Sam knitted his brows, inspecting Dean like he would find the source of his distress stuck to his leather jacket like a piece of gum. "Feel what?"
Dean sighed, "Nevermind. It's late, I just need a drink."
"You sure you haven't had a few already?" Sam teased, swinging open the passenger door.
"Oh, ha ha." He deadpanned, sending Sam a very distinct stink-eye in response as he closed the Impala door.
They walked around back to the trunk, grabbing their large, decades-old duffle bags out and heaving them over their shoulders. As they began walking to the motel's reception, Dean stopped in his tracks, turning back to face the car with uneasy eyes.
"Now what?" Sam muttered, moving back next to him.
No answer.
"Dean?"
"I can't leave Baby out here."
"Dean."
"I know you think I'm insane, Sammy…"
"I do."
"Or that I'm drunk…"
"You could be."
Dean glared back at his younger brother's petulant expression with an air of disdain. Sam rolled his eyes, miming locking his lips and throwing the key over his shoulder.
"But," Dean continued, "I don't know what it is. Something ain't right."
Sam heaved out a sigh. "Listen, I get it, I do. I've had that feeling on almost every case, and it sucks. But that feeling? That 'something is deeply wrong here' dread? That's why we're here, Dean. To put a stop to that feeling, for good."
"Don't let it go to your head, but… you're right. Man, who'd a thought you would be the one coaching me on why we hunt?" He let out a light chuckle, shaking his head.
"You're telling me."
The brothers shifted their respective grips on their bags, and continued towards the door.
"Plus," Sam continued, "The place is called Sunnydale, which literally means 'Valley of the Sun.' That doesn't exactly scream demonic, now does it?"
"Yeah, you and your nerd brain have a point," Dean joked, "What could possibly happen here?"