A/N: This was written after I rewatched Drop Dead Fred for the umpteenth time. Many thanks to PaganBaby for beta reading. Hope you enjoy :)

Chapter One

The first time she saw him, Buffy thought she was going crazy. It was understandable – she had been pulled out of heaven just a couple of weeks earlier, surely she could be forgiven for seeing things?

When she saw him again, she put it down to lack of sleep. Between getting back into slaying, trying to look after Dawn, and all-night drinking binges with Spike, she hadn’t been getting much rest. And no one else could see him - so hallucination was a logical conclusion.

When he began to appear four or five times a day – she saw him out the corner of her eye or reflected in the bathroom mirror, she fell into that good old Buffy standby – denial. She refused to believe that she was seeing things, because that would mean she was crazy, and being crazy? So not good.

When he became a constant presence, the shadow over her shoulder no matter where she went, what she did or who she saw, she began to get angry. Hadn’t she been through enough? She’d died and been ripped out of eternal rest only to be thrust back into the harsh, cold world and now she had to put up with a mystical stalker? It just wasn’t fair.

Unfortunately, the anger bubbled over when she was in the fresh fruit and veg aisle in the middle of the grocery store.

“What the hell are you?” she said, whirling around, waving a cucumber in the air menacingly. “And why have you been following me around for the past week?”

An old woman who had been busy counting brussel sprouts into a paper bag gave Buffy an alarmed look, and began edging towards the apples. “I’m sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else.”

The man – for this being who had followed her every move was definitely man-shaped, despite the little blue horns poking through his hair – smirked, but said nothing.

Buffy glared at him, and because he was standing right in front of Brussel Sprout Lady, it appeared as though the glare was directed at her.

“Are you all right, dear? Do you need me to call for some help?”

“Huh?” Buffy said, distractedly, as she studied the – what? Demon? Ghost? “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

The woman nodded, put her sprouts into her cart, and hurried away. Buffy watched her go with disinterested eyes, before turning her attention back to the thing before her.

“Well? What are you?”

“Darlin’, the polite thing to ask would be ‘Who are you?’” He had an odd accent, Scottish perhaps, softened with an American twang. “And it’s about time you said something to me. Been waiting all week for you to start a dialogue.”

“I thought I was seeing things,” Buffy replied, suddenly realising that she was attracting one too many strange looks from curious shoppers. She abandoned her half-filled cart next to the potatoes and made her way to the front of the store. Her stalker followed behind her, just like he had done all week.

Once they were out of the store, and a little way down the sidewalk, she turned back to him and placed her hands on her hips.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, who are you? What do you want with me?”

“Ned,” he stuck out his hand, “Ned McNabb. And I come in peace.”

All of her Slayer instincts were telling her not to trust this man, to catch him in a headlock and make him talk, but something else told her to wait it out, that he wouldn’t hurt her.

Buffy stared down at his outstretched hand in confusion, and then reached out slowly to grasp it, “Oh,” she said, “I expected you to be all… go-throughy. I’m Buffy, by the way.”

She began walking again, her subconscious automatically taking her to the nearest cemetery.

“I know,” Ned replied, “it’s kind of my job to know.”

“Your job?” Buffy said, raising an eyebrow. Now it seemed they were getting to the crux of the matter.

“Yep,” Ned reached into the pocket of his loose-fitting plaid pants, and pulled out a square of yellow card, which he then handed to Buffy.

She glanced down at the card, eyes widening as she read the words printed in purple ink.

NED MCNABB
Professional Imaginary Friend
Since 1907


“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Buffy said, squeezing her eyes closed and praying that when she opened them, Ned would have disappeared. No such luck.

“Nope, no kidding here,” he bounced on the balls of his feet, and looked around. “A graveyard, huh? Nice place to go for a twilight stroll.”

“This is kinda my job,” she said, and rubbed her temples. She felt a headache coming on. “Look, who’s put you up to this? Was it whoever did the crazy time loop-de-loop with the evil mummy hand?”

“Hey, no one put me up to this but you. See, I get assigned lost souls – the people who need a shoulder to cry on, or some sort of guidance in their life. You’re my new assignment.”

Buffy groaned. “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.”

“You can say it as many times as you like, darlin’, but I’m not going to go away. Not until you’ve resolved whatever issue you have.”

“Issue! Geez, have you met me? My whole life is one long issue!” Her face fell. “God, I’m never going to be rid of you, am I?”

“I’m going to be here until you’ve got yourself back on track,” Ned said, then reached out to pat her shoulder comfortingly. “Most people get over whatever problem they’re having within a month of meeting their Imaginary Friend.”

“Yeah?” Buffy snorted, “Well do most people risk their lives nightly saving the world from demon threats? Have they been pulled out of heaven by their best friends? Do they have a little sister who’s turning into a juvenile delinquent and is probably going to be taken away by social services? Or hey, have these people got their very own pet vampire whose idea of a good time is to follow the Slayer around making puppy-dog eyes?”

She’d started pacing during her tirade, arms gesticulating wildly, and Ned looked scared.

“Er, not quite,” he said, “but I’m sure if we take it little by little, I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

“Can’t you just leave now? Tell your bosses or whoever that my issues are sorted, yada yada yada?”

“No can do,” Ned shook his head, “I’m stuck here until your life is sorted out.”

“Get ready for a long stay,” Buffy said.

“I’m starting to realise that,” Ned frowned. “I knew I should have taken the mass murderer in Kansas City.”

**

Spike plunged the stake into the fledgling’s heart, and grinned when it exploded into dust. Call him a traitor to his kind, but watching a vamp dust was always satisfying.

He shook out his coat, brushing off the ashes that clung to the leather, and lit a cigarette. He’d killed five vamps already, perhaps it was time to call it a night and head to Willy’s. That, or see if he could track down the Slayer.

A distant voice caught his attention, and he smirked as he heard Buffy ranting at something.

Spike took a last drag of his cigarette, then crushed it to the ground beneath his boot and set off in the direction of her voice.

He closed his eyes slightly as he walked, calling forth a mental picture of what she would look like: all fire and passion, long blonde hair bouncing enticingly as she fought, a stake in one hand as she kicked and punched her way to victory. Her face would be flushed with exertion and she’d end the fight with a witty pun. She would be perfect.

Spike finally came across the Slayer next to the old Anderson tomb. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair did bounce enticingly, but there was no stake and no demon.

Just Buffy, pacing up and down, waving her hands around in the air, and talking to herself.

“Can’t you just leave now? Tell your bosses or whoever that my issues are sorted, yada yada yada?”

He watched as she cocked her head, as though listening to something, then put her hands on her hips.

“Get ready for a long stay,” she said. Spike glanced around, looking for whoever she might be talking to. There was no one else there: they were alone in the cemetery.

“Talking to yourself, Slayer?” he said, unable to keep quiet for any longer.

Buffy jumped, and turned to him in surprise. “Spike!” She groaned. “Great, my other stalker.”

“What you on about?” Spike frowned. Other?

She didn’t answer, just turned to face away from him, eyes concentrated on an empty piece of grass. “Well I think I should be able to,” she said, pouting. “They’ll all think I’m crazy.”

Spike scratched his head. “You all right, Slayer?”

When she didn’t answer, and continued talking to thin air, Spike rolled his eyes.

“Why do I always go for the loony ones?”