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Buffy was wakened from sleep by the insistent screeching of her alarm clock. Her hand shot out, slapping at the disturbance. It was only when she heard a cracking sound that she opened her eyes and stared at her newly broken alarm clock.

"Figures," she mumbled, throwing off the covers and heading for the bathroom. Pushing open the door, she turned on the light and grabbed her toothbrush.

As she brushed her teeth, her frustrations ran through her head on repeat one. Breaking things was just one more problem tacked on to those she’d been having as of late. It was like all of her body was on high alert: senses, agility, instincts, and overall strength. If she really was a Slayer like Spike said she was going to have to learn to readjust her reflexes.

Bleary-eyed, she stripped off her t-shirt and sweats and jumped in the shower. The hot water fell like fingers to massage the flesh of her back and shoulders. She tilted her head sideways to the stream, letting the water pour down her front.

Unbidden, Spike came to front of her mind. Soaping up her hair, she tried hard not to think about her weakness of the previous night. The memory of Spike’s lips on hers sent her blood pulsing, a flush spreading over her skin that had nothing to do with the hot water spraying down on her.
No matter that she wanted him; it was a problem that he knew her secret. It was something that could be held against her, a soft spot to the reputation she’d built up, with the world and, more importantly, her father.

Buffy remembered her mother’s last words to her before the tumor had taken over her brain. Lying in bed, her hands shaking and IV lines running up from her arms, she had taken Buffy’s hand and whispered anxiously to her.

"Buffy, you’ve got to be strong. I’ve tried to hold on for you, baby, to teach you. Don’t show your father any weakness; he’ll use it against you."
At eight years old, the words had made no sense. Daddy was her favorite, he bought her toys and treats and pretty dollies. But in the eleven years since then, she’d come to understand her mother’s warning.

Everything her father did was a test of some sort, a prod to examine her head as if trying to find something, some secret or hidden talent. It hadn’t been a problem before.

Only now there was something to find.

The last of the soap off, she jerked the curtain back only to have it rip from the rings that held it with a series of loud pops. She sighed, stepping around the half-felled curtain and onto the tile.

Towel drying her hair, she looked at her make-up less face in the mirror and was amazed at how young she appeared. She tried a smile, a pout, a forced laugh, but her face sank back into blankness.

Frustrated with her fancies, she turned from the mirror and went back into her room. She’d see to fixing her bathroom later.
She dressed in black, the only splash of color a red scrunchie holding back her long blond hair.

It was time to go see Daddy.


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At an airport not so many miles away, Rupert Giles exited his terminal with a single carryon bag. He walked among the crush of people with single-minded intent: find Buffy.

Of course logic denied that being his first action. He would find lodging, make contact with the necessary Council liasions in the area, and then go hunting. The weapons, well, they would be Fed-Exed later in the week, and additional clothes could be purchased to add to the small pack he’d rushed together.

He hailed a taxi as he came out of the terminal entrance, sliding into the back seat before any one else could. Curiosity and 18 years worth of rage warred with logic as the driver looked back at him expectantly. Really, would it hurt just to get a look at her first?

"Beverly Hills," he said to the driver, feeling logic slip easily aside at the decision.

Then he stared out the window at LA’s smog and lost himself to the past.

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Buffy walked into the library quietly, glancing only briefly at the picture that covered the stairwell descending down to Spike’s daytime resting place. She forced him from her mind as she came to the front of her father’s desk. His back was to her, but she knew he’d know of her presence since even before she’d entered the room.

Hank Summers slowly turned his desk chair, the leather squeaking lightly as he came around to acknowledge her. Buffy felt like she was granted an audience with a man of too many faces: father, boss, king.

"Ah, Buffy. I see you’re up. Feeling alright after last night’s performance?"

"Fine. Little tired is all."

"Good, good." He rose from his chair, came out to where two other chairs sat side by side and gestured to the one closest to her.

"Have a seat."

She did, sinking slowly down into the not-so-comfortable chair. That he’d chosen the library for this conversation and not the den indicated that it was a serious matter.

"These latent abilities of yours, when did you start noticing them?" he asked, straight to business as he sat in his own chair next to her. She kept her face blank.

"I don’t know," she said slowly.

"I’ve been feeling a little bit more, I don’t know, energized. And then at the party it just sorta came out."

"Have you done anything recently? Been in any new situations? Had sex with someone new?"

Her insides darkened, but she hoped her face stayed unreadable as she gave a mild reply.

"Not since you had the gardener taken out when I was 16." Hank looked at her puzzled, then gave a deep laugh.

"Alright, Buffy. I won’t push it. But I have decided we’re going to be testing these abilities of yours, try to get a feel for what you’re capable of."

Her blood pulsed hot beneath her skin, and there was a bad taste in her mouth.

"What kind of tests?"

"Nothing much. Just a few experiments to test the nature and strength of your powers. Perfectly harmless and nothing you haven’t dealt with before."

"When?" she asked, mind racing.

"We’ll start on Saturday."

That gave her a two-day reprieve. She could figure out a lot in two days.

"Ok."

Hank put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

"It’s important. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to my best girl."

Buffy gave a small smile at the childhood endearment.

"No, you’re right." She gave him a light hug.

"Thanks Daddy."

But inside her, her heart sank.

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The sun hadn’t been down two minutes when Spike went looking for Buffy. She wasn’t in her room, or in the kitchen or in any of the dens.

He finally found her in the Nissan, head resting on her steering wheel.

"Slide over," he said as he opened her car door.

"Fuck you," she said without raising her head.

"Later, pet. Right now we need to talk."

"We talked last night," she said, still not moving.

"That was a lesson, not talking."

She finally lifted her head and looked at him.

"I don’t want to talk."

"We won’t here," he said, with just enough inflection that she slid over into the passenger seat.

"Nothing’s different," she said as he got in and started up the car.

"You’re wrong, pet. Everything's different now," he said grimly, and put the car into gear.

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