WITH INTEREST
by perletwo
Buffy's cheek muscles ached from her pasted-on smile. Six hours she'd been at this. "Welcome to Doublemeat Palace, what can I get for you today?"
On the one hand, working the register she didn't have to get grease all over herself, or feel her nose going numb from the godawful smell of frying tallow on the grill, or worst of all have a good look at the raw ingredients of the DMP delicacies.
On the other, though, the counter station meant she had to shift from foot to foot and forcibly hold her grin in place while mouth-breathers like this one talked over her head, literally, while studying the menu above her like it was holy writ. {{C-*mon,* }} she thought irritably. {{It's the same as every menu at every DMP in Cali. What's so frickin' *hard?*}}
And all the stations had some common annoyances. The heat level was a misery, and the mix of grease, sweat and cheap polyester made heat prickles and skin rashes a common complaint among the DMP Family. Her healing factor prevented that, but did nothing for the discomfort. The noise level was ridiculous. There was the aforementioned smell problem. And ever since Spike had mentioned the fluorescent lighting, she'd been feeling eye-strained and headachy from them.
"Okay, that's a Doublemeat Deluxe Combo with no onions, fries and a diet?" {{You could use a diet, fella,}} she thought, eyeing her customer's midsection while punching the appropriate pictographs on the soft keypad.
Spare Tire fell into conversation with the customer she'd waited on before him, also waiting for his order. Buffy fought down a sigh. Yet another new trainee meant the assembly line was slower than it should be. Leaving Counter Girl to take the flak for it, of course. Although these guys seemed to be taking the delay well, that was something.
The fluorescent lights flickered above her, catching her eye. Spike. He hadn't been back here in the week since she'd got herself un-fired. In fact she'd hardly seen hide nor hair of him; the one time she *had* seen him it was catching him leaving her house after a sneaky TV-and-cocoa session with Dawn.
"You got tickets yet?" Spare Tire asked the big black guy beside him. "Aww yeah, 20 of 'em," Big Guy answered. "I *mean!* Seventy million! Could buy a lotta cheeseburgers with that kinda green!"
Damn. More lottery chat. It was all anyone could talk about since the multi-state jackpot broke $50 million the week before, and she was to the point where just the word 'ticket' made her feel like a hot knife was twisting her gut. "Here's your combo, sir, and an extra fried pie on the house, sorry about the wait," she chirped, and Big Guy headed off.
{{Give my eyeteeth to know what Spike and Dawn were talking about,}} she grumbled to herself. Instead of asking, she'd gone into perky-cheerleader mode, warbling on about how well she was settling in to the new job and how much she liked the new lady manager they'd sent. Dawn made appropriate noises, but Spike had just smirked that infuriating smirk and cocked the scarred eyebrow in that way he had, the way that said, {{Now, you know and I know that's bullshit.}}
She dished up Spare Tire's meal and took advantage of the lull to sink down on her forearms on the counter, relieving the pressure on her lower back. Sighing gratefully, she ran her hands through her hair, working the grease/sweat mixture through the gold strands. {{Two more hours. Please, *please* don't let my relief pull a no-show...}}
In the basement of the Magic Box, Anya gathered up the supplies she'd just finished with, while Spike applied a dustmop to the floor, erasing the chalk circle and sigils. "Thanks again, Anya. 'Preciate this. Really," he said as he worked.
"Ah, no problem, Spike. You're a steady, paying customer - well, *mostly* paying, I guess. You're kinda, sorta like a friend to me and Xander. And I know you more or less know what you're doing here, unlike *some*overly*ambitious* people I could mention *but*won't.* So I'm happy to act as your second anytime you want to cast a minor spell or two." Anya smiled. "So what's this about, anyway? What did you want a glimpse into the future for?"
He shrugged. " 'S'a secret, luv. Not that I don' trust *you,* just, I tell anyone an' I risk blowin' the whole gig, ri'?"
"Ooh-*kay* then. I know how to take a hint." The blonde ex-demon got a sneaky twinkle in her eye. "Besides, I'm sure if it's all that important to you...it probably has something to do with making Buffy happy."
"I *beg* y'r pardon! I resent that!" The vampire's chest puffed out in a mockery of injured pride. "It - it could *just* as easily be to make *Dawn* happy, y'know!" Deflating, he shook his head sadly. "Dear *God* could I - BE - any more whipped?!"
Anya laughed. "It's okay, Spike. Really. I'm all for making any of the Summers women happy. We've all tried and been -" she made a whistling sound accompanied by a nose-diving hand motion. " - shot down. If you've figured out a better way, well, more power to you, I say."
"Thanks, luv." He gave her a peck on the cheek and shambled off through the door to the tunnels. She waved cheerfully to his retreating back.
"Hey! Can you at least tell me if it worked?" she called after him, and saw him turn back and sketch a wave in return. "Won' know 'til it 'appens!" he called back.
Three nights later, Buffy was again on register duty when Spike brought Dawn in and ordered a meal for her.
Noting her manager standing nearby casting disapproving glances at their chat, Spike settled into that easy charm he could sometimes ooze and drew the older woman into the conversation. He remembered her name, introduced himself as William and presented Dawn to her. Dawn also put on her best squeaky-clean teen face for Buffy's boss, and Buffy wondered what they were up to.
By the time Dawn's meal was ready, 'William' had the older woman eating out of his hand. He persuaded her to relieve Buffy for an unscheduled break while they were there as soon as things got quiet. Buffy's eyes bugged. *What* did he think he was doing?
All the while she juggled customers and food, Buffy found herself watching the pair of them, thick as thieves, hunched over the table at their booth, trading barbs and giggling when Spike kept snitching fries off Dawn's tray. She felt an unaccountable wave of jealousy break over her at the cozy scene, but couldn't say which part of it she envied - Spike making Dawn so happy and relaxed, or Dawn getting to spend time with Spike without having to feel torn in eight different directions.
At last business slowed down and the manager relieved her, encouraging her to go see "your cute sister and that nice young man." She ditched her hat, wished desperately for a comb and hurried around the counter, forcing herself into a relaxed saunter across the floor to their booth.
Spike rose and met her halfway, drawing her over to the wall. "Sorry to drop in on you like this, Slayer, the little bit was feelin' a bit neglected an' this seemed the best way to reassure 'er - no, no, quit that, I'm not tryin' to make you feel guilty, just *listen,* all ri'? I'm tryin' to give you a 'eads-up 'fore you talk to 'er." Buffy nodded gratefully.
"Bit's been goin' on an' on all night about this school dance comin' up, some boy's already asked 'er. You need to find time to take 'er out lookin' for a dress. Preferably black, preferably short. She says after 'those icky prom gowns' Glory an' Sweet put 'er in, the shorter the better - gotta watch that." He sighed and shook his head melodramatically, and Buffy found herself smiling. "I'm wonderin' if maybe I oughta sign on as a chaperon for this dance. At the *very* least I oughta be there to open the door in vamp face when the young bounder comes to pick 'er up."
Buffy giggled. "She'd *die.* And then make the rest of us wish we had."
He grinned. Laughing was good. Definite improvement. "Shall we?" He led her to the booth and slid in to the far wall, making room for Buffy to slide in facing Dawn. He watched Dawn chatter animatedly, sucking down her giant-sized soda, glancing back and forth from her to her sister, who was nodding thoughtfully.
Spike recognized the look from Giles-run Scooby meetings as her "of COURSE I'm not a million miles away oh no why ever would you think that" face, and risked slipping a hand onto one shoulder and rubbing it gently. She didn't seem to notice, focusing on Dawn.
Buffy listened to Dawn's bubbling enthusiasm over the school dance and the boy who'd invited her, all the while thinking, {{Great. *Where* am I going to get her the money to get her a really sensational dress?!}}
Buffy was bone-tired, more tired than she'd ever been, when she finally trudged in the door the next night. She'd gone on patrol with Spike after work, but had been too weary to speak, and for once he seemed to respect her need for quiet, falling into step easily alongside her the way he had those awful first weeks after Willow raised her.
As tense as his presence made her, knowing they had relationship stuff to discuss, she was grateful to him for being there. In her present state of exhaustion she was way, way off her game, and had made several dangerous mistakes. More than once she might've been seriously injured or even killed if he hadn't been backing her up.
She sank back on the couch and fumbled for the TV remote, pushing away thoughts of the night he'd told her about his two slayers. She wondered if this was what he once would've thought of as his chance to slip in and 'have himself a real good day.'
She clicked at the remote, stopping on the late-late newscast, and flipped aimlessly through the fashion magazine Dawn had left on the sofa with pages marked to dresses she liked. {{Ooh, that'd be pretty on her,}} she thought, stopping at one, then winced at the price.
" - Sunnydale residents have been abuzz since it was announced the sole winning Jackpot ticket was sold in a local convenience store," the blow-dried anchor intoned. "The $72 million lottery pot's winning number was drawn two days ago, and the prize remains as yet unclaimed. The winning ticket was sold at a Pump 'N' Go on the corner of Wilkins and Crowley."
The station cut to a tape clip of the convenience store clerk explaining that ticket sales had been a madhouse since the pot broke $50 million and he had no possible way of guessing which customer had got the right one out of the thousands of tickets he'd sold this week. Buffy clicked the TV off and finished thumbing through the magazine, trying to keep her eyes open and decompress.
Idly she flicked through the stack of mail she'd brought in with her from the box. {{Bill...bill...junk...credit card offer, HA!...junk...bill -}}
She stopped at a plain white envelope addressed by hand in black ink to Buffy Anne Summers. The return address read "T.B.A. Bard" and listed a box at one of those fly-by-night private mail-drop places. She turned the plain, cheap envelope over in her hand, but found no other clues.
Slitting it open, she found a smaller unmarked, cheap, plain, sealed envelope tucked into a single sheet of typing paper folded in thirds. Setting both envelopes to the side, she unfolded the paper and glanced over the bold, angular cursive. Not a handwriting she recognized. {{H'm.}}
"Dear Miss Summers,
Forgive this intrusion from a stranger. You don't know me, but I know you.
One night a few years ago, you saved my life, you see. It took me a long while to find you, over the course of which I discovered I am but one of many, many lives you've saved nightly for - well, for as long as I've been looking for you, at least. I'm sure nothing about our encounter would make me stick in your mind after all this time, after so many others.
Once I found you, it took me even longer to think of an appropriate gesture to make you in recompense, and longer still to execute such a gesture.
I would be honoured if you would accept this as a token of my gratitude, in return for the life you gave back to me that night.
You need not worry. I'll gladly keep your secret, and not attempt to intrude further upon your privacy. I feel far more at ease walking the streets knowing you do what you do unencumbered by gawkers.
Sincerely yours,
T.B.A. BARD"
Curiosity piqued, she picked up and slit open the smaller envelope.
Inside was a single lottery ticket.
It took a bit of scrambling to find the morning paper, but once she did, the front-page story confirmed her suspicions. T.B.A. Bard had sent her a $72 million lottery ticket.
Once she got her breath back, she sank back on the sofa, tapping the corner of the envelope against the palm of her other hand. She pondered, reread the letter, then pondered some more.
'Honoured.' She'd've thought it a misspelling if she hadn't had so bloody many Brits in her life since she was Called.
The winning ticket was sold at the curb market on the corner of Wilkins and Crowley. That was not far from the cemetery that housed Spike's crypt. She'd often seen him in there, buying smokes and Weetabix and treats to keep around for Dawn. There was a Mail Box Express in the same shopping strip, she remembered.
T.B.A. Bard. 'The life you gave back to me.'
||I need money.||
||I can *get* you money!||
||Come out of here with me now. Right now.||
Buffy fell into a light doze, then woke with a start, alarmed to realize she'd fallen asleep in mid-thought. A glance around the sofa and at the papers in her lap confirmed it. She hadn't been dreaming. She was the holder of a winning lottery ticket worth a fortune.
The fact that she'd fallen asleep without noticing decided things for her. She headed upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. "Willow?" She pounded on the redhead's door, carrying the letter. "I need some help here, I'm going to have to go to L.A. in the morning on business!"