An Offer You Can't Refuse: chapter 1
by apocalipstick
Suggested listening:

"Cain" by the Choir
"Rifleman" by the Choir
"Jagged" by Old 97's
"Teenage Nervous Breakdown" by Little Feat


An Offer You Can’t Refuse

by

Michael Walker




Buffy Summers knelt and placed the bunch of flowers atop the small gray square of granite. She fussed with the flowers for a minute, trying to arrange them in some meaningful fashion, then stood, wiping her eyes. Willow Rosenberg stood a few feet behind her, watching her friend's pain and wishing that she could do something, anything, to ease her misery. At last, Buffy turned from the grave, her hand reaching out to Willow. They embraced, the preternaturally strong Slayer clinging to Willow's thin shoulders as a man caught in a strong current might grasp the last rock or tree root.

Then Buffy stepped back, sniffed and took a deep breath. Willow ducked her head to get a good look in the other girl's eyes. "Are you okay?" the redhead asked.

Buffy shrugged. "I will be. Thanks for finding his grave." Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks.

Willow squeezed her friend's hand. "It was nothing. And I mean that. City Hall's computer security is a joke." They began to walk through the cemetery, holding hands, saying nothing, two friends who needed no words to know what was in the other's heart.

As they reached the path, Willow asked, "How's everything at home?"

"Oh, yeah, home." Buffy tossed her head back, shaking out her hair. "It's of the weird. Sometimes, my mom sits on the couch and cries because she's happy that I'm back. Sometimes she cries because I ran away. Sometimes she tries to get me to 'talk' about it. Sometimes she tries to talk about anything but. All in all, it's an asylum."

Willow kept her voice casual. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Buffy stopped and turned to her best friend. "Thanks, Will, but not yet."

Willow bobbed her head. "Okay, then, on a completely different tack, Dingoes are playing at the Bronze tonight. Wanna come?"

Buffy grimaced. "I'd love to, but I think I should be putting in heavy Mom-time."

"Understood." They began to walk along the path, heading for the exit. "So, will you be back at school on Monday?" Willow asked.

Buffy shook her head. "Don't know. Apparently there's some sort of appeal process we have to go through, and I'm pretty sure that Snyder doesn't feel any better about me now than he did before."

"Don't worry. I think it's just a bunch of hoops he wants you to jump through. He's petty and vindictive." Willow's statement had an air of finality. It made the Slayer smile.

"True," she said, "but that doesn't make him less annoying."

****

"...and she runs awaaaaayyyyyy." As Devon's voice trailed off, Oz looked at the floor around his feet. There it was, just off to his right, the small 'x' of masking tape he had put down earlier in the day. As the vocal faded out, Oz moved over to the 'x' and turned the slightest bit to his right.

The sound started slow, but swelled rapidly. He had spent most of sound check finding the sweet spot on the stage, which annoyed Devon, but it paid off. The feedback was rich and thick, and he could ride it like a wave, altering the pitch and volume just by small movements of his body and guitar. He had a dim impression of Devon caught up in the throes of his "snake dance." According to the lead singer, it drove "the babes wild." Whatever.

The drummer began to drop in extra tom hits, meaning the song was wrapping up. Oz turned ninety degrees and his amp roared as that high harmonic just bit into the air. Last drum roll coming. Timing was everything. Last measure... 1... 2... 3... 4. Oz jumped off the 'x' and slashed down with his right hand, the edge of his palm catching the Telecaster's volume control and twisting it violently. The feedback cut off in mid-shriek, just as the last cymbal crash died.

The hush lasted for a heartbeat, then the Bronze exploded. Oz looked over the heads of the screaming throng. Willow stood near the back of the crowd, grinning. She lifted her hands, two thumbs up. Oz winked, then flipped his amp's standby switch, jerked the cord out of the guitar's jack and walked off stage.

The rest of Dingoes Ate My Baby were waiting. "Man, they're going crazy," Devon enthused. "We've gotta give 'em an encore."

Oz winced. Devon was of the firm belief that the best encore selections were made on the spur of the moment. Oz thought this gave them a better-than-even chance of sucking, but he could not change the singer's mind.

"What do you want to play?" Devon asked. Oz thought for a minute.

"Hopeless Is As Hopeless Does," he said. The rhythm section nodded. The key was to make it look good; Devon didn't need to know that the three of them had picked out an encore that afternoon.

"Okay," Devon said. "Let's do it." He charged back on stage. Oz ambled, checking his amp settings, adjusting the volume. Tone was everything on this song; it had to have an edge, but needed to be clean enough that the open strings could ring without turning the riff into mush. Satisfied that he had it dialed in, he plugged in his guitar.

"Hey, thanks a lot." Devon was draped over the mike stand. "This one's a cover. Hope you like it." He stepped away from the mike, Oz stepped forward and let it rip. Oh yeah, he had the tone right tonight.

******

"...so we're pretty lucky to get an exhibit like this. In two years, there's no way we could bring this artist to Sunnydale." Joyce Summers paused and took a sip of wine.

Buffy nodded. "That's nice."

Joyce put her glass down on the coffee table. "I'm trying too hard, aren't I?"

Buffy nodded again. "Yeah, you really are."

Joyce took a deep breath and blew it out. "Well then, shall we just cut through the subtext and get right to it?"

Buffy curled up in the armchair, tucking her feet up under her. "Well, it's that or spend the rest of my senior year in more denial than Scott Weiland."

"Who?"

"Oh, he's the lead singer of Stone Temple Pilots." Her mother's face remained recognition-free. Buffy rolled her eyes. Not exactly off to a blazing start. "He's a heroin addict and he can't seem to... Anyway, he's in a lot of denial, trust me."

"I guess I'll have to." Joyce attempted a grin, but achieved only a weak facsimile.

Buffy's reply was dead serious. "Yes, you will."

Joyce leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Do you have any idea how hard this is to believe?"

"But you do believe it?"

Joyce shook her head, looking down at the floor. "I can't think of one single reason to, except..." Her voice trailed away.

"Except what?" Buffy shifted in the chair.

"I saw that man turn into dust when you... You know."

"Staked him."

"Yes, that." Joyce made a fluttering motion with her hand. "That's not normal."

"Actually, it is. For a vampire," Buffy corrected her mother.

"How... how long have you known? That you were this... Slayer, I mean."

Buffy shrugged. "When the gym burned down? My first big statement."

Joyce frowned with the effort of trying to absorb all this new information. "So, it was...?"

Buffy nodded. "Crawling with bloodsuckers," she said, reaching for her water.

Joyce put a finger to her lips, thinking. "So, Spike was... ?"

"Uh-huh. Vampire."

"But you were working with him. Aren't you supposed to kill him? Or is he a good vampire?"

Buffy sighed. "It gets really complicated. I'd rather not try to explain it all. Just... there are no good vampires."

Joyce's voice was very low, almost a whisper. "Buffy, was Angel a... I mean, was he one of..."

Buffy ducked her head. "Yeah. He was a vampire. But he had a soul."

"Had?"

"Had. He's gone now." Tears began to trace their tracks down the Slayer's cheeks.

"Gone. Did you have to... do what you do?"

Buffy wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "Something like that." Her voice was shaky. "Mom, I know that you need to ask more questions, but I think I'm all done for tonight. Is that okay?"

"Of course." Joyce got up from the couch and walked over to the chair. She knelt beside it and looped one arm around her daughter's shoulders. "There's one other reason I had for believing."

"What?" Buffy looked at her mother and saw tears that matched her own.

"You. You may be a lot of things--" Joyce raised a hand, interrupting herself. "Check that. I may have thought you were a lot of things, like irresponsible and frivolous--"

"Gee, thanks," Buffy said in a dry voice.

"-but even though you were driving me crazy, you were never crazy," Joyce continued. "You're my daughter. I love you. I know that we have more to talk about, but let's just let that be it for tonight, okay?"

Buffy whispered, "Okay. I love you, Mom."

As she cradled her daughter to her, Joyce Summers felt her heart breaking.

****

Oz checked the latches on his guitar case again. Everything was secure. Willow came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"That was great. You guys were so on tonight!" She squeezed him tight.

"Thanks. It felt pretty good." He grabbed his guitar cable and began winding it around the long axis of his forearm, shaking out the kinks as he went and accepting congratulations from fans.

"Hey, you guys seriously rock." Oz looked up at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. It belonged to a guy, tall, with shaggy dark hair and a scraggly soul patch.

"Thanks," Oz replied.

"You guys play here often?"

A miniscule grin touched Oz's lips. "You could say that. You must be new around here."

"That I am." The stranger stuck out a hand. "Name's Zane. Zane Wilder."

"Oz." They shook. "What brings you to Sunnydale?"

"I'm a freshman at the U. You?"

"Senior at Sunnydale High." Oz tucked his guitar cable inside the back of his amp.

"Cool. Hey, I'll see you around." Zane lifted a hand in a wave and walked away.

"Hey," Willow exclaimed, bouncing up and down, "you've got a new fan. And it's a guy who hasn't known you since grade school."

Oz picked up his amp in one hand and his guitar case in the other. "It's a start," he said.

****

She stood in front of the house, looking at the door. She knew this house, or at least she thought she did. It was her home, but it didn't look quite right. She walked up to the front door and the sky changed from day to night. She pushed open the door and looked around.

"Mom?" she called out. "I'm... home." The room was familiar, but wrong. The furniture was in the wrong places, and the room's angles and dimensions were not quite correct.

"Buffy?" She turned toward the voice. Her mother came out of the kitchen, wearing an apron and drying her hands on a dish towel. "Oh, honey," Joyce said, "did you have to come back now?"

Stunned, she took a step backward. "Oh, I don't mean to hurt you," her mother said, hastening to explain. "But we've all gotten used to life without you."

"Mom, I can't... I can't believe you're saying this," she stammered.

"Boy, that guy was right. You can't go home again." She turned toward the new voice, and there he stood, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed.

"Angel?" she whispered.

"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe not." His face morphed into Angelus' hideous countenance. She gasped, a sharp, fearful intake of breath. His face changed back, back into Angel. Then back into Angelus, and back again, and back and back until it was almost a blur.

"See, there's the problem," he said. "You never know how it will turn out."


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