Title:  Pillow Talk

Author:  Miss Murchison

Rating:  PG so far.  That will change.

Disclaimer:  All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.  Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.

Notes:  A Spuffy story that starts in early Season 6 before deviating from canon.  Most of the tale will be from Buffy's point of view.

Thanks: To Keswindhover and revdorothyl for the beta.

The story begins here.

Chapter 7

            "Waddaya want?"

            Buffy's head jerked up at the question and she stared at the waitress who was looming over her.

            "Uh—"

            The waitress jerked her head towards the counter.  Her hair was hennaed like Willow's, but piled up on top of her head, probably so it wouldn't get in the mochas and lattes.  She was wearing a white shirt and black pants with a white apron.  "You're supposed to go up and order there.  We don't take orders at the tables.  You want something, go up and pay for it."

            "Um—I didn't really want—"

            The waitress' magenta lips screwed up into an unpleasant shape.  "You don't want anything, you leave.  The tables are full."

            Buffy looked around.  She hadn't noticed all the people.   She was pretty sure they hadn't been there when she sat down, so she must have been there a while.

            Her face hadn't been this hot since the last time she'd set a vamp on fire and not jumped out of the way fast enough.  She stuck a hand in the pocket of her jeans.  "Uh, how much is a coffee?  A small coffee?"

            The waitress' arms were crossed in front of her chest.  Buffy didn't want to stand up because she knew she was the shorter of the two and she'd feel even smaller and stupider than she did already.

            "Something wrong?"  Another woman, dressed like the waitress but a bit rounder and older, had appeared. 

            Yay.  The crowds with torches and pitchforks will be here next.  Buffy stared down at the miserable collection of coins in her hand.  Nowhere near enough for even an ordinary cup of joe at that crappy diner where she'd waitressed when she ran away from home that one time.  Certainly not enough for one of the chic French roasts served here.

            "She doesn't have any money, and she's been sitting here for almost an hour."

            Buffy glanced around and saw some pitying looks, but most people seemed to shift away from her a few inches, as if she were carrying a poverty virus.

            But, hey, I don't see any pitchforks!

            "Sorry, honey," said the second waitress.  She had an odd accent, and her tone wasn't as harsh as the first woman's.  "I need this table for my customers.  There's a shelter three blocks over."

            Buffy felt a tear roll down one cheek, and thought that it would boil away in the heat now emanating from her flushed skin.  She struggled to her feet.  "I'm not a street person, really.  I have a house, and most of my clothes are a lot nicer than these, and I may even make the mortgage payment this month because I just got a new job.  I was just tired."

            Oh, no.  She'd said way too much.  Now it was even worse.  Buffy turned to leave, stumbled against the leg of someone else's chair, and then froze as the waitress screamed.

            It was too much.  Irritation overcoming embarrassment, Buffy turned.  "I said I was going.  You don't have to act like you're being murdered or something!"  Then she realized someone was pointing a gun at her.

            Buffy stared at an angry, unshaven man with dirty hair and a torn shirt.  She reiterated more quietly.  "I really am going."

            The man with the gun blinked at her and said, "You?  Who the hell are you?  Get out of here!"

            Buffy backed away a few steps, and saw the barrel of the gun was pointing at the red-haired waitress. 

            Mr. Angry-Unshaven was yelling, "Bitch!  Did you think I wouldn't find you?"

            "Okay," said Buffy slowly.  "This really isn't about me, is it?"

            The waitress grabbed Buffy and dodged behind her, using her as a shield.  "How stupid are you?  That's my boyfriend!"

            "Wow.  And I thought I picked bad ones."  Buffy was still staring at the gun, but she realized that screaming and a mass exodus were taking place around her.  She could see someone crouched behind the counter reach up a hand to pick up a phone before ducking out of firing range again. 

            The wild-eyed guy's hand was shaking.  Time to do something.

            I hope I don't split these jeans with this kick.  Buffy's boot sailed threw the air, and moment later the pistol was sailing even higher, smacking into the ceiling and shaking loose some of the cheap acoustic tiles.  It crashed to the ground in a little shower of shattered fiberglass a few feet away, as its owner clutched his hand.  He and Buffy both dived for the gun, but she got there first, sliding it out of reach along the floor as she rolled over to meet his attack with her fists, weapons she trusted more than any firepower.

            But as he was reaching for Buffy, the second waitress stepped forward and opened her jaw inhumanly wide, flicking out her tongue and slapping him in the forehead with it.

            Buffy sat up, staring as the yard-long tongue rolled back up and the woman's mouth restored itself to human proportions. 

Chapter 8

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