What Is Choice?

What is Choice? is my exploration of what exactly is choice? Fate? A soul? Love? This story was inspired partly by MadRog's great story, Memory Redux. It's a combination of a post-Chosen fic, and an alternate universe. Hopefully, you'll enjoy what I've done with these genres.

Spoilers: Through "Chosen."
Rating: PG-13, but with an NC-17 epilogue.
Disclaimer: I love Joss's characters. Despite everything he puts them(and me) through, I still admire his creations, and wish I could own them.
Author's Notes: This story wouldn't exist, in its current form, without the support and hard work of three people: Cindy, Miriam, and Mezzibelle. Cindy and Miriam gave much-needed support along the way, along with great cheerleading, and Mezzibelle whipped it into shape and removed many extraneous commas, among other much-needed changes. So if you like this story, it's due to them in large part. And for that reason, they have my overwhelming thanks.
Feedback: dettiot@yahoo.com

What is Choice?
Prologue: I'll Stop the World and Melt With You

For months after the day that her old world ended, she didn't think of him. Didn't mention his name or reflect on his loss. Didn't even dream of him.

The person she'd depended on, trusted, and loved the most at the end . . . and his face didn't even appear in her mind's eye.

Later on, after everything that happened, Buffy wondered how it had been possible. It was almost like she had completely forgotten Spike, but not exactly. More like the actions he had taken eclipsed his mere presence. The end result was the same: Angelus was sent to Hell, Glory was defeated, the Hellmouth was closed . . . just any details of his involvement, his very existence, didn't seem to matter.

As she had stared into the giant crater that sucked seven years of material possessions away from her, something else was also removed.

Every thought, every feeling, every memory concerning Spike was delicately and carefully removed. It approached a level of skill that only Dawn's appearance surpassed. The magic, the power, necessary to create such a blank state boggled her mind.

Of course, at the time it happened she didn't realize it. She stood on the edge of the crater and she knew the Hellmouth was closed, and that she was no longer just the Slayer, or one of the Chosen Two. She was one of many, one of thousands of girls endowed with the strength to defeat the forces of darkness.

Buffy stood in the sunlight, filled with hopes and dreams and wishes. And she smiled.

**

In a dimension not dissimilar to ancient Greece, the Three Fates gathered in a shady grove, performing their duties. Of course, the Fates had never been in ancient Greece; they had no care what the construct resembled. Yet they did have links to the mortal world, so the Fates had built their corner of this world to resemble the world of the first people who had any inkling of their existence. So, the Fates were attired in togas, and supped on nectar and ambrosia when they had need of it.

As they had done since the beginning of time, Clotho spun the thread of life, Lachesis measured, and Atropos cut. Each had her role to play and each was perfectly suited to it. The Fates performed their tasks calmly, peacefully. They had nearly no investment in the mortal lives they weighed; it was thought best if they remained unknowing of the consequences of the bulk of their decisions.

Very rarely were the Fates surprised. Perhaps once a millennia, an individual's thread acted in an unforeseen way. Yet it wasn't the individuals that a mortal would suspect of being different. The carpenter, or that failed artist, was not unexpected. The Fates knew, to the barest sliver of thread, the exact moment at which to cut.

But every thousand years or so, the Fates were truly surprised. And it happened on May 20, 2003, according to one mortal system of time keeping.

At the first sign of unusualness, the Fates had summoned the Powers that Be and began the usual procedures to resolve the situation. On this particular occasion, the oddity was the sudden dulling of Atropos' razor-sharp shears. She attempted several times to cut the thread at the indicated point, yet she could not. Finally sighing, she called work to a halt and beckoned to her sisters.

"Well, that tears it--metaphorically speaking. Looks like we've got this millennia's oddball."

Lachesis sighed as well. "That one was tough for me to nail down. Guess there's something working behind the scenes to keep the sucker around. Poor soul, it's been through more than its share of grief."

Clotho gazed at her spun handiwork. "It's a delicate-looking thread, but with more strength than you could possibly imagine. I had a feeling when I was spinning, you know, just like last time, with that sweet girl who gave us all that trouble in the eleventh century--remember her?"

Atropos rolled her eyes. "Sweet, she wasn't. Made things a right mess, bouncing back and forth around the known mortal world as she did. Besides, Clotho, if you remembered this feeling, why didn't you give us some kind of warning? But oh, no, it's always got to be Atropos' fault when something goes pear-shaped."

Clotho flushed and started saying, "Now wait a minute . . ." when the Powers made its appearance, moving towards them. Lachesis, like so many middle siblings the peacemaker, stepped towards the Powers. "Report on the soul whose fate is unknown even to us."

Today, the Powers had taken the form of one of their messengers, a slightly built man with dark hair. "Well, darlings," he commented in his Irish accent, "it's not one I would have expected to cause this much trouble. Or, at least, not this kind of trouble."

Atropos, never very patient, spat out, "Cease your riddles, messenger. What is the nature of this soul?"

The messenger raised his hands. "No need to get testy. Catch more flies with honey, if you know what I mean. Anyway," said the Powers, "the soul in question has answered to many names, and has seen much of both good and bad. It has had a long journey, with much suffering, and all because of love. If you want my opinion, I think the Big One is getting romantic in old age, wants to test that 'love conquers all' theory."

Clotho sighed. "How interesting! To think of living your life and suffering, all for love."

Atropos rolled her eyes again. "Well, it's not in the same league as eradicating pestilence or being a source of creative inspiration for the greatest artist ever, but if this is the soul with the contested fate, that's that. What guidance does the Powers give in this matter?"

The Powers scratched his forehead, causing his hat to ride back on his head. "I'm of two minds on this one. Part of me says the privilege of continuing its life should be granted to this soul. But the rest of me says to let the poor bastard get some rest. After the suffering I witnessed, I wouldn't wish a return to that on a dog who'd stolen my last bottle of whiskey."

"A charming image," commented Lachesis dryly. "What guidance does the Great One provide in this matter?"

The Powers grinned. "Old gal wants to send the soul back. Things were finally going all right for the poor lamb; if it hadn't been for the pesky self-sacrifice, the soul would have finally gotten its most-hoped desire: the love of one that it loved. Of course, the soul's currently cooling its jets in Limbo, but it would head on to its respective Valhalla if Grumpy Girl could have made with the click-clack snippety-snip." At that, the messenger doffed his hat to Atropos, who would have retorted with her sharp wit if the messenger hadn't continued.

"This one's a pickle, ladies, and I don't envy you the deciding of it. But I'll leave you with one further word on the matter. The newly requited love of the soul in question? That soul cries for our troublemaker, and is equally deserving of reward. So you've really got two souls, not one, in your hands." And with that, the messenger winked at Atropos and vanished out of their presence.

"I hate that being," grumbled Atropos. "Much too forward."

"I think you hate him because otherwise you'd like him," teased Clotho.

Before this argument could get started--she had seen a similar one that had raged on for a century and a half--Lachesis brought their attention back to the matter at hand. "So, we're being guilt-tripped into sending this soul back, to fulfill the air-quotes Great One's need for a new soap opera. But I object to letting any soul return to suffer, especially when it would go straight to heaven otherwise, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Your thoughts, sisters?"

"Was this soul last in a male or female body? Because if it was a guy, I say send him back. Heaven doesn't need another corner full of Playmates and beer cans," asked Atropos tartly.

"Oh, Atropos, you're getting so bitter. Why can't we let it stay? A heavenly reward would be only fitting."

"And you're getting too sweet, Clotho. Thank goodness we have Lachesis to balance things out," Atropos said.

Lachesis nearly threw up her hands and howled. Why did she get stuck making all the decisions? She never even got the funny lines, either.

"All right, all right. Give me a minute," she told her squabbling sisters. She moved away, to her favorite part of the grove, and stared into the shimmering waters of the small stream that cut through this spot. Lachesis closed her eyes, and concentrated.

And when she opened her eyes, she had the answer.

"I propose a compromise. Send the soul back, but with memories erased but personality intact. The soul will return to a comparable moment in the life it was removed from, but with a different life to inform its choices. We shall have to see if the pull between the two souls is great enough to allow them to re-connect without our intervention. Agreed?"

Atropos nodded, her arms folded across her chest. Clotho clasped her hands in front of her face with a dreamy smile before saying, "Perfect!" And as Lachesis re-measured the disputed thread, she allowed herself a moment of satisfaction.

It was the perfect solution.

End, Prologue
 

What is Choice?
Chapter One: My Heart Going Boom-Boom-Boom

Another beautiful day was dawning in the east. The sun rose and filled his rooms with light. The sound of the ocean drifted in through the open windows. The breeze brought the tang of salt and tropical flowers into the airy, open house.

Yet Will Smythe noticed none of this as he blearily stumbled down the hall to the bathroom, a shower the only plan his sleep-addled brain could grasp.

When he emerged fifteen minutes later, he was better prepared to face the coffee maker and the morning paper. Will took his paper and his coffee out on the balcony that overlooked the waters of the Pacific. For as long as he could remember, he had loved sunlight and the outdoors, and breathing fresh air did as much to wake him up as all his other morning rituals.

Will sipped and flipped, while part of his mind debated what to do today. It was Saturday; he had just finished his latest project at work, so for once, his weekend was relatively his own. He had thought about visiting his mother in Los Angeles, but he felt rather stay-at-home right now. True, LA was not that far from San Diego, but a transplanted Brit like himself still quailed sometimes at California freeways.

He probably would call his buddy Rich and find out what was happening tonight. Rich always knew what was going on within their group. Who wanted to celebrate, who needed to forget, who felt like club hopping and who wanted to host movie night.

He gazed out towards the ocean as he drank the last of his coffee, letting his thoughts wander. He wasn't really much for introspection, but something about the way his life was going was making him more contemplative lately.

At the ripe old age of 27, Will Smythe had a good career, working for a local college in their public relations office. However, the job was mostly a way to pay bills until he could write full-time. Writing was his real love. He had written some short stories that had been published in well-known magazines, and he was working on a few new ideas, one of which he hoped could develop into a novel.

He lived in a small but comfortable house near the ocean. His mother, to whom he was very close, lived in near enough to visit, but far enough away to prevent embarrassing drop-in visits. He had a good circle of friends, dated relatively often, and had even been in love once or twice.

Yet lately, he had felt a niggling sense of . . . dissatisfaction with his life. Like there was something out there, just beyond his reach. Something sparkling, that was bigger than his simple life, that would make him a different man when it was all said and done.

But he didn't have the foggiest idea of what he was looking for.

"Right annoying, that," he muttered to himself, just as the phone rang. He walked inside and picked up the phone, cradling it against his ear as he washed out his coffee mug.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Limey. Up for some good deeds tonight?"

Will smiled at the sound of his friend's voice. "You're psychic, Rich. Was just thinking about calling you. Good deeds? I hope a parole officer, a thick Croatian accent, and a man named Tiny aren't involved in this."

Rich laughed. The two of them had met at an alumni function at the college Will worked at; Rich had graduated from there five years before, but had just finished his master's degree at the time of the function. One of their more memorable nights out had involved a run-in with the law and some community service. Although Will gave as good as he got, he never failed to remind his friend that the events of that night had been instigated by Rich.

"Nah, not this time. I've got a buddy of mine down visiting, with one of his friends, and we're all getting together tonight. Wanna join us for some dinner?"

"And chance your cooking?"

"What's wrong with it?" Rich asked, his voice huffy.

"Oh, nothing, if you like blackened macaroni and cheese," Will retorted, his voice teasing.

Rich humphed. "I'll have you know that Rosie is cooking tonight," he said, referring to his girlfriend. "See if I put in a good word for you with Xander's very single, very gorgeous, friend of the female persuasion."

"Don't need a good word when you've got all this British charm," Will said with a grin.

"Well, what you call charm, I call the reason us Colonials revolted. And trust me, you'd need the good word. This girl is a babe, beating off guys with a stick. I speak from experience; Xander tried to set us up once, but nothing clicked. Besides, it's not like you're Mr. Stud. You haven't seen anyone seriously since what's-her-name; you know, the flake?"

"Melody," Will said with a grimace. "I wouldn't say that was serious--more like punishment for me."

"I never got that--you, Mr. Commitment, having a fling that was all about sex."

"Not proud of it, but it's done," Will said, hoping that Rich would move on.

Rich obviously had flunked the Mind Reading 101 class, because he said, "I mean, you spent years and years with Drusilla, why I don't know. That girl was a nutcase. And when you finally get free of her clutches, you go for someone who's just as big a nutcase, only blonde and a lot more shallow."

"New topic," Will growled. "And as I'm well-acquainted with your romantic history, I doubt either of us is in a position to throw stones."

"Too true," Rich said, seeming to finally get the message. "All right, can I count on you tonight? It'll be a nice, quiet, pressure-free night, I promise."

"Sure, Rich. See you at your place, when, around seven?"

"Sounds good. Oh, and bring dessert."

"What the bloody hell for?"

"Women love it when a guy brings dessert. It's the modern equivalent to killing the woolly mammoth and dragging it back to the cave. Plus, much neater."

Will sighed but agreed. "I doubt it, but I'll rustle something up. See you tonight."

Will hung up the phone, pondering Rich's words. It was true that lately, relationships hadn't been a priority for him. After he had finally managed to convince Melody that it was over between them, he hadn't thought much about dating. But that had been four months ago, and most guys would have already been back in the saddle.

He went back outside, wanting to spend some time just staring at the ocean that flowed towards the beach. As he gazed at the water, thinking about Drusilla, he sighed, feeling that same mixture of sadness, shame, and embarrassment he always experienced when he thought back to the years he'd spent with her.

He had met Drusilla when he was 16, and had fallen head over heels for her. Nothing that anyone said could convince him that she was anything but his dark girl, his princess. At eighteen, she was older than him, and had opened his eyes to things he'd never considered, experiences he never thought he'd have. With her, he'd explored London's clubs, discovered punk rock, and learned the joys of fighting.

He shook his head. Dru loved to start fights; she'd lead on a guy, and then when he tried something, she'd yell for her "sweet Will" to save her. Of course, being the stupid guy he was, he always jumped in, swinging away. She always seemed to go after the rugby player type, so he'd learned quickly which punches hurt the most, and what dirty tricks to use to level the playing field.

It was in one of those fights that he'd received the distinctive eyebrow scar he still carried today. And it was that fight, which ended up with him in hospital with pending charges of assault hanging over his head, that made his mother insist that he come with her when she moved to California.

He had resisted mightily. By that point, he was eighteen, and he couldn't bear the thought of leaving Drusilla. But his mother had begged him to go with her, and considering her medical condition, Will realized that he owed a greater responsibility to his mother, his only family. So even though he hated it, he told Dru that he was moving to America with his mother.

She hadn't taken it well. Her quirky personality always made him unsure of how she'd react when he disagreed with her. This time, she had merely accepted his decision, promising to stay in touch with him. He had been surprised, but happy that she seemed able to understand why he had to leave.

Of course, once he got to California, her behavior made him wish they had broken up. She'd call him at two in the morning, sobbing about how much she missed him, how lonely she was. She pleaded with him to find a way to bring her over, so she could stay with him. She said she missed him too much to stay apart from him.

He was still in love with her. His mother's condition had improved, but she was planning on staying in the United States anyway, and had even gone so far as to discuss becoming a US citizen. He had actually started trying to figure out when he could go back and visit Drusilla, and tell her that soon he'd be home for good.

And then she had shown up on his doorstep one day, cooing that "Mommy had come for her darling dangerous boy." At first, he had been thrilled that she had come, had shown him that she loved him.

Will's mouth twisted as he remembered that time. Oh, yeah, she had loved him. Loved him enough to cheat on him while she was staying with him, even bringing guys back to the apartment they were sharing. When he had found out, he had gone crazy, trashing the apartment and throwing all her things out into the street.

When she had returned that evening, she was calm and matter-of-fact about his anger. "I had wanted us to be together again, Will my love, but I can taste the other one on your lips."

Will had screamed at her that it wasn't him that was screwing around in the relationship, so what the hell was she talking about. But she hadn't answered, merely picked up her things and left.

Yet despite all his anger, she had been like a drug for him. She'd pop up in his life again for a week or two, and they'd go right back to wild shagging and nights out in dirty bars. A year ago, though, Dru had decided to go back to England, but he didn't even let her ask him to come with her. He was tired of the toxicity of their relationship. Tired of feeling used, tired of feeling out of control. Tired of feeling second best. He let her go, with sadness but not regret. She had opened his eyes to a new world, but he realized that he no longer wanted to share that world with her.

She had seemed to understand, once again mentioning that other one. He had just chalked it up as one of Dru's fancies, and had put it out of his head. Lately, though, her words had been rumbling around inside his head, rubbing up against some ideas he had for a book.

He straightened up from the hunched-over position he had taken, leaning over the railing, and went inside the house. After all that brooding, he felt a need to do something more proactive, even if it was writing. He decided to put in a few hours writing, before he worried about a few chores that needed doing.

Grabbing a bottle of water and an apple, he headed into his closet-sized study. What it lacked in size, it made up for with the window that looked out at the beach and ocean. He had placed his desk in front of this view, and quite a few ideas had come to him while gazing at the water and people-watching.

Will fired up his computer and opened up his idea file. He read over the various notes he had made for each idea. He frowned a bit as he reviewed things. In the past, he had written in a manner that had been described by carping critics as "florid" and "overdone." Yet he had managed to restrain most of his excesses, and his work had found enough admirers.

Lately, though, he had noticed that his style seemed to be shifting. Now, it was a bit more terse, more focused on observations of human nature versus reflections on beauty and other ideals. Oh, the delight in beauty and nature still came through, but as if a veil had been pulled over the concepts, giving shadow to sunshine thoughts. Will didn't really understand how it was happening, but it was invigorating to see this shift, and calculate how to best work within this new world.

"At least that wanker from The New Yorker won't say I've sacrificed another goat to become the prose incarnation of Wordsworth," Will muttered, still upset over a review he had received for a collection of his short stories that had been published last year.

Will perused the ideas one more time, before closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. He focused on the various threads of stories, before grabbing hold of one. With a nod, he opened his eyes and fired up his word processor. The cursor blinked at him, and he paused for a moment, before letting his fingers fly across the keyboard.

As Will wrote, the part of his brain not occupied with plot and character marveled at how the words flowed. It wasn't often that the story flowed like water from a faucet, but this was definitely one of those times. Disregarding everything, he kept writing, until he had paused to stretch his cramped fingers, and noticed the time.

"Five bloody PM? Bollocks!" Will shouted, as he quickly saved his work and jumped from the computer. He ran into the bathroom and groaned at the image presented. His sandy brown hair, which he normally kept slicked back, had dried into a giant puff of curls. His eyes were watering from staring at the computer, and the stubble shadowing his jaw made him look drunk, not rakishly handsome. Filling the sink with water and grabbing his razor, he mumbled, "Don't know how Wes pulls it off," thinking of his cousin who could pull off the stubble look.

Beard dealt with, Will snatched up a comb and gel to tackle the hair, but he knew it was a losing battle. He gave it a half-hearted try, then gave up and settled for at least reducing some of the poodle qualities. He ended up with a head full of curls, but at least they had a sexy bedhair aspect, he thought to himself. At least, that was what he was hoping. A quick scrub of the teeth, and he headed into his bedroom to dress.

Throwing open his closet, he congratulated himself for doing laundry last weekend. Pulling out a pair of gray slacks and a long-sleeved blue tee, he dressed, slipped his feet into some shoes, and headed back into the bathroom. Some cologne and he was done.

Will sighed as he glanced at his wristwatch, hunting for his wallet and keys. 5:45, and there still was dessert to take care of.

"It's not like a date, you poof. Calm down," he reminded himself as he headed out of his house and got into his car. "It's just dinner with a bunch of people."

Despite what he said, Will still felt a touch of nervous energy. He tapped his hands against the steering wheel as he drove, and took a few corners a bit tighter than normal. Probably it was just the high of a good day of writing, but Will felt like this night was special, important. He felt like the stars were pouring their energy into him, making him shine like sunlight. It was a good feeling. He wanted to keep feeling this way.

He got a cheesecake from a bakery near Rich's house, and even gave into his impulse to buy flowers. Rich, lazy slob that he was, probably had barely cleaned, but nothing distracted the eyes like flowers.

Will chuckled at the turn his thoughts had taken, wondering if he had been watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy a tad too much. But even his self-deprecation couldn't prevent the minor case of butterflies in his stomach as he pulled into the parking lot outside Rich's condo. He paused before leaving the car, taking a few deep breaths. Despite outward appearances, he had a definite shy bent, and meeting new people sometimes threw him for a loop. But Will rolled his head and tapped back into his buzz as he exited the car.

He juggled the bakery box and the flowers as he drew up to Rich's door, and managed to press the bell. When no one opened the door after a few moments, he banged his foot against the door and yelled, "Come on, you pillock, man with dessert out here!"

And then the door opened, and he felt like he wasn't just getting energy from the stars, but was among them in the heavens.

End, Chapter One

What is Choice?
Chapter Two: Down to the Earth I Fell

Buffy Summers, retired Slayer and newest employee of Nordstrom's, was trying very hard to remember that hitting first and maybe asking questions later only worked when you were a Slayer. Doing Slayer-type tasks. Not when you were dealing with society matrons trying to cram their over-ample bottoms into sequined gowns.

Not that LA had many fat matrons. But they all seemed to come to Buffy to be sold the latest in expensive eveningwear.

Buffy sighed, and looked into the fitting room mirror. Her stylish yet professional look screamed boring. Her feet were killing her, she was starving to death, and her forehead seemed to be permanently puckered.

Buffy mused that if anyone would have told her that she'd miss the First Evil someday, she'd have told them they were crazy.

Rather than continuing that line of thought, Buffy blew her hair out of her eyes and asked, "Now, Mrs. Goddard, how do you like this one? I think the green bugle beads brings out your eyes beautifully."

"My eyes are brown!" snapped the short-waisted, large-bosomed woman.

"Of course they are, Mrs. Goddard. But the green offsets your eyes so nicely, gives you an air of mystery . . ." she trailed off, thinking privately that as this dress was the only one that might possibly fit the shrill harpy, she had to do her best to sell Mrs. Goddard on this dress. Because Buffy needed the commission.

Rebuilding your life-literally-was even more difficult than Buffy would have imagined. All her possessions, gone. Anything she had owned of any value, from sentimental to monetary, was currently resting in a crater that used to be a thriving small town, albeit one with a mystical portal to Hell. Pretty tough to get a job when you couldn't even prove you existed.

Thank goodness for the new Watcher's Council. Giles had cleared up some funds, Willow had wriggled her nose a few times, and voila, they all had their identities back. Giles had also freed up enough cash-he'd called it back pay-to permit her to take care of Dawn, fix up a small apartment for the two of them, and give them some savings.

Now, Dawn was in school and doing well. She had an afterschool job, and a nice bunch of friends, including a couple of guys who were noticing the grace and maturity of her "little" sister. Buffy was so proud of her. Seeing Dawn's progress always lifted her heart and made her thankful for her sister.

But for Buffy herself, things seemed to go less well. She couldn't explain it, but the "normal" life she had craved-a job, college classes, time with her friends-now seemed so lackluster after that last battle. Of course, she wasn't prepared to admit that to herself, so Buffy did her best in various jobs, looking for something that excited her. She bounced from barrista to library page to telemarketer to temporary office worker. She was hoping this job at Nordstrom's would work out; they had been very flexible with her hours, the pay was good, and once upon a time, being surrounded by all these clothes would have been her idea of heaven.

Buffy was pulled away from such musings by Mrs. Goddard's voice. "Now, Muffy, I need this dress for the Fire & Ice Ball next week. Can it be altered in time?"

Buffy put on her best 'the customer is always right' face. "Certainly, Mrs. Goddard. And you'll look stunning in this gown."

Mrs. Goddard, once back in her comfortable muumuu, was like a different person. She smiled and patted Buffy's cheek. "You're such a sweet girl for saying such nice things to a foolish old woman like me. My Drew probably won't notice the dress at all. It's not like when we were first married, and his eyes lit up when I walked in the room. But then, I'm sure your young man's eyes do that for you, my dear."

Buffy paused in her work, trying not to think about the stab of sadness that went through her at those words. There had been really only two young men in her past, not counting that stupid fling with Parker. And while she had good relationships with both Angel and Riley-for the most part-it was depressing to think that it had been so long since she'd dated, or even clicked with a guy enough for her to consider him in that kind of light. She made sure her smile was nice and bright, hoping it'd distract attention from the truth that was in her eyes. "There's no one in my life right now, but I got glowy eyes a few times, I do admit."

Mrs. Goddard laughed as Buffy handed her back her credit card. "Oh, you're still a girl. You've got time to meet the right one-and when you do, it's like a thunderclap of the heart. That's how it was for my Drew and me." She smiled softly, then said goodbye.

As Buffy watched her walk away, she couldn't help but wonder what a thunderclap of the heart felt like. She had been in love before, and had thought she was in love. Yet neither of the two experiences were ones she really cared to repeat.

"I sure hope the thunderclaps bring good stuff as well as the lightning and danger," Buffy said to herself as she walked Mrs. Goddard's dress to Alterations.

**

Buffy let herself into the small apartment she shared with Dawn. She sighed a bit when she saw the ever-present mess, but moved on, hanging up her jacket and heading into the kitchen. It was only 4:30, but Buffy had a class tonight and she wanted to squeeze in a few more minutes of reading before she started making dinner.

The apartment was quiet. Dawn was still at her job, so Buffy could fully concentrate on the poem she was trying to analyze. She was in her third semester at UCLA and was surprised to find how much better she was doing now, compared to her last try at college. Before, it had seemed like college was just something to fill the daytime hours when she couldn't Slay. Besides, there was little chance she'd ever really use her degree, so she hadn't worried too much about her grades. She'd done well, but she knew it was luck more than anything else. When she'd had to drop out, she hadn't felt a burning desire to return, except when she was in the depths of her post-resurrection depression.

Yet now, Buffy felt so much more aware when she was in class. She realized she had always slighted her brain in favor of her body, so she sought to make things more equal by giving her brain some front-and-center time. So far, it had been working. While she'd never be the science nerd that Willow was, she had a strong knack for the humanities, and literature and history were two of her favorite classes. She knew Giles had always thought she had lived too much in the now, and she was beginning to agree with him. She wouldn't change her past for anything; she just wished that at that time, she'd been more aware of all the different kinds of 'then' rather than focusing so much on the 'now'. Slayer history, demon myths, vampire lore-she could have been a lot more effective with that knowledge.

This semester, Buffy was taking a poetry class, and she was fascinated. It wasn't that different from the slang her friends had always talked in; it was just a matter of determining what the real meaning was, beyond the exact words. Poetry worked the same way.

With a small sigh of contentment, Buffy opened her copy of Neruda and read the assigned poem.

The words moved Buffy, in a way she couldn't quite figure out. It was almost like she had heard them before, had loved hearing them. Yet at the same time, she knew she hadn't heard them before. Buffy pushed aside the strange feeling and concentrated on the poem and its structure. She took a few notes before getting sucked in again by the power of the poem. She let her mind drift as she reread the lines over and over again.

When the phone rang, she jumped in her seat, the shrill noise bringing her back to herself. She groaned as she realized it was 5:30 and she still hadn't eaten dinner. But old habits made her grab the phone as she pulled the refrigerator open. You never knew when you needed to rescue a friend from the demon who wanted to use them as bait to draw your attention.

"Buffster, how's it going?"

Buffy smiled at the cheerful voice of Xander. "Great, now that I'm talking to one of my favorite people in the world. I am also, though, running late. What's up?"

"Well . . . "

"Xander, short on time. Stop squirming and spill."

"Well, General Buffy, I wanted to know if you wouldn't mind visiting lovely San Diego next weekend."

Buffy mentally ran her schedule through her head. "That I could do. I'm not working Friday, although we'd need to come back early on Sunday, because I'm opening at work on Monday. What's the occasion?"

"Rich invited me down for the weekend, and I thought you could use a bit of a vacation," Xander said.

Buffy said nothing, and Xander sheepishly said, "And your driving scares me less than Rich's. Even with one eye, I could drive better than him."

Buffy laughed, although she always felt a twinge when she thought about how Xander had received his injury. He could drive, but over time, he had found that it was easier to restrict his times behind the wheel to short trips. "The truth finally is revealed. I'd love to, Xan. I'll let Dawn know she can stay with a friend."

"There's also Willow and Kennedy, or even Angel for that matter, if she can't work something out," Xander offered.

Buffy grinned into the phone. "What? You're suggesting I let my whiny, phone hog brat of a sister impose upon Angel's Fortress of Solitude? I thought you'd gotten past your Angel hate, Xander."

They both laughed, and Buffy said, "I'll call you later to work out the details. Gotta go."

Buffy hung up the phone, a smile on her face. Xander was just what she needed when one of her dark moods seemed to be nipping at her heels. A weekend in San Diego with Rich and Xander would be fun, and maybe she could shake the persistent tingle of something missing in her life.

She rolled her shoulders in frustration as she put together a sandwich for dinner. 'Maybe it's some Slayer thing,' she muttered to herself.

But she knew it was more than that.

**

"Welcome, welcome, to the Casa de Rich," was Rich Brendan's greeting for Buffy when she and Xander arrived in San Diego. Xander and Rich knew each other from construction back in Sunnydale, back when there was something in Sunnydale to construct. It was actually pretty amazing that Rich and Xander were still friends, after the "interesting date" he had with Buffy during her never-ending birthday party. Rich had left, along with pretty much everyone else in Sunnydale, during the rise of the First Evil. He had headed to San Diego, and gotten his master's in computer science. His real love, though, seemed to be enjoying life.

Buffy wondered what it was like to feel that young. At 24, she sometimes felt old and worn-out. Like there was nothing new to discover. She knew that being a Slayer made her more aware of the ugly side of life, but she wished she had managed to hang onto a little of her sense of wonder.

Rich showed them around his place, pointing out the kitchen and bathroom before showing them the guest room, thankfully equipped with twin beds. Not that it would have mattered if they had to share; a long time ago, Xander had realized that there'd never be a relationship between the two of them. Thankfully, that realization had happened without an awkward scene.

"So, Rich," Buffy said as they headed out to dinner, "what's the plan for the weekend?"

"Glad you asked. I thought tomorrow we could just hang out on the beach, work on the tan, you know. For dinner, I was thinking about eating at my place, with a couple of people--Xander, I've told you about Will?"

Xander nodded. "Your other best friend that I've never met."

Rich laughed. "That's the one. I was going to drag him over here, so you could finally meet him. Oh, and of course Rosie will be here," he said, mentioning his girlfriend. "She'll probably be bringing her sister along, so we'll be all even, boy-girl wise. Then, you leave on Sunday, right?"

"Yes, unfortunately," confirmed Buffy. "Work kinda insists that I'm there when I'm scheduled, so Nordstorm's will have one tired sales associate on Monday."

"Trust me, we'll pack plenty of fun into the weekend," Rich said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Rich was true to his words. Saturday was spent enjoying a typical beautiful California day. They headed back to Rich's house in the late afternoon to prepare dinner. Buffy took a quick shower to wash salt, sand, and suntan oil off, before picking out some clothes to wear. Thankfully, she had packed for any occurrence, and thus had a perfect outfit for "dinner with best friend, one of his friends, and several other people you've never met."

Buffy dried her hair, let it hang around her shoulders, and applied a bit of makeup. Her favorite jeans and her cream-colored blouse fit well, showing off a body that was more rounded than it'd been in years. A combination of eating more than coffee and salads, and less exercise, had lead to her gaining a few pounds. But they didn't bother Buffy; she was probably the only woman in America happy to gain weight.

Buffy smiled into the mirror. She was happy, even though she was bothered by those strange feelings. Tonight was about having fun, and that's what she wanted. Fun, excitement, something new in her life.

As she stepped out of the bathroom, she spied Rich and Xander in the kitchen, helping Rosie with dinner. She headed there to help, but just as she crossed the threshold, the doorbell rang.

"That must be Will," Rich remarked, his hands occupied with draining the pasta. "Buffy, could you let him in?"

"Sure," she said as she headed for the hall.

As she approached the door, Buffy heard a thud and then a voice shouting, " . . . man with dessert out here!" She yanked open the door, and felt her mouth drop open a bit.

She thought to herself, 'Thunderclap!' as she gazed at the man standing on the doorstep.

End, Chapter Two

What is Choice?
Chapter Three: Get a Load of Me, Get a Load of You

Will stared at the woman who had opened the door. How had Rich described her-gorgeous?

Massive understatement. This girl was a vision. California blonde, curvy little body, and the biggest green eyes he’d ever seen.

He opened his mouth, trying to find something-anything-to say to this woman, when she suddenly said, "You brought dessert?"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Buffy cringed. Standing in front of her was a cute-no, scratch that, amazingly gorgeous-man. Only a bit taller than her, he was lean and toned, with wild curly hair the color of honey and eyes the color of the sky. And the best thing she could do was comment on the bakery box in his arms?

Thankfully, he must be used to women making fools of themselves over him, as he opened his mouth, closed it, and then spoke. "Um, yes. I love cheesecake."

Will nearly rolled his eyes at such inanity. Where was that giant hole opening under his feet when he needed it?

Buffy practically sighed when she heard his voice. Sexy voice plus accent equaled a happy Buffy. She broke out of her reverie when she realized he was looking at her as if he needed her to notice something. And she noticed he was still standing on the doorstep.

"Oh! Can I help you carry something in?" she asked as she moved out of the doorway, letting him pass.

"No, I’ve got everything. Everyone back in the kitchen?" he answered, moving down the hall.

Rich’s head popped out of the kitchen and looked down the hall. "Will! You bastard, bringing flowers too? All the women will be swooning at your feet, eager to turn you into their next fixer-upper."

Buffy followed Will into the kitchen, where the good-natured joking was the only thing disturbing the pre-dinner lull. Rich had joined Xander, who was standing by the island watching Rosie toss a salad. Will dropped the bakery box and the flowers on the counter, kissed Rosie on the cheek, and held out his hand to Xander. "Xander, I take it?"

Xander smiled, but Buffy could see he was a bit uneasy. But he grasped Will’s hand and said, "Good to meet you finally. I can at last figure out the truth about that story Rich tells, about that time in Vegas?"

Will burst out laughing, as Rich punched Xander in the shoulder. "Hey, not in front of my girl! I’ve been trying to convince her I’ve got nothing to hide."

"Oh, I know you’ve got nothing to hide. Because I know everything," Rosie shot back.

Rich smiled at his girlfriend, then said, "And of course you’ve met Buffy, Will."

Buffy bit her bottom lip, trying not to be nervous. Will gazed at her for a moment, then smiled. "Yeah, we’ve met."

"It’s funny," Buffy said before she could stop herself, "but I feel like I know you somehow. Weird, isn’t it?"

Will cocked his head to one side in thought. "Yeah . . . it’s bloody odd, but you seem familiar. In a I-don’t-know-a-sodding-thing-about-you way, of course."

Buffy laughed, and Will’s smile changed to a grin. The others began moving around, taking dishes to the table, and Rosie pulled Buffy aside for her help. As they arranged some antipasto on a tray, Rosie said in a low voice, "My sister was supposed to come over too, so that no one would feel like they were stuck with someone. I was going to tell you that you didn’t have to entertain Will if you didn’t want to, but I don’t think that’s a problem, is it?"

Buffy blushed a little, but shook her head.

"Good," Rosie said with a smile. "Especially since Will is staring at you now."

Buffy’s head whipped around, and found Will’s eyes locked on her. She raised her eyebrow, but then smiled at him. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, 'Well, you know now,' before he winked at her. As Buffy picked up one of the platters, she thought to herself, 'Can’t get much more interesting than this . . .'

**

Will was beginning to revise his long-held disbelief in love at first sight. He still didn’t believe in it, but he sure understood how someone could think they had fallen in love with just one look.

For a few minutes, he had been worried that Buffy was a bit of a walking stereotype. Sure, she was beautiful, but she seemed to have the brains of a fruit-fly. He was never so thankful to be proven wrong. During dinner, she had seemed more at ease, and he quickly found that Buffy was smart, witty, and knew her way around a quip. At one point, when they had been snarking back and forth, he had caught Rich giving Rosie a look. Making a mental note to talk to him later, Will turned to Xander.

"So, you’ve known Rich long?"

Xander nodded. "We worked together in construction for a while, back in Sunnydale."

Will wrinkled his brow. "Sunnydale? Didn’t some disaster happen there?"

Xander snorted. "Disaster is one way to put it. I call it the whole town getting sucked into a giant hole."

"Jesus," Will said.

"Oh, yeah," Xander said, his voice equal parts bitterness and sadness.

Will searched for something else to say, and finally asked the question he had wanted to ask from the beginning. "So, have you known Buffy long?"

Xander turned his head, to see Will more clearly. Then he smiled. "Ah, yes. The Buffinator strikes again."

Will ducked his head, but kept his tone serious. "Just makin’ conversation, mate."

"Sure, mate," Xander said with a grin. "Anyway, I’ve known Buffy for . . . God, nearly ten years. Hey, Buff," Xander said, drawing Buffy out of her conversation with Rich and Rosie. "Can you believe we’ve known each other almost ten years?"

Buffy wrinkled her nose. "Gosh, that is amazing. Especially since I can’t stand you."

"Ha, ha, very funny." Xander stuck his tongue out at Buffy, which she did in return. She rolled her eyes, then grinned at Will.

Will grinned back, feeling that giddy buzz from earlier strengthen. 'This girl is perfect,' he thought to himself.

**

Buffy rested her elbows on the railings of the patio and leaned forward, staring at the ocean. The evening had been so . . . amazing. She was almost scared because things had gone so well tonight. She was afraid that this feeling couldn’t last.

She heard the door slide open, and she looked over her shoulder to see Will step outside. She smiled at him. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself," he said. "Mind if I smoke?"

She shook her head, and he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She watched as he cupped his hands around the cigarette, the flame lighting up his face for a moment.

'Beautiful,' she thought to herself.

He inhaled, and released the smoke with a sigh. "Keep telling myself that I’ll quit one of these days. Too bloody hard to smoke in California, anyway."

She turned and faced him, her back resting against the railing. "How long have you lived here?"

"Oh, ‘bout ten years or so. Came over with my mother right before I started college. As old-fashioned as it sounds, her doctors told her to come to California for her health, and I came with her."

"Did it help?" Buffy asked, thinking of her own mother and her unexpected death.

"Completely. She’s a new woman now."

"I’m glad," Buffy said softly.

Will looked at her from underneath his brows. It was an intense look, like he was trying to see inside her head and figure out what made her tick.

No one had ever looked at her that intently. She nearly shivered from the emotion that surged through her.

'Why is this happening?' she wondered silently. Ever since she had been brought back, she had experienced trouble connecting with people, even her nearest and dearest. It had gotten easier once the First had been defeated, and the burden of Slaying had been lifted from her shoulders. But it was still difficult to give into her emotions. Yet this man, who she had met only two hours ago, made her feel like a giddy girl. It was odd, not what she was used to, terrifying, and completely exciting.

Feeling a bit on edge, she tried to push aside the potent silence and return to the safety of small talk. "So what do you do?"

Will shook his head, flicking the butt of his cigarette onto the sand just beyond the patio. "None of that chit-chat, if you don’t mind. Why don’t we ask questions that really matter? Like what was the last thing you read that really touched you? Who was the last person you said ‘I love you’ to? What do you want to be able to do at 50?"

She gazed at him, both irritated and intrigued by his argument. "What’s wrong with small talk?"

Will frowned. "Everything, if you ask me. ‘Where do you work?’, ‘What’s your favorite food?’, blah blah blah. If I care enough about a person that I’m going to ask them questions, I want the questions to mean something. Let me see how they think, and what they want."

Buffy folded her arms across her chest. "But with small talk, you’re not paying attention to the questions or the answers. I may be saying, ‘What do you do?’ but I mean, ‘What inspires and excites you?’ I can ask where you grew up because I’m hoping we have that in common." She smiled, and stepped closer to him. "And there’s the questions you ask without saying a word."

Will’s smile grew more flirtatious, his voice deeper, when he replied. "Yeah? So if you step closer, and I step even closer?"

"A question and an answer," Buffy said, wondering how far this would go, how far she wanted it to go, and damn it, they shouldn’t be overlapping goals! Throwing yourself at nice men who seemed interested in you only makes you look pathetic, she counseled herself.

She was sure she could keep everything together, until he said, "And if I . . ."

And Buffy realized, as she found her eyes staring at his chest, that he had wrapped his arm around her waist.

'God, she feels good,' Will thought as her body came in contact with his. Warm, soft, with a fragrance of flowers and vanilla, she felt really, really good pressed against him lightly. He let his hand move over her lower back, lightly touching her.

She seemed a bit dazed by it all, but he watched her pull herself together. Her tongue darted out and licked her lips, and he barely stifled a small groan.

In a slightly quivery voice, she said, "The fact that I’m not pushing you away could be construed as an answer."

He smiled at her, bringing one hand up to cup her cheek. God, she was adorable. "And such big words, too. Very impressive."

Buffy’s head jerked up, and she glared at him. "Are you saying you think I’m stupid?"

Will felt his jaw drop open. "Wha-huh?" he said, too flustered by her accusation, and then by the loss of her body as she pulled out of his arms.

"You know, I’m not a dumb blonde. Well, not a natural blonde, either, but that’s beside the point!" she exclaimed, pointing her finger at him. She started pacing back and forth, and he could only watch and listen as his brain tried to catch up.

"I’m not just some silly ditz without a care in the world, you know. I’ve been raising my sister by myself for three years! The town I lived in was sucked up by a Hell . . . hole, and I lost everything! I’m taking classes at UCLA, and my professors are dazzled by my brilliance!"

Buffy paused, and Will quickly tried to apologize. "Buffy, love, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was impressed. I couldn’t have come out with ‘construed’ with the way I was feeling."

She stopped pacing, and turned to look at him. "Impressed?"

He stepped forward, knowing how to grab an opening. "Really, really impressed."

Buffy dropped her eyes, and flushed a bit. When she looked up, her voice was apologetic. "I’m so sorry. You kinda hit one of my buttons there, completely by accident. I shouldn’t have dumped that all on you."

Will smiled, and gave in to the urge to run his fingers through her hair. "Apology accepted, Buffy." He let his hand linger in his hair one more time, and she stepped closer, until she was only a breath away.

Then, he couldn’t resist. "Although I do admit I’d rather be pushin’ some of your other buttons." And before she could say a word, or do more than open her mouth to fire back some quip, he kissed her.

'Oh . . . wait, I’m supposed to be mad at him . . . mmm . . .' Buffy thought before she gave up and focused on his lips. Warm, soft lips that were currently pressing and sliding against hers.

'Sweet and spicy,' was all Will managed to think before he let his emotions take over. His hands moved on autopilot, seeking out all the places that felt good and made her feel good. He drew her tongue into his mouth, and he wondered if this was what heaven tasted like.

Buffy really, really liked kissing him. He was so good at it, and his mouth seemed designed to kiss her. She sighed, and reached up, letting her hands wrap around his neck and play with the curls she found there.

Just as she was mulling the necessary but unhappy concept of pausing for breath, she thought she heard something. When she heard another noise, she managed to pull back a bit from Will, enough that the spell was momentarily broken.

She turned, and glared at Xander, who stood half-in and half-out the door.

"Um, sorry," Xander said. "Um, Rich is going to go to Rosie’s place, and I was going to . . . go get some ice cream! Yeah, so if you guys wondered where I was, when, you know, you weren’t, um, well, you know." With that, he scurried back inside the house, shutting the door behind him.

Buffy looked at Will. Will looked at Buffy. They both burst out in giggles. "Xander’s a very considerate friend," Will managed to say.

Buffy kept laughing, resting her forehead against his chest. "It’s temporary insanity, I think. He normally plays the big-brother role to the extreme. He must like you."

Will grinned at her. "Right now, I’m not worrying about if he likes me . . ." he said, trailing off as he moved closer for another kiss.

This kiss was slower, sweeter, but also sultrier. Their tongues moved against each other’s languidly, and when they finished the kiss, Will let his forehead rest against hers.

Buffy let out a small sigh, and Will mimicked her. He then squeezed her waist, and said, "Love, I know you’re leaving tomorrow, but I really want to see you again. No rushing, you know what I mean?"

Buffy pulled back, and looked at him. She dropped a kiss on his lips. "You’re something else. Can’t think of many guys who wouldn’t want to rush."

Will pulled her back against him. "I’m not one to hurry for the finish line, since I like all the stopping points along the way. I’m about endurance," he said. Then, he smirked at her, a knee-shaking, heart-pounding smirk. "In more ways than one."

She grinned at him. "A bad boy, you are," placing another quick kiss on his mouth before pulling away somewhat. She knew if she didn’t get a little distance, right now, they’d both be naked, right now.

He shook his head with a laugh. "Hardly, love," he said, before he took her hand in his and pulled her inside the house.

Inside, they found that they were alone, but not wanting to tempt the fates, they merely smiled at each other. Will went to a desk, located in a corner of the room, and dug out a pad of paper and a pen. He wrote something, and then gave it to Buffy, who had joined him at his side.

"Cell, home phone, and email," he said, pointing to each set of numbers or letters.

She smiled at him, and scribbled down her own info. Their fingers lingered when she handed him the slip of paper, and it seemed so natural to walk to the front door, holding hands.

"I’ll call you tomorrow, when Xander and I get back," she said, leaning against the door. "I had a wonderful time tonight."

Will leaned forward, bracing himself with one hand against the door. "So did I, love. So glad I took Rich up on his invitation."

He bent down, and kissed her once, sweetly. Then he smiled and slipped out the door.

Buffy headed back into the living room, and sat down on the couch. She brought her fingers up to her mouth. Her lips felt a bit swollen, a sure sign of being well-kissed.

"Well-kissed indeed," Buffy said to herself with a happy sigh.

Outside the condo, Will leaned against his car for a minute, staring at the window in Rich’s living room. He could see Buffy, and he saw her bring her hand to her mouth. He grinned, before he touched his own fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss.

"Just the beginning, love," he said aloud, before he got into his car and dreamily drove home.

End, Chapter Three

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