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In retrospect, Jenny should have realized what was up months ago, but—well—come on. It was Bridget. Bridget Edmunds Giles, who curled her hair like some sort of vintage starlet and wore tailor-made tweed skirt suits that somehow managed to look fashionably feminine instead of frumpy. Bridget was that very specific sort of sweetly approachable middle-aged woman who was friendly to everyone, friends with everyone, and so it really didn’t occur to Jenny to ever consider that Bridget was anything other than straight.
She did consider the fact that Bridget was an asshole. That she wanted credit for figuring out, because nearly everyone else in Sunnydale High had somehow managed to miss the fact that Bridget was a passive-aggressive, petty, catty individual who weaponized her likability to get out of doing shit she didn’t want to do. When Jenny had asked Bridget about digitizing the library, Bridget had fluttered about being “hopelessly behind the times” and “terribly out-of-date,” insulting herself with the kind of practiced theatricality that invited correction. And when Jenny hadn’t taken the bait, saying patiently that anyone could learn computer science with a bit of time and effort, Bridget’s eyes had narrowed just a bit before she’d said that yes, it did seem like the sort of thing that Jenny would put time and effort into, but she hardly had the time to spare.
At which point—okay. Jenny had never exactly been a likable person, but she’d at least managed to be a likable coworker in most other places she’d worked, and she wasn’t about to burn through a whole bunch of goodwill by going directly for the throat of everyone’s favorite faculty member. Maybe going into work thirty minutes early and taking Bridget’s favorite mug every day wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but you had to fight fire with fire—in this case, “fire” being “passive-aggressive bullshit.”
Bridget fought back. Lots of stupid little comments about Jenny’s hair, which really said a lot about the kind of women she’d been hanging out with, because really? Why the fuck would Jenny care one way or the other whether her hair made her look like the “wrong sort of woman?” What the fuck was the right sort of woman? The very obvious response to that was to submit two hundred and seventy requests to the school library on feminist theory, which earned Jenny a memo on personalized stationery. With flowers.
Miss Calendar:
While I appreciate your continued efforts to broaden the horizons of our collective student body, they are, unfortunately, rather too ambitious to be realistic. I have attached a copy of the library’s current budget, already shoestring as it is—there is simply no money I can use to purchase a request this voluminous, particularly when the request is only coming from one overzealous young teacher.
I do hope you do not take my words too hard to heart. It takes time to learn the ropes of a job like this. I would, of course, be happy to sit down with you for a lovely cup of tea if you’re ever interested in receiving some advice from a more experienced peer.
Best wishes,
B. Giles
Ms. Giles,
So I looked over your budget and it makes absolutely zero sense. Pretty much none of it has even been touched. What exactly is in that library if you haven’t bought any new books at all?
Also, if you insist on being the only person on staff not to use my first name, it’s Ms. Calendar. I’m hardly as junior as you keep on implying.
Jenny
Ms. Calendar,
I suspect you may have misread the budget, though I completely understand why this may have been the case. From what I understand, computer science is a push for machines to process data, rather than the individual looking it over themselves.
Though of course I may be entirely mistaken! I am, after all, not particularly familiar with the latest trends.
Best wishes,
B. Giles
At which point Jenny gave up on replying and just systemically shredded Bridget’s memos until she felt better.
The demon in the internet was a curveball. Bridget called Jenny in with a stiff terseness that was nothing at all like her usual sugar-sweet persona, rigid and humiliated and not quite ready to give up on the always-there-if-you-need-me older-lady kind of thing. She was halfway to forcing a smile when Jenny said, “Look, you’re allowed to hate me. It doesn’t have to be this whole weird thing where you dodge all my attempts to digitize the library until I get Flutie involved.”
“I don’t hate you,” said Bridget, but it sounded more reflexive than anything.
“Yeah?” Jenny smiled, sharply challenging. “I kinda hate you.”
“You’re of course entitled to feel—”
“Come on,” said Jenny, throwing up her hands. “Jenny, you’re a bitch. Just say it.”
“Certainly not!” objected Bridget, drawing her shoulders back as if physically recoiling from the word itself. “What sort of example would that set for the children?”
“The children who aren’t here?” countered Jenny. “Because it is eight PM? And there’s a demon in the internet?”
Bridget colored. “Precisely.”
“Bridget,” said Jenny, “you’re a bitch.”
Bridget’s lips thinned and she turned on her heels, saying only, “The computer is this way.”
“You’ve called my hair slut hair multiple times.”
“I would never.”
“You would, and you have, you just didn’t say it directly because you think that absolves you from being a genuinely shitty human being. Do you ever get tired of putting other women down?”
“Do not make this a feminist issue,” said Bridget tightly. “This is not a feminist issue. In point of fact, one could argue—no. I am not starting this with you. There is a demon in the internet.”
“One could argue,” Jenny pressed, “if one wasn’t chickenshit.”
That got Bridget’s attention, and satisfyingly; she whirled, cheeks bright red and eyes full of lightning. She didn’t seem quite able to say whatever it was that she’d locked behind her ribcage, but she very clearly wanted to say it, and Jenny found herself dizzy with the anticipation of finally hearing it.
“Chickenshit,” she repeated.
“You are behaving like a child.”
“You’re behaving like a child. You seriously can’t admit that you don’t like me?”
“I don’t like your job,” Bridget snapped. “That has nothing to do with you.”
“Kinda does.” Jenny held up a hand, pinching thumb and forefinger nearly together. “Just a bit.”
“I do like you.”
“You so don’t.”
“There is a demon in the internet. Do you really want more deaths on your conscience?”
“Hold on, more deaths?” Jenny’s temper flared. “You’re the one who scanned Moloch into the internet because you weren’t paying attention! What the hell—oh my god, that’s why this library is full of books, isn’t it? This is a demonology library! What possible reason—and you’re blaming me for whatever the fuck Moloch did, when I’m the one who’s come in here to fix it?”
“What are you trying to accomplish?”
There was an actual break to Bridget’s voice, then—anger twined with something actually distraught. Now it was Jenny’s turn to step back.
“Why is it so important to you that I lose my composure, that I lose my—my temper? Why are you provoking me without end? I don’t at all appreciate what you’ve been trying to do, but I’m not—I can’t—I can’t afford to fight back, if that’s what you want! Do you realize how it would look? The scrutiny I am under? I am not—I cannot—”
This was well above Jenny’s pay grade. She’d wanted to have a fight with Bridget, not push Bridget directly into some kind of panic attack.
“Goddamn it,” she said, and crossed the room, placing her hands on Bridget’s shoulders. Bridget tried to shake her off. “Fine. I’m kind of a bitch and I wanted to make your life miserable. We can say it’s that, okay? Just—breathe. Breathe. In, out—”
“I’m—” Bridget swallowed. She was clearly trying to say fine, which was ridiculous.
“I don’t know,” said Jenny. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m gonna stop, though, if—” She sighed. “I’m gonna not try to negotiate computer time with you during your breakdown, because I’m not the world’s most terrible person.”
“You sound—” Bridget swallowed again, “disappointed—about that.”
She actually looked almost amused. Jenny smiled wryly.
“Yeah,” she said. “It kinda sucks. If I was just, like, twelve percent more of a bitch, I could really try and take advantage of you right now.”
Bridget’s lashes fluttered and she looked momentarily startled.
That was the first sign Jenny missed.
The second sign was when Bridget started making her lunch. It was a real one-eighty, and Jenny wasn’t even remotely prepared for it—they’d parted awkwardly after Moloch, Bridget had shown up with a corkscrew that really must have been Jenny’s, they’d avoided eye contact in the halls, Jenny had assumed that that was going to be it. But two days later, Bridget sat down next to her in one of the staff meetings—not with the cluster of older English teachers she always sat with, but with Jenny—and slid a beautifully packed lunchbox across the table before placing down a second one and opening her own lunch.
“What,” said Jenny.
“Don’t read into it,” said Bridget.
“I’m—you—what,” said Jenny, who had absolutely no idea how to take this. “Is this poisoned?”
“Good lord,” said Bridget. “Well, we’re going to have to work on your trust issues.”
“Going to what,” Jenny managed, before deciding that she needed to ask an actual question at some point. “What are you doing, Bridget?”
“Call me Giles,” said Bridget. “Most do. And as thanks for your assistance with Moloch, I have decided to provide my assistance in return.”
“With what?”
“Your passive-aggressive tendencies.”
“My passive—” Oh, fuck fighting fire with fire, Jenny was about to throw Bridget Giles through a window. “You can’t be serious.”
“I certainly am. If this is the line of work you’re pursuing, you will need to learn how to make yourself likable and approachable to other people.”
“I am likable and approachable to other people, Bridget. I’m just not likable and approachable to certain people, who I think might have serious emotional issues.”
“See, that,” said Bridget. “That is exactly the sort of thing that you cannot assert. If someone dislikes you, Ms. Calendar, it is hardly a personal failing on their part—rather, it is an opportunity to figure out how to change their mind.”
That actually did get Jenny’s attention.
“You’re saying you want to help me,” she said slowly, “by showing me how to make people like me. People who don’t like me right now.”
Bridget flushed. “Yes.”
“Okay,” said Jenny, and smiled as pleasantly as she possibly could.
“...Okay?”
“What? It’s nice of you.”
“I was expecting more resistance,” said Bridget uncomfortably.
“Was it not a genuine offer?”
Bridget’s blush deepened indignantly. “Yes, it was,” she said stiffly, in a tone of voice that made it particularly clear that Jenny had backed her into a corner. “Yes. It was a genuine offer.”
“Then you’re being very nice,” said Jenny, and smiled sharply. “Thank you, Giles.”
“Lesson one,” said Bridget. “Presentation. What is the intended message behind your sartorial choices?”
“Jesus Christ, Giles, have you been there the whole time?” Jenny had jumped back into someone else’s car, which had, of course, set off the car alarm. “Just standing there? It’s almost sunset. Do you know how many people get murdered in this town?”
Bridget ignored this entirely, striding quickly forward to straighten Jenny’s collar. “Your outfits are too consistently busy. Too casual. You’d do better with simpler patterns. You look as though you’re attempting to project a sort of laissez-faire indifference—a teacher who’s one with the student body. Approachability does not project authority. Is this your intention?”
“Is that a bad thing?” said Jenny narrowly. “It’s not like you’re trying to look like an authority figure.”
Bridget blushed. She blushed a lot, thought Jenny (this was the third sign). “I have my reasons.”
“Yeah? What are they?”
“Authoritative women intimidate men. It’s simply easier to get things done if one is pleasant and self-effacing.”
Jenny felt a maudlin little twist of sympathy. “Giles, that’s…really, really depressing. You’re saying it’s my responsibility to make myself smaller so that men listen?”
“Not smaller,” said Bridget quickly. “Only a—a more pleasing shape.”
“For them or for me?”
“One cannot afford to be selfish if one wishes to be heard.”
“Is it selfish to assert yourself?”
“It depends on what you’re asserting.”
It was like trying to break down a brick wall with a toothpick.
“Look, you do what you want to do, but I’m not gonna sand myself down,” said Jenny firmly. “That’s a hard line for me.”
“It isn’t sanding,” said Bridget, almost defensively. “It’s—it isn’t sanding.”
God, she needed to leave well enough alone—
“What would you be like?” Jenny asked, unable to keep the question back. “If you weren’t pleasant and self-effacing, Giles, what would you be?”
A shadow crossed Bridget’s face and she didn’t answer.
“I somehow cannot imagine my modus operandi working very well for you,” she said instead. “Your nature is…rather irrepressible.”
“Damn straight,” said Jenny, and smiled.
Bridget smiled back. It startled them both. “Well,” she said briskly, turning away and entirely missing Jenny’s broadening grin. “You still haven’t answered my question. Are you attempting to project approachability, rather than authority?”
“I’m dressing how I like to dress,” Jenny countered.
“No woman dresses how she likes to dress.”
Jenny wasn’t even going to touch that one. “I picked out this top at this incredible thrift store in LA with a couple of friends, and these slacks are from the Sunnydale Mall. The shoes I’ve had since my first teaching job, and the jacket—well, that’s a long story that I don’t think I could tell you and maintain eye contact through. Every single thing I’m wearing, I’m wearing because it’s work-appropriate clothing that I like. That I think is fun.”
Bridget glanced back over her shoulder—slowly at first, then lingering, eyes flicking Jenny up and down.
“It does look fun,” she said, almost wistfully.
“Not your style, though?”
“No,” said Bridget. “No, not my…I’d hardly wear it the way you do. I’m too old for leather jackets, I think.”
“You’re forty-four, Giles, you’re not dead. Ms. Phelps is fifty and she wears a leather jacket every day.”
“Yes, let’s all take sartorial cues from Ms. Phelps,” said Bridget, with such derisive sarcasm that Jenny couldn’t hold back a shrieking laugh. “Oh, stop, Ms. Calendar, that wasn’t—I can hardly—it wasn’t becoming of me—”
“No, this is great! You hate Ms. Phelps?! You sit with Ms. Phelps every day, this is so funny—”
“I’ll sit with you every day if you don’t compose yourself,” threatened Bridget.
“Do it,” said Jenny, and grinned.
“Lesson two,” said Bridget.
“Oh, great, another sneak attack,” said Jenny.
“Your desk is atrocious.” Bridget was already nudging Jenny’s heels firmly off the table, neatly stacking students’ papers in exactly the wrong order. “You must present yourself as perfectly composed and put-together at all times.”
“You know, Giles, I was wrong about you,” said Jenny, leaning back in her chair. “I used to think you were this catty, passive-aggressive, ultra-conservative grandmother at the tender old age of forty-four. Now I’m starting to realize you’re just genuinely insane.” She straightened up. “And by the way, would you stop that? You’re putting all of those papers out of order.”
“There’s no order,” said Bridget. “It’s printouts of nonsense.”
“It’s code. My desk is a mess because I’m getting ready to grade papers. What is with you and your determination to fix me?”
Bridget stopped. Slowly, she set the papers down, looking with cautious curiosity at Jenny, and said, “I’m…honestly not quite sure. I only…well, I can’t imagine how else we would socialize, if not some sort of mentor-mentee dynamic.”
“Okay, first of all, at no point in time did I ever ask for a mentor. Second of all, we genuinely could just be friends. You realize that, right?”
“I can’t imagine you’d be interested in being friends with me,” said Bridget a bit defensively. “You despise me. You’ve said as much.”
“I said that weeks ago,” Jenny countered, “and, again, I already admitted that I was wrong about you.”
“Yes, you have. You don’t think I’m difficult, you think I’m insane.”
“Did I ever say that I thought that was a bad thing?”
Bridget looked a bit startled. She sat down on Jenny’s desk, studying her face apprehensively, then said, “I simply can’t imagine what we would—well—talk about.”
“Books,” said Jenny eagerly.
“Books?”
“Look, I’ve been letting you fix me—”
“You have absolutely not been doing that.”
“—so can’t you give me a shot at fixing you?” Jenny was already pulling herself up and out of her chair. “I’ve got all these incredible books on second-wave feminism—”
“Aren’t we in the third wave?”
“I feel like you’re going to have to play catch-up.”
Bridget thinned her lips, but it didn’t look displeased. Her eyes were sparkling. Jenny pretended not to notice.
“Fine,” she said. “I suppose I should be glad that you actually can read.”
“See, this,” said a delighted Jenny. “This is the kind of bitchy bullshit I’ve really been hoping I’d get to hear from you at some point. Read some second-wave feminism, and I’ll organize my desk, how’s that?”
She held the first book out to Bridget, who took it.
“Third lesson?” said Jenny, leaning on the door.
Bridget, with dark circles under her eyes, turned to face Jenny. The phone was clutched tightly in her hand.
“Not today,” she said.
Which was how Jenny learned about the other part of Bridget—the part that was somehow, later, still more plausible than Bridget being, well, what she turned out to be. It felt absolutely insane, trying to wrap her head around Bridget leading this deranged little double life as Watcher to a teenage Vampire Slayer, but it did at least explain why Bridget was so obsessed with sliding neatly under the radar. You didn’t hear about a lot of lady Watchers.
Jenny’s first real meeting with Buffy the Vampire Slayer involved Buffy punching Bridget directly in the face, which sent a jolt of sympathetic pain through her that startled her immensely. She was over and across the library in a heartbeat, pulling Bridget’s head awkwardly into her lap. The perfect starlet wave to Bridget’s hair was a goddamn mess.
“You fight the Master,” Jenny said, “and you’ll die.” And how the fuck was she supposed to tell Bridget any of that?
“Maybe,” said Buffy, big eyes in a little white face. Just a kid. What the fuck. “Maybe I’ll take him with me.”
She was just out the door when Bridget stirred, making a vulnerable, unhappy noise that tore through Jenny just as the punch had. It was beginning to sink in with Jenny that she had been lonely, moving here—all these blithely normal teachers with their incredibly normal lives, smiling uncomfortably every time someone got murdered, and then Bridget. Bridget, who was not even remotely normal, and had been weird even before Jenny found out that they lived in the same weird world.
“Ow,” Bridget whispered.
She sounded very small. Jenny felt protective, which in turn made her feel vulnerable. She didn’t like caring about people.
“Giles,” she said quietly. “Buffy. I—I’m sorry, I couldn’t—”
“Oh, you just saved yourself a punch,” said Bridget, sounding bone-tired and already halfway to grief. “I can hardly blame you. Do you—there’s ice in my office. This happens to me quite a lot, actually.”
“Quite a lot?”
“Hazards of the job.” Bridget tried to smile and winced instead.
“Quit it,” said Jenny, and brushed her fingers against Bridget’s cheek, and felt—
—no, no, no, no, fuck.
Jenny missed eighty percent of the apocalypse because she was too busy having some sort of private panic attack. Bridget? Bridget Giles, world’s worst, weirdest British woman, forty but acted like she was sixty, made faces when Jenny wore skirts without stockings? Bridget Giles, who’d tried to turn Jenny into some kind of Stepford wife because she couldn’t come up with a normal way to ask to be friends?
Bridget Giles, with a star in her eye. A head taller than Jenny and always trying to hold herself like a much smaller woman. Copper-colored hair tinted silver at the temples, and a sharp, smug little smile—
No, no, no. Horrible idea. The worst. Bridget was ten years older than her, straight, exactly the kind of person to be scandalized by even the notion of lesbianism, straight, and had enough emotional issues to fill a card catalogue, because she still refused to digitize the library.
“You aren’t going to dance?”
Jenny jerked herself back to reality, turning to stare blankly at Bridget. “What?”
“Well, this is a party,” said Bridget, who looked possibly twelve times lighter than usual—which had the upsetting side effect of making her look even more handsome. “And you are a rather celebratory sort of person.”
Jenny felt a twinge of irritation and grabbed it gratefully with both hands. “Only you could make that sound like a bad thing.”
“Thank you,” said Bridget primly, taking a sip of her drink.
“I’m not dancing,” Jenny added. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”
“Is this some sort of veiled attempt to get me to dance?”
“What?” Jenny blanched. “No.”
Bridget looked a little miffed. “You look horrified.”
“I don’t look horrified.”
“I can dance, Ms. Calendar.”
“Don’t do it,” said Jenny. She was already harboring some sort of deranged and embarrassing crush; she felt certain that seeing Bridget dance would make it worse.
“Feminism,” said Bridget, “is about allowing other women to make their own choices.”
“That is cherry-picking and paraphrasing and—you need to read about third-wave feminism before you start talking like you’re some sort of educated expert—” Jenny was going to have some sort of actual nervous breakdown in the Bronze and it was going to be her own fucking fault. “I’ll dance, okay? I’ll dance. God.”
She threw herself into the music with gusto, trying very, very hard not to look and see what Bridget was doing. She focused on the beat, on her body, on moving like she always did—head thrown back, arms up, hips swaying—and the song sunk into her, stilling her worries, just as it always did. She felt eyes on her, and indulged herself, imagined for a moment that they were Bridget’s eyes—she could allow that thought as she danced—
She glanced up through her eyelashes and saw that Bridget was watching her. The light from the disco ball reflected around the room, bouncing off of Bridget’s glasses. Jenny couldn’t see her eyes.
God, if Bridget did feel it—in a world where Bridget could—
Jenny pushed the thought aside, and turned away.
Bridget greeted Jenny at the beginning of the next school year with an actually brilliant smile. It was as though some sort of invisible wall had been knocked down between them, now that Jenny knew the whole of Bridget—Watcher, Slayer, sacred destiny—and Jenny, who would once have given anything for Bridget to actually listen to her, was now wishing that Bridget would put the fucking wall back up, because this was genuinely impossible to survive.
Determined to respond in kind, she moved quickly forward and hugged Bridget, just the way she did with all of her girlfriends. Completely normal. “Bridge.”
Bridget’s smile pursed. “Oh, Jenny, really?”
“That’s what friends do, right? Nickname?” Jenny pulled back, heart pounding. “Read any good new books lately?”
“I’m a librarian. I’ve read too many to count.” Bridget ushered them into the school. “How was your summer?”
“Extreme,” said Jenny eagerly. “I did Burning Man in Black Rock. Such a good festival. Raves, naked mud dancing…I should have made you come.”
“Thank you, I’ll pass.” Bridget wavered. “There’s, there’s a fascinating new paper that’s just been published—Lydia Chalmers, she’s collected some information on some of the Dracula impersonators over the ages. I thought you might like to read it. The men tend to be a little dry and pedantic, but her writing is…refreshing. It takes quite a lot for a woman to make her way in the Council.”
“I’d imagine it does,” said Jenny.
“Don’t take that tone,” said Bridget, with absolutely no vitriol, and tugged Jenny towards the library.
And then they were friends. Jenny had a friend. That was important, wasn’t it? They went to the football game together, mostly because Jenny couldn’t believe that Bridget hadn’t ever gone to a single school game, and Bridget made annoying little comments about how this was all basically just a less masculine version of rugby until Jenny said, “I’m going to upend this popcorn bucket over your head.” They went to monster trucks together for about ten seconds, because Bridget saw the stadium, said, “Absolutely fucking not,” and Jenny, cackling with glee, decided that getting Bridget to swear was well worth missing the nitro-burning funny cars.
They went to the mall together. Jenny tried in vain to coax Bridget into a leather jacket.
“It would look good on you,” she said.
“It wouldn’t,” said Bridget, with that same grim finality that she’d had a year ago. “This dress is perfectly serviceable.”
“You dress twenty years older than you actually are,” argued Jenny. “You’re insanely attractive, Bridget. You’ve gotta play to your strengths.”
Bridget colored. She looked sweetly vulnerable. “Do you really think so?”
Jenny was rock-solid certain that she was the most horrible person to ever exist. Here was Bridget, lonely as anything, starved for any kind of positive attention, grateful for an actual friend—and there, across from her, was Jenny, complimenting her with every ulterior motive possible.
She needed to get her shit together. Bridget was her friend. And Bridget wasn’t—
“Hello, Butcher,” said the woman.
Bridget had frozen at the door, still disheveled from whatever the hell had her messed up enough to worry Buffy. There was a rigidity to her that felt almost like her cold defensiveness around Jenny during the early days, but some threatening undercurrent underneath that was entirely new.
“Ethan,” she said.
The woman—Ethan—was dressed in a smart button-down and slacks, hair close-cropped, lithe and charming in the kind of butch way that would have aroused interest in Jenny under any other circumstances. Her smile was languid, her dark eyes smug.
“I thought I told you to get out of town,” said Bridget, still in that low, dangerous voice.
“You did,” said Ethan. “I didn’t. Shop’s lease isn’t up till the end of the month.”
“Why did she call her Butcher?” Cordelia whispered loudly.
And Bridget—sweet, unassuming, pleasantly self-effacing Bridget—strode forward in her heels and yanked Ethan up by the scruff of her neck, holding her with tight, violent fury that sent a chill down Jenny’s spine.
When Jenny’s body was not her own, when the thing inside it moved her limbs without her permission, she was given disjointed glimpses of a girl she almost knew. Stubborn, angry eyes, close-cropped copper hair, a beat-up leather jacket, pushing Ethan Rayne into walls to kiss her until they bled. And Jenny didn’t have enough of her mind to think, but if she did—if she could—
“Bridge,” said Eyghon, using Jenny’s voice, taking the name that Jenny had worked so fucking hard to love saying. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
Bridget was disheveled. Jenny needed her body back. That was her friend—her friend was scared—
“I’m sorry,” Bridget managed. “I—I’m so sorry.”
Jenny had never seen Bridget this frightened—a bone-deep fear that felt almost familiar. She kept looking up at Jenny—at Eyghon—like she expected Jenny to hurt her and couldn’t bear the blow.
“Sorry for what?” Eyghon’s voice was sweetly conciliatory as it placed a hand on Bridget’s shoulder. “C’mon. It’s me.”
“I’d never—” Bridget’s voice was shaking. “Never want you to think—this isn’t—it isn’t me. It’s a part of my past that can’t—you mustn’t be involved. I beg of you, please, let me handle this myself.”
“Ethan,” said Eyghon. “You and her…?”
“No,” said Bridget, but the dismissal was desperate. Terrified.
Oh, god, Jenny had never thought—she needed to be here. She couldn’t get her arms to fucking move. She’d talked herself out of it a thousand times, not because she didn’t believe it was possible, but because Bridget being anything but straight would mean that Bridget would be living in hell. Bridget, so obsessed with making herself small, making herself likable, cutting off the parts of herself that the Council wouldn’t approve of—
Bridget, who was staring at Jenny as Eyghon drew closer—
No, Jenny thought. Tears stung her eyes. No. Please. Please don’t make me.
Eyghon kissed Bridget, slow and soft and tender, and Bridget let out a strangled gasp before kissing Jenny desperately. Jenny felt it, curling in her belly, spreading from heart to hands, rising to her cheeks, everywhere, everywhere, she felt Bridget. Not once had she ever imagined a world where Bridget would kiss her back—where Bridget would hold her, pulling Jenny’s smaller frame into hers and stumbling back into the easy chair—her hands moving from Jenny’s hips to her waist to her breasts to her shoulders, desperate, wanting—
Bridget pulled back with a gasp and said, voice shaking, “No, I—oh, please, Jenny, please don’t—”
“Why?” Eyghon’s voice was breathy. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Bridge. Since the moment I saw you. You never heard of a girl pulling pigtails to tell you she likes you?”
This is mine. Jenny wanted to scream. This is mine. This wasn’t yours to take.
“I can’t.” Bridget was starting to cry. “God. Please. Please, I—I’ve worked—so hard—I’ve never—they’ll never let me near Buffy again—”
“And what about what I want?”
Bridget sobbed.
“God,” said Eyghon. “You were so strong, Butcher. Tearing the world to make it your own, and now look at you. You’ve worn that stupid little mask so long you’re turning into it.”
And Jenny’s vision distorted—blurred—her mind—
“—Jenny,” said Bridget. “Jenny.”
She was almost crying, but she didn’t reach out to touch Jenny, and Jenny immediately knew why. So much of the hurt and heartbreak must have shown on her face, because Bridget recoiled, already stumbling dizzily to her feet.
“Bridge,” Jenny whispered. The kids had rushed over to Angel—and wasn’t that something Jenny was probably going to have to work out later? She couldn’t now. She tried to pull herself to her feet and failed miserably.
Bridget was still standing at a terrified distance, like touching Jenny would make something else impossible happen again. Jenny understood completely, now, but she still felt fucking sick. She had to find the words to tell Bridget it was fine. She couldn’t say shit in front of the kids.
They’ll never let me near Buffy again.
“Come on, Bridge,” said Jenny. Her own voice broke. “I can’t stand. Please just get over here and help me.”
“Yes,” said Bridget, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Yes. Sorry.”
She hauled Jenny up by the elbows, careful to touch only Jenny’s shirtsleeves. No hands. No skin. Jenny fell towards her and Bridget almost recoiled, then seemed to realize that Jenny did still need support. An awkward arm was wound around Jenny’s waist.
“Bridge.” Jenny turned her face quietly towards Bridget’s. The kids were occupied. Why couldn’t she think of the right fucking thing to say? “I’m—I—”
Bridget tugged her firmly out of the store and towards the car, all but shoving Jenny into the passenger seat. She got in on the driver’s side, shut the door, and floored the gas, speeding by the baffled children as they exited Ethan’s shop.
Her fingers were tight around the steering wheel. Jenny had never in her life wanted to reach for someone more.
They drove in silence, Bridget making bizarre turns, until they reached a parking lot, at which point Bridget slammed the car to a violent stop and collapsed against the steering wheel.
“Bridge—”
Bridget curled inwards and away, determined not to touch Jenny’s hand.
And what the fuck was Jenny supposed to say, anyway? Bridget hadn’t wanted to kiss her. Bridget had been pent-up and lonely for decades, someone had touched her, and she’d betrayed her own principles, baring her soul to the demon whose shame she still bore decades later. Jenny couldn’t offer anything to make Bridget feel better. Saying that she was crazy about Bridget wouldn’t do anything to help with the fact that they couldn’t be together.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice breaking.
Bridget’s sobs only seemed to intensify.
“I—”
“I just—wanted—a friend,” Bridget wept. “Just a—a friend, I’ve never—never—”
Jenny’s eyes stung. She turned her face away.
It took Bridget a very, very long time to stop crying, and every minute felt like they were cheating death, considering the state of vampires in this town. When she finally did straighten up, she drove Jenny woodenly home without a word, refusing to make eye contact or even acknowledge Jenny’s presence. She stopped the car outside of Jenny’s apartment and waited.
Jenny turned.
“Bridge—”
“Please just leave my car,” said Bridget.
“I am sorry,” said Jenny.
“Do you honestly think that helps?” Bridget’s voice shook. “This was my fault.”
“Eyghon wasn’t lying,” Jenny forced out, which actually did get Bridget to turn and look at her. “I did—it was—I—that’s why I’m sorry. It wasn’t—I wanted—”
Bridget stared at her, lips parted, eyes wet, then shook her head. “You’re very kind, Jenny, but this is—humiliating enough as it is. You and I both know that you—you were forced to do things that you would never have done in your right mind—”
“Oh, fuck you,” said Jenny.
Bridget flinched back.
“You always fucking think you know everything about me. You honestly think I’d never have kissed you? You seriously haven’t noticed the way I’ve been looking at you?”
“The way you’ve been—Jenny—”
“You don’t get to leave this whole thing thinking you took advantage of a mind-controlled straight girl. You don’t get to think that’s why I’m upset. You—” Jenny was almost too angry to speak. “There’s a whole fucking chapter in that book you’re reading about bisexual erasure! You don’t get to erase my bisexuality, Bridge!”
“Please just leave my car!” said Bridget. “I cannot have this conversation with you! Now or ever! And I don’t need you—lying to me in some cruelly misguided attempt to make me feel—”
Jenny kissed her.
Just as before, Bridget melted. It was almost too quick to be believed—rigidity one moment, longing pliability the next, her fingers tangling desperately in Jenny’s hair. It was a better kiss than Eyghon, too, because Jenny was in her own fucking body and could kiss Bridget back, sliding her tongue into Bridget’s mouth, feeling Bridget shudder and moan.
Jenny broke the kiss to scrape her teeth against Bridget’s jaw, sucking kisses into her neck, and Bridget almost sobbed as she gathered Jenny closer.
“Oh, you—oh—Jenny—”
Jenny pulled her face up, flushed and shaking.
“That was my first kiss with you,” she said. “I’m not letting some demonic fuck ruin my first kiss with you. I wasn’t going to tell you, I wasn’t—wasn’t going to make it your problem, but you’re not gonna walk away from me, Bridge. You’re my best friend. You don’t want to risk it, fine, we don’t risk it. I’ll never kiss you again.”
“Kiss me again,” Bridget whispered. Her eyes were glazed, her fingers still tangled possessively in Jenny’s hair.
“We’re talking about this tomorrow,” said Jenny, and tried to move away, but Bridget pulled her back in for another kiss and they ended up losing about fifteen more minutes. When Jenny did finally untangle herself, she said, firmly, “We are talking about this tomorrow morning. Tonight, you’re going to bed. At mine. You can’t drive like this.”
“Go to bed with me,” said Bridget.
“You have had a weird fucking night. I’m not having sex with you.” Jenny pulled herself firmly away from Bridget, heart pounding. “Come on.”
Jenny woke up to find Bridget sitting on the edge of her bed, looking much more put-together than the night before but no less terrified.
“Giles, what the fuck,” she said. “Do I get even a minute?”
“You said tomorrow morning,” answered Bridget.
“Is this even a conversation? You’ve spent twenty years being closeted and repressed and miserable. You’re not gonna throw away your sacred destiny after everything you’ve put in to get it.”
“That is a very generous reading of the situation.” Bridget moved closer. “I sold my soul, and I want it back. You make me a better person.”
She looked so fucking earnest. So different from the stiffly miserable woman Jenny was so used to coaxing towards happiness. Lighter, almost, as she studied Jenny, which was kind of terrifying. Jenny hadn’t ever imagined Bridget looking at her like that.
“It isn’t worth the risk,” she said. “We’re both teachers, and this is a small town. We’d have to sneak around. And that’s not even getting into what it might do to your position in the Council—”
“You asked me what I would be if I chose my own shape.” Bridget’s eyes were bright and impossibly stubborn. “Whatever shape I choose, Jenny, it’s—I want you to be there.”
“You said you just wanted a friend.”
“I did. I do. I only—” Bridget reached for Jenny’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I hadn’t—considered—hadn’t ever dared—you understand, Jenny, if you meant what you said last night. You didn’t once think I might enjoy the company of other women.”
“I told you I went to Burning Man,” Jenny countered, but it was starting to feel like arguing for the sake of arguing. “Bridge, this is…”
God. She was going to have to say the true thing, wasn’t she?
“You mean…so much to me. I don’t want to fuck up your life.”
“I fuck up my own life just fine,” said Bridget, smiling self-deprecatingly.
“And this could very easily be one of those decisions.”
“Then let me fuck up my own life, Jenny, and let me be happy for—for at least a week before it all goes back to being unbearable again. I feel like I can breathe when I’m with you.”
“You are so goddamn stubborn,” said Jenny, but she could feel herself swaying helplessly towards Bridget. She wanted to ruin that stupid little wave in Bridget’s hair. “Did you put on a full face of makeup for this conversation?”
“Something about the ritual calms me down a bit.”
“Do you even like makeup, Bridge?”
“No. I hate it.”
A smile stole across Jenny’s face. “Are you gonna tell me the truth if I keep kissing you?”
“Will you kiss me again if I keep telling you the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes,” said Bridget. “Yes. Yes, Jenny.”