"They painted up your secrets - with the lies they told to you
And the least they ever gave you - was the most you ever knew
And I wonder where these dreams go - when the world gets in your way
What's the point of all this screaming? No one's listening anyway..."
-Goo Goo Dolls, "Acoustic #3"

Da-da-dum, da-da-dum...

Buffy drummed her fingertips against the arm of her chair anxiously. It was a bad habit. She was extremely impatient, and her mother knew it. In fact, it ran in the family.

She'd told her story, all of it. Now she only hoped her mother believed her...

He was so engrossed in the painting, he didn't even notice the elderly couple that came up beside him. However, when the man spoke to him, Angel did a good job of concealing his surprise.

"It's beautiful, isn't?" the man asked, smiling and putting an arm around the woman, who was obviously his wife.

Turning around to face him, Angel nodded. "It is," he agreed.

"It says here it's by a guy named David Bor-e-an-az," he said, motioning to a sign on the wall. He seemed to pronounce the name with some difficulty.

"Bor-e-ah-naz," Angel corrected him. "He's an Italian painter, from Florence. This is the last thing he worked on before his death. He had a heart attack at a very young age."

"Hmm." The man thought a moment before continuing. "You know a lot of this kind of stuff-art, I mean-don't you?"

"Only what I've read," replied Angel, resuming his study of the canvas.

Finally, she stopped and turned to look at her daughter, nervously waiting for an answer. So she gave it to her.

"I believe you, Buffy."

"I believe you," Mrs. Summers repeated, smiling a little at her daughter's pessimistic behavior.

Buffy appeared dead serious while recounting her story. Had she really expected her own mother to accuse her of lying?

"You believe me?"

"Yes."

"Really? 'Cause if you're thinking I've totally flipped out or something and made that up, it's not true."

Buffy still needed some assurance. This didn't sound like her mom at all...

"Sweetie, calm down. I believe you and I know you're not crazy. This explains all the strange things that have happened and why you always seemed so fit, even though you didn't have to work on it. Your father and I always assumed you were naturally athletic. We had no idea you were a slayer... Actually, we had no idea what a slayer was, or that any existed."

Her brow furrowed in thought. Her daughter had managed to keep a secret this huge for over two years. Was she hiding anything else?

Joyce shook her head in disbelief. Suddenly, a thought came to mind and she asked, "You haven't told him, have you? Your father, I mean."

Now it was Buffy's turn to shake her head. If she hadn't told her mother, who she lived with, why would she tell her father?

Joyce took a moment to digest this. "You're going to have to, honey. I don't want anymore secrets." Buffy nodded. "I'll call and have him over sometime. This is something that shouldn't be said over the phone."

Checking the clock, Buffy realized she was way off-topic, and poor Angel was still outside. This wasn't what she'd wanted to talk about.

Taking a deep breath, she explained to her mother the real reason: Angel needed a job. Buffy had seen his sketches and knew he was into the arts. Was there any possibility of a position for him at the gallery?

"Sweetie, I don't know-" her mother began. After what she'd heard, she wasn't sure what to think of Angel, although Buffy'd assured her they were nothing more than friends.

"Mom," Buffy pleaded. "He needs a job, and this is really the only thing he knows."

Reluctantly, Joyce acquiesced. "I'll talk to him, and we'll take it from there, okay?"

Buffy smiled. Things were going a lot better than she'd ever expected...