tag
Xander’s mother used to get dinner at Doublemeat once or twice a week. Given the quality of her cooking, those meals weren’t bad-better than mystery burritos from the Tex-Mex joint, not as good as the Chinese place.
Since Buffy started her job, he hasn’t been in, unless he’s sure she has the night off. He knows how much she’d hate it.
He’s been there, in an ugly uniform and a nametag. “How may I help you?” In a nametag job, you’re a servant, beneath any and every jerk who walks in.
Safer than killing vamps, maybe, but much harder.
Since Buffy started her job, he hasn’t been in, unless he’s sure she has the night off. He knows how much she’d hate it.
He’s been there, in an ugly uniform and a nametag. “How may I help you?” In a nametag job, you’re a servant, beneath any and every jerk who walks in.
Safer than killing vamps, maybe, but much harder.