"What if I'm terrible at nicknames?"

"Hmm, I do not think I want to incentivize giving me a terrible nickname. So I will probably come up with a better one for myself that will amuse me, but perhaps not make any sense to you."

"I've never actually tried to nickname someone."

"Good luck! In my case, I recommend something complimentary."

"I was trying to come up with a Shakespeare reference but if I remember right the witches don't have names."

"Not that I recall, no. But I am not a Shakespearean expert."

"Yeah I don't have anything good. Name thyself."

She considers for a long moment.

"... Heather."

"Nice to meet you, Heather."

"Nice to meet you, too. Slayer-that-has-not-said-her-name-either."

"Let's say I'm Nikki."

"Hi, Nikki."

"And I've been sober for seventeen years, and..."

Snort. "Congratulations," she says, dryly.

"Thank you."

They come upon a small but well maintained cottage, pleasant and cheerful and downright ordinary. If the Slayer's observant, she might notice that the shutters are carefully nailed shut.

"Here we are," says 'Heather,' unlocking the front door. "I believe it's irony if I invite you in."

"It is!"

"Do please come inside," she says, lightly, "and embrace the irony."

In goes the Slayer.

The interior is well kept, nicely decorated, and ruthlessly efficient. The numerous bookshelves are well stocked with books that are either about magic or are very dedicated fantasy novels, complete with leather binding and ominous Latin titles. There's a set of shelves in the corner that could be surmised to contain various magical materials, what with the jars and the crystals and the faint smells of herbs. Everything else seems surprisingly normal - there's a kitchen over there, complete with a microwave, and a living room with a number of couches and a rug.

Her host heads towards the magic cabinet.

"I'd offer to feed you to double down on irony, but I'm afraid I only have blood in my fridge. Not very nutritious for you."

"Yeah, I'm not feeling particularly iron-deficient."

"Something to drink, then? The faucet works fine."

She continues to search through the cabinet.

"Thanks." She fills up her water bottle.

Yvette retrieves a simple glass lens.

"May I stare at you awkwardly, oh great Slayer?" she says, looking impatient and like she's only asking to prevent upsetting the Slayer by ignoring consent.

"Go for it."