Authors note: this probably takes place in season two sometime, around "Bad Eggs". I know nothing about the Dodgers, and am not a sports writer, so please forgive the screw ups in the game descriptions…I used the game however it worked to move the story along.
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own Buffy and Angel. I just play with them.
Thanks to the Houston Astros for always being an inspiration, win or lose.
Feed me!
Enjoy.
"Come on, Angel. Don't be a spoil sport."
He gives me the raised eyebrow, and resists my tugging on his hand. "My dad got these tickets for me- and they weren't cheap," I plead, resorting to the desperate Buffy voice. "Besides, it's been so long since we've done anything just for fun, I've forgotten what it's like. Lets get out of the hellmouth- just for a little while? Please?" He laughs.
"Okay, okay. But you'll have to borrow a car. And wait a minute, is this some sort of con? You just want to watch me drive."
"Angel, I'll watch you do anything. Let's just go, okay? It's not like the Slayer gets any vacation time." I grab my purse off the table in the hall, and march out the front door. When he's not behind me, I turn back around with a sigh.
"As much as I love you, you're working my last nerve," I tell him, as he stands in the entry way with the door hanging open.
"Uh, the tickets?" He waves the offending pieces of paper at me.
My face showing a little of the blush that I feel, I snatch them out of his hands and walk back down the front steps. "I think Giles will loan us his deathtrap if I swear to him I won't get anywhere near the driver's side."
A half hour later, and we're on the road to L.A. The sun has been down for a while now, and I'm enjoying just looking at the scenery whipping by.
"Buffy?" he asks after I've been silent for a good five minutes. That might be a world record for me.
"Hmm?" I answer, still watching the freeway and the other cars speeding by.
"You okay? You're awfully quiet," he glances at me, taking his eyes off the road for a few seconds.
"I'm good, Angel. In fact, I'm more than good. I'm a double scoop of chocolate ice cream with hot fudge and cherries on top," I tell him, and the crooked grin I love appears on his face.
"Good," he says, "because I'd hate to be driving all the way to L.A. to spend three hours in a crowded stadium with an unhappy girlfriend."
"Har dee har har. I know you'll love it. I can't believe in all your years you've never seen a baseball game! It's so…fundamentally American it makes hot dogs and apple pie look foreign. And the Dodgers! Come on, Angel, you're an honorary Californian, you have to support the local teams," I answer, and the grin that was there blossoms into a full blown laugh.
"What has gotten into you?" he finally gets out, as I pout in the passenger seat.
"Nothing. I just thought a night alone doing something we never do away from the hellmouth and the never ending battles to the death might make you happy."
He stops laughing and takes one hand off the steering wheel, catching one of mine in it.
"I love you, Buffy. If we only spent the rest of our days hunting demons, I would be okay with it. But if this makes you happy, so be it. I would follow you wherever you go, to the hellmouth, or to Dodger Stadium."
I quit pouting and smile at him. "I love you, too."
Man, is this place crowded! We finally find a parking place, and follow the throngs of people into the stadium, goggling at the extravagence of it all.
We hand our tickets to the usher, and he waves us through, saying "enjoy the game," as we wade in.
We walk in a little ways, and his hand slips from mine as he stops dead in his tracks.
"Wow."
I smile again. "See, you silly Irishman, Americans have good pasttimes too."
My dad used to bring me here all the time when I was younger. So when he called and asked if I would like to go to a Dodgers game this weekend, I jumped at the chance. Of course, he cancelled at the last minute, but messengered over the tickets. So, the perfect opportunity for a date. Luckily I have an available boyfriend, so…
"Angel? Come on, you can gawk at the sights from our seats." He finally catches up to me, and we head to the right section.
"Row 8…row 7….row 6….here we are," I tell him, and have to supress the laughter bubbling up at the look on his face.
"How'd your father get these seats again?" he asks incredulously. "Partner at work or some such thing," I tell him, plopping down in my aisle seat, making him take the one one seat in.
Right behind home plate. Sweet.
My newly bought Dodgers cap turned around backward on my head, I puruse the program my sweetie bought for me. "Houston Astros, huh? Don't know much about them. Oh! I know who Jeff Bagwell is. He's cute. Oh, look at this pitcher. Wade Miller…lesssee….6 foot 5? Wow. He's not so bad, either. I like their uniforms, too…"
Angel scowls at me, and I hide a smile. Sometimes jealousy is a good thing.
"Buffy, do you even know anything about the game?"
"Sure. I know there's four quarters, and they hit the ball with a netted stick, right?" I give him the pure innocent look, and he totally falls for it.
I can't keep a straight face too long. A laugh bursts from me, and I lean into him, kissing his frowning mouth until it smiles as well. "You fell for it, didn't you?"
"Well, maybe for a few seconds," he says. At that moment, neither of us want to say anything else as we get lost in each other, the warm night air caressing our faces as our lips meet again.
God, I really do love him.
Crack!
The groaning crowd surges to its feet as the Astros' centerfielder, Craig Biggio, hits the ball deeeeeeep into left center. Going, going, gone. Ugh. These guys are on fire tonight. Nomo, our pitcher, shakes his head, and walks away from the mound, disgusted with himself. Dodgers fans are notoriously vocal, and we booooooo! in unison as the manager comes out of the dugout with his hand out for the ball. The catcher, Lo Duca, who is also a hottie by the way, meets them out there. This being the top of the ninth, we expect them to bring in one of the many relievers the Dodgers carry.
Woo hoo! My favorite, Eric Gagne, exits the bullpen and approaches the mound. We rise again and begin to cheer as one.
Angel stares at me quizzically, his own new cap turned backward on his head like mine. "Who's this guy?" he whispers to me.
"Eric Gagne," I have to yell back, "he's the closer. He's really good," I finish as we sit back down, while Gagne finishes up his warm up tosses.
Gagne gets the remaining three batters out, and we twist toward one another in our seats as the Astros closer, Billy Wagner, starts his own warm ups.
"So," I start, "having fun?"
"Buffy, I wasn't kidding when I said I would go anywhere with you. But you know, yeah, I am having fun. There was nothing like this when I was young, and well, it's not like we have a lot of extra down time in Sunnydale. I'm not going to pretend to understand this game; trust Americans to come up with something this convaluted. But you were right. You and I don't get much time together unless it involves chasing something or trying to kill something. And have you noticed the mood of the crowd? And the air, it feels great. I've never seen anything like this. It's like for one moment, we all have the same goal, the same desire. It's like a shared joy that seems to come from everywhere. And in the world these days, that doesn't happen very often," he takes my hand and pulls me to him, as best he can with the large armrests in between us, "and I want to thank you for being here with me."
Before I can stop them, tears are welling up in my eyes. I touch his face with one hand, and he puts his own over it. "How do you always know the most beautiful thing to say? How do you do that?" I ask him, and he shrugs, embarrassed. As he opens his mouth, the announcer blares out, "Now batting, for your Dodgers, the catcher, Paulllllllllll Lo Ducaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
"We're down to the wire now," I say, and turn back to the game, still holding Angel's hand. We grip our fingers tightly, making a wish for our team to do what we came here to see them do.
Win.
Because neither of us wants the camradarie feeling to go away. It swirls around us, and you can see it in the faces of the spectators all through the stadium.
Strike One!
Strike Two!
Strike three! You're outta here, Lo Duca.
"Did that guy just throw the ball 101 miles an hour?" Angel asks, squinting at the score board, where they post what pitch the pitcher just threw and how fast it was.
I whistle. "Yeah, I guess so." Uh oh. We don't have a prayer. And they're winning, 5 to 3.
Next to go, quickly, was Adrian Beltre. Popped up.
The crowd rises to its feet, watching with baited breath as Robin Ventura approaches the batters box. Angel still grips my hand, and we watch in silence.
"Strike!" screams the ump as Ventura hacks at the first pitch. Groan.
"Ball!" next as Wagner misses on a slider. Man, would Angel be embarrassed or turned on to know I know all these baseball terms? It's sort of nerd like, in a way. Willow would be proud.
Crack! Ventura hits the next pitch solidly, and takes off for first base as the outfielders scramble for the ball. Wait for it, wait for it….
"And that is it, Dodgers fans! Astros 5, Dodgers 3. We'll see you tomorrow here, same time, as the same two teams go at it."
Ugh. I slump dejectedly in my chair as the audience gets up and exits around us. On the field, the Astros players line up to congratulate one another, and the Dodgers quickly file out of the dugout into the passageway toward the locker room.
"Buffy? You ready?" Angel touches my shoulder and I look at him. "Let's let some of these people leave, first," I tell him, and he nods. We silently face the field, and wait for the dejection of the crowd to sour our mood.
But, wait.
The talking hasn't abated, and the loudspeakers are blaring some kind of 'don't stop believing' type rock anthem. Children, grandparents, teenagers, and people from all walks of life file out of the stadium.
They're still jubilant. They're still laughing, still jabbering to one another, still hugging their children and still smiling.
The aura of oneness still permeates the building, and as Angel and I begin to realize it, we start to smile again too.
Hell, if Dodger fans can stay happy with each other after a loss, so can we. We can take a break from the drudgery and sameness of our battles; we can forget the hellmouth and the tragedy of Sunnydale for one night. We can be together, take a loss, and still enjoy the experience.
Weird that it took a dumb game to make me realize that.
We walk hand in hand to the car, me tossing a ball one of the Astros players threw to us as they entered their own dugout after the game.
Of course, Angel caught it when they threw it, but like a gentleman, he gave it to me. With me whining only a little.
"Buffy, stop for a minute," Angel tugs on my hand, and I stop, expecting a big speech, or discussion on the merits of American sports.
But that's not what happens.
We stand at the edge of the parking lot, and from where we are standing, you can see the whole of L.A. proper. Pretty at night.
I look at him expectantly, but he just smiles down at me, and hugs me close. We watch the busy-ness of L.A., and stand together tightly. His hand cool on my sweaty back, I snuggle closer to him, and run my hands through his hair, finally resting them around his waist.
Contentment is nice, if only for one night. And even if you lose one battle, there's always the next game. I mean night.
I laugh softly to myself, and lay my head against Angel's broad chest.
He drops a kiss on the crown of my head, and we break apart, ready to go.
Dropping the car off at Giles', I hand him the keys back at his doorstep, as he blinks sleepily at me.
"Did you have a good time?" he asks, and I nod. "The best."
"But the Dodgers lost, yes?" I smile and nod. "It was still the best. Thanks for the car, Giles. See you in the morning." I bound up the stairs to the street, leaving him confused.
That's okay. He'll get it eventually.
At my own doorstep, I turn to my boyfriend and give him one last goodnight kiss. Or two. Or seven. But who's counting?
I'm sorely tempted to invite him in, but since my mom's out of town, it's especially a bad idea. I pull away from him reluctantly.
He touches my face. "Goodnight, Buffy," he says, and then hesitates, lips opening as if to says something else. I wait hopefully.
He just smiles then, turning his cap back around forward, and tips it at me with a wink. I grin like a fool back at him.
"Thanks for the refresher," he says at last.
"Refresher on what?" I ask him, confused.
"Hope," he says, and strolls off, waving one last time as he heads down the sidewalk toward his own home.
I enter my home, placing my Dodger cap on the table inside the door.
Night games are the best.
Fin.