A/N: Quick note - I have the privelege of attending an event at The Alamo Drafthouse Theater in two weeks, The Serenity Quote-Along. Quote-Along's like a sing-along but instead of singing along to the music you quote along with the movie. Anyway, back to the important stuff. I've been thinking about influences and what steer our lives to the place we ultimately end up. For me it was a couple of people, but the one that sticks out the most was my High School Sports Medicine Instructor. (The list goes on to include my mom, late husband, current husband, etc.) I wanted to take a look at the influences that factored into my characters' motivations. Why they do - or did - the things that they do. In my excitement over my upcomming Quote-Along, I took another look at two of Mr. Wheadon's more compelling characters - The Smuggler with The Heart of Gold, and The Vampire with The Heart of Gold. So one of these influences is loosely based on the character of Captain Malcolm Reynolds. That being said, please enjoy this little trip into the past for three of my Who-Are-You-Verse characters!
The customs shop was situated on the north side of the small southern Calli town - fact, it was called Northside Customs. Real creative, that. He'd spent two weeks casin' the joint with another bloke. They had both applied for a job there separately, gone through a first workin' interview, then flaked on answering the call for a second.
The back of the warehouse/garage was full of new head units and subs, not to mention the oodles of random automotive kit that they could load into the bed of Gunn's old pickup. It was gonna be a lucrative night for both of 'em.
No security cams visible, no guard dogs, only a chain and a pair of bolt cutters between them and the prize. Well, Spike and the prize. They backed the truck into the yard and closed up the gate behind them, and twenty minutes later, the bed was full. Nice haul indeed.
"Beautiful job, man. Now let's book."
"In a minute." Spike sauntered past the pickup towards a lot of wrecks at the back of the property.
"Man, I ain't got time to hang around starin' at busted up junkers all night. We gotta rabbit. Get this haul out of town and off to our third party distributors, else what was the point of all this if we ain't gettin' paid?"
"You go on ahead. I'll see you back at the motel. Hour, tops." The whole time he'd not taken his eyes off the prize. She was half covered by an old grey tarp, busted headlights, bent front fender. But she ran. Saw them drive her back here last week when he'd played the part of eager mechanic for hire. He needed wheels and he'd always have a soft spot for a classic. "Do me a favor. Lend me a smoke. I'm clean out."
Gunn reached into his pocket and tossed Spike his bic and a cigarette. "Ok, London Fog," he shook his head as Spike efficiently lit up and puffed at the tabaco stick. "But if you ain't back by one a.m., I'm gonna hafta bail on you."
"Given." He approached the car and went for the handle with anticipation. She opened up for him like he was made to be inside of her. Didn't need a whole lotta work, either. The interior was pretty much clean – worn, but clean. He could get her hot wired, back to the motel and it was all uphill from there.
When he looked back up to the driveway and the gate, he saw that Gunn had gone, takin' his truck and their cargo with him.
"All right, then. Let's get this party started."
Buffy walked as quietly as she could through the kitchen, down the hallway, and towards the stairs. She came in the back door, half expecting to see her mom standing watch over the front entryway. But the house was dark and quiet.
She stumbled on the way to the stairs, tripping over Dawn's backpack just laying in the hallway. Brat, she thought as she nudged it out of the way with her boot.
Not a stair creaked on the way up; she could hardly believe her luck. Both her mom and Dawn's doors were closed, and the bathroom light was out. Homestretch.
As she turned to walk towards her bedroom, she heard her sister's door creak open a little. All she could see of Dawn as she looked back was one big eye and a tangle of hair peaking through the crack.
"You are so dead," Dawn whispered with little sympathy.
Before Buffy had a chance to snark back, she heard another noise, this time from the direction of her bedroom.
"Go back to bed, Dawn," their mother ordered, standing ominously in Buffy's darkened bedroom. "Buffy."
"Hi, Mom."
"Get in here please."
"Come on, baby." Spike lay on his back, up under the dash of the wrecked 1959 DeSoto Sportsman. So focused was he on the wires in front of him, that he hadn't heard the older man approach.
He did, however, hear the cock of the man's pistol.
"Why don't you slide on out from under that dash, Son?"
"Balls." Knew he should'a made Gunn stand lookout for 'im. "Always go visiting your shop in the middle of the night, or just havin' trouble sleepin'?" Spike asked, mockingly. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought.
"Silent alarm."
Now that the job was bollocks'd - least, for him it was - thought he might get some decent licks in while he could still speak freely. Man holdin' him in his gun sights was David Malloy, town's rotary club president and owner of Northside Customs. People called him Mal.
"Yeah. Knew about the alarm. Just thought I'd be halfway to Vegas in my new ride by the time you made it out to check up on the place. Move fast for an old man."
"Your mouth is talkin'. You might wanna look to that."
"What the bloody hell does that even mean?"
"Means shut the hell up, Son. Have a seat." He gestured towards a stack of tires with his gun. Spike raised his eyebrows and dug into his pocket for a cigarette before remembering again that he was out. "Sit," Mal reiterated.
"You smoke?" He asked casually as he moved across the yard to the stack of tires.
Mal moved to lean up against another wrecked vehicle, still keeping his gun trained on the trespasser, but relaxing his posture slightly. "You got some assbackwards priorities, you know that?"
"I'm not even starting with what really bothers me about all of this, Buffy."
Great. Build to a crescendo, she thought with annoyance. But she kept quiet.
"Sunday night. School tomorrow. Home immediately, by the way. What was I supposed to do? Call the police? I thought this was over when you stopped seeing that boyfriend around your birthday."
You mean when he dumped me?
"But now I see that things haven't really changed. Are you seeing him again? Buffy?"
"Mom, no -"
"One day, people will get tired of looking for you, Buffy," her mom cut her off mid bs-explanation. "I won't be around to keep an eye out for you and you might really be in trouble. You could be dead in a ditch somewhere. Then how would you feel?"
"I probably wouldn't feel anything by then, ya know..."
"This isn't a joke!"
"I know that, Mom. I -"
"Do you really? Do you know what I found when I came up here to talk to you before bed?"
Buffy kept her eyes trained on the floor. For a seventeen-year-old girl - she thought, at least - there was hardly anything she kept hidden from her family. There was one thing, though. Pretty big thing, actually.
"I found your insulin pens."
Oh, that's not so bad. So I went without them for a few hours.
"And an empty glucometer!"
Okay. That was worse.
"No blood sugar readings for over three months, and that's just how far back the memory goes. Have you even really been taking your shots?"
"Alright. You wanna explain to me just exactly why you got yourself up under the dash there tryin'a boost that wreck?"
"Needed a ride."
"That friend a yours, drove off with some other goods a mine - which, by the way, we'll get back to - he seems to have a perfectly fine ride."
"Yeah. 'S his, not mine. Different destinations." Spike was keeping his answers short as possible. Getting a little curious though that the cops hadn't shown up yet.
"What are you runnin' from, boy?"
Couldn't run if I wanted. Not that I want... But instead of blabbin' his bleedin' 'life-so-far' soap opera at the man, he remained tight lipped.
"Seems to me a man don't risk his neck on a junked out wreck like that one if he does this kinda job professional. Means ya need the money. And..." Now Mal scratched the back of his neck with the side of the pistol - a gesture that told Spike this man was very comfortable with a gun in his hand. "From the looks of my warehouse, ya need a lot of it."
"You've figured it out. People steal things for scratch. They steal a lot of things for a lot of scratch." He wished he had a cigarette so he could flick the ash defiantly.
Spike looked at the man again only to see him striding swiftly forward. He flinched a bit before he resolved to hold his ground.
"Look, son. It's none of my business what you got into this line of work for. Food, the thrill, family - don't matter to me at all. Long as you don't interfere with my business."
"Which I did," Spike muttered under his breath.
"Ya did, at that." Mal took ahold of the collar of Spikes leather jacket. "I think I deserve an explanation."
Willow and Buffy sat in the library during lunch period, checking in books as they ate - they were both aides the next period and the librarian was pretty cool for the most part, and he didn't mind them hanging around more than they needed to. Actually, now that she thought about it, Mr. Giles reminded Buffy of some guy her mom worked with at the gallery.
"Seriously, Buffy. I'm surprised your mom left you in one piece. She called my cell like three times and I was so out of it when I answered... I couldn't think up a good enough lie at the spur of the moment. Sorry."
"That's okay, Will. It's my screwed up existence - it shouldn't be bleeding into your life. I can take care of my own problems. I should have made sure I didn't get caught." She twirled her reheated pasta around on her plastic fork, absentmindedly. She wasn't hungry.
"So what's your sentence? Two weeks? A month? Till graduation?"
"Come and go through the front door." Buffy recalled her instant confusion at seeing the hammer and nails at the breakfast table this morning. Willow mimicked it now.
"Huh? What does that mean?"
"Yeah, so..." Buffy turned around and tossed the rest of her lunch into the trashcan in Giles' office. "She hands me a hammer and nails, makes me nail my own window shut, and tells me, 'From now on, young lady, when you leave this house, you come and go through the front door'."
"Oh my damn. Buffy..." Willow was at a loss for words. "Your mom got creepy."
"Tell me about it."
"But... is that everything? No new curfew? Restrictions?"
"Yeah. That's the creepiest part." That hadn't actually been everything. There had been a screaming match till almost two in the morning about responsibilities, medications, schedules and routine. But she didn't feel like talking about it to Will. On some level Willow would side with her mom, and Buffy needed an ally right now, not another opponent. No one she knew could understand why she did what she did. It hardly made sense to her, how was she supposed to explain it to someone who was normal?
"But was it so worth it?" Willow asked, waving to Xander as he approached from the main hall.
"Hey, I hear you got busted for sneaking out to visit tall, dark, and brooding last night." Given the chance, Xander was never afraid to flaunt his contempt for Buffy's ex, current, sort of, whatever they were calling him these days.
"I can hear the concern in your voice, Xander. I assure you, I'm okay," she replied snarkily.
"Get to the good stuff," Will urged.
"What good stuff? We really are just friends."
"Thanks again for meeting me," Buffy said as she slid into the seat of Angel's old Plymouth. "I just had to get away from there."
They were parked in the empty lot of the local botanical gardens. The facility itself was closed this time of night, but she still liked the feel of the place. Good vibes.
"Youknow there was no way I was saying no." Angel had managed to leave his shift at the bar early in order to make their little rendezvous.
"You know something?"
"What's that?" The weather was clear, if a little cool, and he had the top down, letting in sky. He was relaxed sitting here next to her. It was almost too easy. That was one of the reasons things had gone like they did after her birthday.
"You," she continued. "Are the only person I've met since I was diagnosed, that still treats me like I'm just a teenaged girl."
He winced a little, involuntary, at her wording. Yes, she was a teenaged girl. And he had no business being anywhere near her. He shivered, then pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders as if he thought she might be cold too.
"Buffy. I know that can't be true."
"But it is. They're always watching me, no matter what I'm doing. Waiting for me to mess up or drop dead, I guess. The only ones that aren't always thinking about what's wrong with me are you and Dawn. But she doesn't count. She's Dawn."
"Buff..." He wasn't sure what to say. Didn't know where she was going to take this, but he was desperate to keep it from going in one certain direction. They had started having almost regular talks like this since he'd come back from LA four months ago. When he left he was sure that they'd never speak again. And now she was sitting in his car, looking at the beautiful sky in the middle of the night, talking like this... and, he was pretty sure, moving closer.
"I feel like a real girl when I'm with you." She wrapped a small hand around the back of his neck and pulled his face closer to hers. "Don't you feel better when you're with me?"
"I feel..." She was so close that he could smell her perfume. He placed a hand over her heart, as much to steady himself as to maintain the distance left between them. "I think... that this is a bad idea, Buffy."
She closed her eyes and he could feel her holding her breath beneath his outstretched hand. All he wanted to do was avoid hurting her like this - he'd done enough of that already... hurt so many other people already. He did love her, that wasn't bullshit.
"What I mean is... I'm not ready."
"Not ready?" Her eyes flew open defiantly. "You were ready a year ago, before you left me and then disappeared for more than six months!"
"I don't have enough time sober, Buffy!" He knew they'd have this argument sooner or later. "This - us - that's no good for me right now. It's damn sure not any good for you!"
"How do you know what's good for me?" she shouted back.
"You're seventeen years old, Buffy. I've had a little more life experience than -"
"Twenty-five is not exactly dying age, Angel."
"There's no future for us. Don't you see that?" He watched as she shoved his hand away, then swiped in frustration at the tears sliding down her cheeks. "I know that... you can't be happy with me in your life."
"Yeah, you seem to be pretty determined to make that a reality."
"Despite what you probably think - and you've got every reason to - I never wanted that." She laughed, briefly interrupting him. "Buffy, you were young - are young - and I was selfish. And we're both dealing with so much right now. Probably more than you can understand yet." She opened her mouth to say something in protest, but he quickly placed his fingers to her lips to silence her. "Please let me finish, then you can say whatever you want about me." She closed her mouth and nodded her head once, signaling her compliance.
Angel took a few deep breaths, pausing to gather and sort through his thoughts. They were a mess with her sitting tearfully across the front seat from him. His every instinct said to grab her and hold her. Finally, he couldn't take the silence any longer and spoke, if only to break the obvious tension. Though, what he was about to say would probably do just the opposite.
"You are a beautiful, smart, brave, stubborn, amazing, confident, and completely normal seventeen-year-old girl. But you say there's something different about you, and I know you think your illness makes you less than what you should be. It doesn't. I don't know what the diabetes will mean for you in ten years, or twenty years. Neither do you. It changes things, I get that. But you will have zero chance at being normal if you keep pushing for us to be with each other. Because... because I'm selfish. And one day - probably one of my bad days - I won't be able to say no anymore. You deserve your best chance at happiness, Buffy. And I'm not ready to be that for you right now."
During his monologue, her tears had started flowing freely again. He hated himself right now.
"Just why do you have to be so damn self-sacrificing, huh?" She gave him a sad half-smile and he let out a long breath before returning it. "So we really are just good friends for now?"
"I hope that we can be that," he sighed again, knowing in the back of his mind that that was an oversimplified expectation. "Let me take you home before your mom realizes you've gone."
"Hang on just a minute." Buffy tucked both of her feet beneath her in the front seat of Angel's Plymouth, and rose to her knees, leaning slightly over him. "I never got this before. I think I deserve a real goodbye kiss."
Angel swallowed hard, looking up at her. He knew deep down it was a bad idea. But, like he'd told her, he was selfish.
Spike sat at the bar of the small coffeehouse and restaurant, picking at a fried onion blossom thing and nursing a bottle of Newcastle. He'd spent all of last night and much of today in the back room of Mal's shop, before the man'd dropped him off here. He stared at the monochrome screen of the crap, pay-as-you-go cell he'd bought to communicate with Charles Gunn while planning the customs shop job.
"Can I get you anything else to eat, man?" the bartender asked as he arrived with another dish of sauce for the onions.
"'Nother ale, mate."
"You do know it's still technically afternoon?" the git answered back, taking the empty bottle anyway.
"Yeah, thanks, Peaches. I'll have another anyway."
"Suit yourself." The older man turned and walked away toward the bar cooler.
He looked back down at the green and black cell phone screen. If he was going to be in, he'd better be all the way in, Mal had said. You couldn't be half a gangster.
Mal handed him a shot of whiskey poured out in a coffee cup. Smelled strong but he'd been drinkin' the stuff far longer than was kosher in this country. He took a sip and waited for the old man to speak.
"Known a fella or two like you over the years. Kids never shoulda been in this business."
"Yeah? What business is that?" Spike was certain he was onto something being strange when the cops hadn't been close behind the owner with their own guns.
Mal looked him dead in the eye, not flinching, not missing a beat. "Acquisitions and sales."
Spike nodded in understanding.
"There was a time, not far back, I couldn't pick and choose those jobs I took. Had to look out for me and mine. I expect you're no stranger to that, Son. Who've you got hidin' back home? Young girlfriend? A mother?"
"No girl, no mum, and no 'back home' to speak of."
"What you need to understand is, those goods were owed to someone. I did a job and I got nothin' but trouble for it since. Now it usually goes, I do a job and then I get paid. I happen to be in the unique position of bein' able to make your life easier, or not so much. And you're in the unique position of runnin' in with me, 'stead a my client."
"Is that supposed to frighten me? I'm screwed whether it's you takes it outta my ass or your client. Bollocks'd either way, mate."
"That may be so. Less you had another way to earn..."
Spike took another swig of the strong whiskey. "I can't get you it all back."
"I need you to be sure about this, Son. Shop's closed for the day and I need to make some phone calls. You can rest up here and I'll drop ya off somewhere else later in the day. Think serious about it. More time I spend around you, more I'm thinkin' it's a sister you're maybe lookin' after."
"I, uh..."
"No need to say anything. I know that look."
The man left the room and Spike heard him quietly locking up the shop. He tried not to shake with nerves as he let himself realize how lucky he'd actually been. Dru was in the states on a school visa and he'd followed her with a work visa. Both were expired now. He wasn't working and she definitely wasn't fit for university. Looked like she never would be again. If Mal had contacted the police, they'd've been deported for certain.
He needed the money from this job. Needed the car. He needed to take care of Drusilla. He couldn't let her down - he was all she'd got.
He could take his chances. Skip town, find Gunn. But then he'd likely have to fetch Dru from the clinic. And how well could he look after her with a nameless gangster on their trail?
He went round about it for hours, trying to think of a better option. Near noon, just about convinced that this was the best option he could see, he finally drifted off from exhaustion.
Spike pushed the plate of cold fried onions across the bar. He typed a quick message into the burner phone and pressed send. A knife twisted in his gut as he thought about the man he would fuck over in the process. With any luck, Gunn wouldn't get hurt, and he'd never know Spike had anything to do with it.
He heard the bartender cursing at the bar phone in his hand. Might as well get this over with, he thought. He dialed the number Mal had given him and heard a soft, female voice pick up on the third ring.
"Mal's phone, Kaylee speakin'." She was chipper and had the same kind of western accent as the old man.
"Need to speak to him, darlin'."
"Malloy," the man answered tersely a few seconds later.
"Yeah, it's done."
"Good to hear." There was silence for a beat. Then, "Listen. Son. May have become apparent to you that I could use someone watchin' the place nights. You ain't weak. Don't know how bright ya are, but ya ain't weak, and that's not nothin'. You willin' to work for your pay, maybe fix up that car you fancy so much, you could maybe find a place for yourself here. Till ya find a better."
"No offense, cause you helped me out oodles and loads last night, but... How do I know you won't kill me in my sleep?"
"You don't know me, Son, so let me explain this to ya once. If I ever kill you, you'll be awake, you'll be facing me, and you'll be armed."
"Yeah, thanks, Peaches. I'll have another anyway."
"Suit yourself." Angel headed to the cooler to grab another beer for the annoying, bottle-blonde Brit. The phone started up again on his way back from handing off the fresh drink.
"Moth's Coffeehouse and Bar."
"Angel?"
He felt his heart drop into his stomach and he turned away from the bar to hide his anxiety from his customers. "How did you get this number?" he whispered into the receiver.
"No hello?" she asked back. He could hear some commotion in the background and it sounded like she was winded. He didn't want to even think about why. "How long's it been, Lover?"
"Not long enough, Darla."
"Is that any way to speak to the mother of your child?"
He could hear her heavy breathing on the other end of the line, the blood rushing to his head. He felt the air blowing from the central ac and cooling the sweat that had started prickling his forehead. And he could feel his hand clamping down hard around the receiver, white knuckling by now. "Bullshit," he said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion. But even as he spoke, he knew she was telling the truth. He did the math in his head. Right around nine months, that's how long it had been - a month or two after he'd first arrived in LA.
"These contractions sure as all hell aren't. Bullshit!" Darla panted back into the phone.
"Are you in labor?"
"Aaah, ohhh! What does it sound like to you? Asshole!"
"God dammit! Now? You waited till now!"
"I have a few choice words for you too - God! - motherfu-uh fuck!"
"Are you at a hospital?" Suddenly he was less concerned with being angry at her and more concerned with the fact that he was about two hours drive from LA.
"In a cab," she answered, calmer now that the contraction had apparently passed.
"Tell me where you're headed. I can be in LA in... Fuck, give me an hour and a half." If he broke the speed limit in the right places, he might be able to swing it. He grabbed his coat and keys and began heading for the door before he realized he would have to let go of the phone first.
"I'll give you as much time as this kid of yours agrees to. We'll be at Doctors Hospital." She hung up the phone before he had a chance to say anything more.
Angel pulled out his cell phone as he headed for the Plymouth. Buffy's cell was speed dial number two, after his sponsor at number one. He had no way of knowing she was on limited cell phone privileges at the moment, or that by the time she heard his message, his life would have changed in ways he couldn't begin to imagine. He just knew he had to tell her something.
"Hey, Buffy. I just wanted to tell you... I had to get out of town for a few days. I, uh, not really sure when I'll be getting back in. But... I'm, ya know, I'm so glad we had a chance to really talk about things last night. 'Cause, I just want you to know, we made the right decision, Buff. Anyway..."
He didn't know what else he could really say at this point. He closed his phone and let the message end there. He'd been right, though, even if he hadn't known exactly why. There was no going back now. He would only complicate things for her if he let her remain in his life. He had to give her her best chance at normal.