Author's Note: I place an embarrassing amount of value on feedback, so thanks to everyone who bothered to leave a review.
2. The Bluebird
In the dim light cast by a single bedside lamp, the damp tendrils of hair lying across her face became impossibly delicate threads of gleaming gold. His gaze took in that hair, the thick lashes fringing her flickering eyelids and the occasional twitch of her supple, rose-tinted mouth, with a kind of awe. The quilt he had covered her with was the thickest he could find – incidentally also the only one he could find – but once in a while her body would shudder beneath it and she would moan as though in pain. It worried him. The last thing he needed was a dead body in his bed.
He still wasn't quite sure why he had carried her, backpack and all, from the near-flooded alley to the dilapidated motel room he currently called home. Part of him knew he might well end up regretting it. That part was still yelling at the rest of him for being stupid enough to bring her here, but deep down he knew that the girl who called herself the Slayer needed his help. Once she recovered there'd be time enough to leave her to deal with her own issues.
He refused to admit, even to himself, that his desire to help her stemmed at all from his appreciation of her beauty. Because she was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. Every moment he spent watching her sleep only confirmed the fact, but somehow he couldn't force himself to turn away from the sight of her. He wasn't sure what to do with her, other than make sure that she was warm and wait for her regain consciousness – or not regain consciousness, depending on just how bad his luck was.
---
The first thing Buffy became aware of as she awoke was that she was lying down, on her side, in a bed that wasn't familiar enough to be her own. After that she began to feel the faint numbness in her fingers and toes, the moisture in her still-damp hair and the comfortable weight of a quilt covering her up to her shoulders. A brief moment of pure panic was followed by slightly calmer wariness as she realized that she was still wearing all of her clothes except for her boots.
She parted her eyelids just enough to allow for a sliver of vision, and it was enough to see that she wasn't alone. She fought a second surge of panic and tried to keep her breathing even, despite the sudden pounding of her heart. Whoever it is could've killed me by now, if that's what he was after.
She had seen enough to establish that the silent figure seated by the bed was a man – pale skin, dark brown hair, dark eyes, with a solemn, almost concerned expression on his face. Which doesn't really give him that whole "psycho killer gonna go postal any second" aura, but then you never know. Maybe Jack the Ripper looked like that just before he got started on the … ripping.
In the end she couldn't just go on pretending to be unconscious. She was, after all, the Slayer. If there was fighting to be done, she wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. So she let her eyes snap open, going from apparent deep sleep to wide-awake consciousness in less than a second.
The Potential Psycho Killer, as she'd already started referring to him in her head, jumped in surprise and looked at her in confusion. They regarded each other for an endlessly long and very awkward moment, until he finally cleared his throat. "You're awake."
Brilliant observation there, Sherlock. Her mouth felt like it was full of dry lint and she had to swallow hard before attempting to speak. "Two things." It came out in a husky whisper and he leaned forward so that he could catch her next words better. "One – where the hell am I? And two – I wouldn't need a weapon to kill you."
She wasn't prepared for amusement to appear on his face. She had been going for intimidation, possibly even terror. Amusement was not a satisfactory result.
"You're in a room at the Bluebird motel. Number 22, to be a little more specific. And I'm sure you wouldn't, but maybe you'd like to hang on to this anyway."
To her amazement, he handed over an extremely familiar-looking sharpened wooden stake. She let her fingers trace the grooves in the sandpapered wood. "Mr. Pointy." She looked up at him quickly. "Where'd you find him?"
He arched an eyebrow and she gave herself a mental kick. Idiot. "It. I meant it. Because this is a thing, and things don't have sexual organs." Oh my God. I'm talking to him about sexual organs. Shut up already! "Mostly. I mean, some of them do, I guess – nude statues, for example. Like that one everybody's always going on about, you know, the naked guy with the curly hair?" With an effort, she forced herself to stop babbling. "Anyway. Thanks. For arming me, I mean. Although I'd probably feel kind of bad about killing you now."
He was looking at her intently. "David."
"What?" She frowned, puzzled. "Is that your name?"
He shook his head, his lips forming a furtive half-smile. "The statue. The one you were talking about. Michelangelo's David."
"Oh." She managed to sit up against the headboard, wincing as she did so and keeping a firm grip on Mr. Pointy just in case The Potential Psycho Killer decided to spring a surprise attack. "So, what is your name? And ... I know the Bluebird is in downtown Sunnydale, so obviously I haven't gone far, but how the hell did I get here?"
There was something vaguely guilty in the way he avoided her gaze. "I brought you here. After you staked that vampire in the alley. You had … collapsed."
She nodded. "Passing out in real life is a lot less cool than it looks on TV, although that probably has a lot to do with the lack of cushioning available on a paved street."
He didn't respond and she took a moment to get a better mental inventory of him. He was still sitting down, but she could see that he was tall, with a figure that was broad-chested and lean at the same time. So, he likes to weight-lift but isn't big on eating? How does that work? "You didn't answer my first question. What's your name?"
The half-smile came back, lingering like a passing sunbeam on the pale landscape of his face. "Does it matter?"
"It does if I owe you my life. Or even if you just saved me a trip to the ER, which earns you just as many hero points in my book."
He nodded as though to say that this made perfect sense. And it did, oddly enough. "Angel."
"That's your name?" She looked intently at his face, his eyes, as though trying to read the name in his features. "It's sweet. And kind of unusual for a guy. How'd you get it?"
"It's … sort of a nickname," he explained cautiously. She doesn't need to hear the whole story. He was momentarily worried that she'd put two and two together and mistake him for Angelus, but that didn't seem to be happening.
She had found her backpack on the floor near the bed and was busy checking that all her stuff was still there. "So, listen," she said without looking up at him, "I'm feeling the definition of 'fine' after that long comfy sleep, so if you could just point me to the nearest highway I'll be moving along now." She slipped out of the bed and stood up, wincing only slightly as she did so.
His expression became a mixture of graveness and uncertainty. "It's dangerous out there. Especially after dark."
She laughed. "Yeah, thanks for the warning, but I kinda already had that figured. Vampire Slayer, remember? I'm part of the reason for all that after-dark dangerousness."
"And isn't the Slayer supposed to stay on the Hellmouth?"
She tilted her head. "The what?"
"Your Watcher didn't tell you?"
Her features hardened. "My Watcher is dead."
"Then he's going to be replaced. You probably just haven't met his successor yet."
She was shaking her head even before he'd finished the sentence. "I'm not getting another Watcher. I don't want another Watcher. And I'm sure as hell not staying in this little dot-on-the-map of a town – I don't care what it's the mouth of." She glared at him. "Okay?"
He caught himself admiring the anger-induced flush that had crept over her cheeks as she spoke. Snap out of it. He couldn't let her go out on her own, this fledgling Slayer who didn't even know enough to know about the Hellmouth. But he couldn't force her to stay, either. Fledgling or not, it probably wouldn't be too difficult for her to fight him if he tried to keep her from leaving."Okay. But I'm coming with you."
"You're what?" She stared at him, faintly shocked. "What do you think this is, some sort of camping trip?"
He shrugged. "I think that depends on where you're going, and I'm assuming that you weren't just planning on wandering around the country."
She looked away. I can tell him. Worst comes to worst, I've definitely recovered enough to take him on. She had never killed a human being before, and she didn't want to start now, but she had no scruples whatsoever about punching them into unconsciousness. "I need to find someone who can get me out of this Slayer thing."
"If you're saying what I think you're saying, then there's no such person."
"How would you know? You ever tried to find a de-Slayer-er?"
"I … look, Buffy, I know it's difficult sometimes to face your destiny, but –"
"I never told you my name." She shifted her backpack so that her arm could move more freely and balled her hands into fists, having already put Mr. Pointy in her back pocket.
Angel lifted his own hands in a gesture of innocence. "It's on your backpack."
She relaxed. Apparently, he reads the labels on other people's stuff, but doesn't actually take any of it. Is anything about this guy normal? "Listen. I've had the whole 'it's your destiny' talk. Many, many times. And I'm way beyond sick of it. If there's any way at all that someone else can take over this Slayer gig without me going six feet under, I'm going to find it."
"All right. In the end, it's your decision." He got up, unlocked the door and started to walk down the hallway.
She slipped on her now nearly-dry boots before running to catch up with him. "Wait. Where are you going?"
He turned to look down into her eyes. "Like I said – I'm coming with you."
She thought about this for a moment. "Fine. But I reserve the right to beat you to a pulp at the first sign of any Ted Bundy-ness."
He tried to smile. Ted Bundy was human serial killer. I'm a vampire. Not the same thing. "Deal."
---
