Only1ToniD: I'm so glad you're liking it so far!
Nat: Well, dear. Here's some more. Hope you're as happy about this chapter :D
PART THREE
The address Buffy scribbles for him takes him eight blocks away from her apartment. A five-storied building with several bright signs in the windows, announcing room service, hot water, and cable TV. From the look of the place, Angel suspects at least two of those are false advertisement.
"It's the only place close by. Dawn seems to like it," Buffy had said as she saw him out her door. "Not that you can't stay somewhere else. In fact -"
He'd shaken his head.
Looking at his residence for the next weeks, Angel has a sharp pang of nostalgia for the Hyperion. His old place may have been haunted, ravaged, and ultimately blown to bits, but it had style until the last.
The girl at the desk pops a bubble of gum and rolls her eyes when the front door creaks open, clearly displeased at the idea of tearing herself from the computer to receive a client. When she catches sight of him, though, her eyes widen and she's quick to straighten up and smooth down her hair. "Good evening," she chirps, all smiles. "How can I help you?"
He smiles to himself. Among the things that haven't changed in centuries is that good looks will always get the welcome mat spread out for him. "Buffy Summers said she'd call ahead?"
The girl's blue eyes widen even more, and she logs off her chatting session with a few key strokes before giving him an appreciative look. "You the new guy?"
He doesn't want to know what she means. There are questions he didn't ask of Buffy – either because he respects her privacy or is clinging to blissful ignorance, perhaps both. He doesn't want to find them out from a social networking junkie he's never met. "More like the old one."
She snorts, her amusement genuine. "I like you better than Alexander already," she announces. "He was number sixteen. Good guy, but his sense of humor..." A roll of her eyes. "So off."
He gives an understanding nod. Flirting is still a rusty sport for him, and one he won't use on some random girl barely out of her teens. Doesn't mean he can't try to make friends. If he is to spend a long time stuck in this hotel, the more amiable the staff is, the easier it will be to get some of his more particular requests done. "Thank you." He leans into the counter. "That means you'll have a better room for me?"
The girl twirls a strand of hair between her fingers, gives him a conspirational smile. "Can't help the size," she tells him, calling up a reservation chart on the computer. "They always take a double room. But -" She makes some quick changes, and winks at him when she's finished. "403. The hot water never fails there."
By now, he is considering changing hotels. He has a car; he can afford the distance.
But that would be silly. Childish.
He stopped having reasons to be jealous five years ago.
"Sounds great," he says absently, before realizing that his young hostess is frowning at his tone. "Sorry. Long night."
She actually slaps her forehead. "Sure, sure! It's almost midnight." After a quick search in the cabinet under the desk she presents a heavy keychain to him. "Here's your key. See you at breakfast?"
He doubts the large outside windows in the dining room next to them are necro-tempered. "Perhaps," he lies, "but I'll probably sleep in."
"Another night owl, huh?" The girl chuckles. "Ms. Summers's friends always are."
With the life-style she leads, Angel is not surprised.
He is at the elevator's door when the girl calls out to him. "Hey, Mr. -" She peeks down at the form he just signed. "- Mr. - uh - Hunter?"
Demons who print fake papers have no imagination. "Call me Angel."
"Oh. That's... cute. I'm Christina."
"Yes, Christina?"
"Right! Since you're the new guy…. Mind telling Dawn I'm so beating her Angry Birds record this week? She's been offline for weeks!"
"Buffy's little sister?"
"Little?" The girl's dark eyebrows shoot upwards, and her lips twitch with humor. "She is older than me."
Is she really?
When he thinks of Dawn Summers, Angel pictures a girl proudly announcing she'd be thirteen in a few more weeks, wheedling her older sister into convincing their mom to let her watch a PG13 movie with her friends. In the end, he and Buffy had taken the sulky child to the theater, and Buffy had sworn him to silence before pushing Dawn in the direction of her classmates. That had been a good evening, he remembers, cuddling with his girlfriend in his bed while they waited for the movie to end.
But that had been before.
He also pictures a terrified child running away from him, yelling for her sister's help. Buffy had looked so scared, so incensed at his taunt, that he had laughed in her face.
It doesn't matter that none of that was real; Angel still wonders how Dawn remembers him. "I'm not sure I'll be seeing her."
"Oh."
Angel cannot tell which one of them looks more confused. The elevator dings open before he can wonder further. "What about your bags, Mr. Angel?" he hears as the doors slide close.
Damn. He shouldn't have left L.A. in such a hurry.
The next time he sees Buffy, she is snickering over a bundle of plastic bags. Her door is thrown wide open, and she thrusts the packages into his hands. "Every sales lady at the mall kept pushing me out of the men's department and pointing me to the maternity section. I think they're still scandalized over the time I bought two sweatpants and three shirts." She points at her outfit, which dangles a bit about her. It will fit better in July, but for now it offers a glimpse of what she'll look like at full term.
He wonders whether a compliment is appropriate. D'uh, Cordelia's voice responds. "They look good on you."
Buffy looks down at herself and shakes her head. "When I lose the extra eight pounds, try that again. I might believe you."
"I bet every salesman offered to carry your bags," he insists, "and not because they actually thought you needed the help."
Her shrug doesn't deny it, and she is smiling as she waves him further inside.
Angel doesn't blame those men. At seventeen, Buffy was a lovely teenager on the cusp of more. At twenty-seven, she is a woman who commands the attention of any hot-blooded male - and some undead ones. Even the new shape of her body would be no deterrent for someone interested when there's no wedding ring to accompany it. "Did you have fun?"
She throws him an amused look over her shoulder. "You can't have forgotten that much about me."
He has not. But... "I was afraid it would tire you out."
"Please." She sinks down into the same seat she occupied the last evening. From the way she curls into the cushions, Angel guesses that's her favored spot. "I was patrolling until late April. An emergency shopping spree isn't going to get me. Now, whether your credit card survived..." She fishes it out of her jacket pocket, hands it over with an expression as sincerely unapologetic as Cordelia's had been.
His money has never been safe in the hands of these Californian girls.
"As long as you left enough to cover the hotel bill."
Buffy nods her head solemnly. "There's even enough for gas. If that monstrosity of yours doesn't suck on it by the gallon. Haven't you heard of environment friendly models?" She clicks her tongue. "You should. You're the one stuck here for the next couple of centuries."
He groans. In the last month, five of his female clients have made similar comments. "Does no woman like a classic anymore?"
A surprised look flicks in his direction. He doesn't understand why until she says, "You have got to understand that the dating scene has changed in the last century."
He should have corrected Buffy's assumptions on his personal life, Angel thinks later that night. But if she isn't sharing, why should he? Instead, he distracted her with a shrug and a complaint on the first item of clothing he grabbed from the bags.
Buffy's defense of his new wardrobe had been passionate, complete with exaggerated hand gestures and digs at the bad influence of the 60's. Nineteen sixties, she remarked – "…because the thought of an eighteenth century with you in puffy sleeves and breeches hurts my brain."
He would have objected to that – such a fashion was outdated even when Liam, son of Galway's silk merchant, was alive – but he is touched that she remembers his favorite decade. Touched, but not surprised once he gives it some thought. Not after all the times she prodded him for information on the Rat Pack. So he let her ramble on the latest trends, sat back and watched the animated version of the woman he's getting to know all over again.
And yet, some things haven't changed. Like the fact that Buffy has interests other than her calling and the attempts to live a normal life despite it.
Now he'll have to add the baby to that list.
He wonders how she'll make it fit.
"It." He shakes his head at the word, doesn't care that the vampire before him throws him a contemptuous look. "That's an awful word for the unborn. See? That's a problem, right there. I haven't even asked if it's a boy or a girl. The worst part is -" He ducks, thrusts out his hand in a precise angle. "- I don't know if I want to find out."
Dust showers onto him.
This is the third pack he's found tonight, only two hours into patrol. From what Buffy has explained, it doesn't look like the tide will go down any time soon.
Angel cocks an eyebrow at the remaining vampires. "You can try to kill me now," he starts slowly, making sure the unsaid threat sinks in as he reloads the shooting mechanism around his arm. "Or you can be smart and come back when I'm less likely to use you as therapy."
The female vampire snarls at him. "The bitch is at her weakest. You'd protect her rather than join us?"
Angel tilts his head and chuckles. "You must be new at this."
The other vampire taps her shoulder.
His name is passed down in an awed whisper, and Angel tamps down on the pride that rushes through him. It will be decades before the underworld forgets he challenged the Senior Partners – and lived to wreck revenge on their remaining servants.
Or at least that's the story that goes around.
He remembers when human fright brought a thrill to his nights. Now terrified hordes of demons think twice before crossing his path.
He tells Connor it's not the same feeling.
He might be lying.
"That makes no sense!" the vampiress exclaims, wrenching herself from her partner's grasp and rushing at Angel.
A minute later, he stands over her ashes. "It really doesn't, does it?" His eyes fix on the last vampire. "I'm too tired to bother about one of you. What will it be?"
Flight, of course.
Good decision.
When the whole nest attacks the next night, he thanks the vampire that escaped. "See, without you confirming I was off my game, they wouldn't have dared come." The vampire explodes into dust, and Angel focuses on his next kill.
It was getting tedious to take them out by the handful.
"Where are you?"
Faith sounds pissed. Which means she's worried.
"Out of town."
An insult is growled down the line. "No kidding, Daddy." For the record, Angel prefers the insult. "Are you okay?"
The room is dark thanks to heavier curtains carried in last afternoon. The little desk girl wasn't there to take his request, but an older lady looked just as sorry about his condition as Christina would have – weren't migraines awful?
Not as awful as being trapped in this room.
He misses the sunlit foyer of his latest accommodations. He misses sparring with someone and being dragged off to a bar afterwards. The strongest drink he's had in Portland is Red Raspberry tea.
That situation isn't likely to improve.
"Sure, I'm great."
"Uh-huh." If frowns could speak, Faith's just did. "Are you about to get killed?"
Angel stares up to the ceiling, eyes following the humidity marks and trying to make up a picture out of them.
The hotel has no sewer access. The mini-fridge he requested for his blood still hasn't arrived. If he squeezes between the twin bed and the door, there is hardly space enough for the basic forms of Tai Chi.
"Of boredom," he replies.
"You, bored? When we're swamped by work here, too. Slacker." Faith laughs. "I've been fielding calls from three clan heads, two of them with interesting death threats –"
"I'm sure the feeling was mutual."
"You know me. Take the Slayer out of the girl, but the warrior goes nowhere."
Quite a leap for the woman who'd crashed into his chest three years ago, eyes bloodshot and dry tear tracks on her cheeks, wailing about cosmic injustice.
"Tell me you didn't actually try to kill any of them."
He can hear Faith's pout across the distance. "It's not a solo move." And how glad he was when she learned the concept of team work. "Your son refuses to come along."
"He didn't refuse to give you this number," he points out.
"I have my ways."
Angel grimaces. "Faith, please."
"Sure, Dad."
"Faith!" They've had this conversation countless times. "If you cannot stop calling me that, at least stop hinting at things no parent should know."
He'll never forget the joy he felt when Connor decided to settle in L.A., which was tempered only by his son's decision to follow his steps in the fight. Neither can he regret Faith's return after the greater number of Slayers prompted a need for balance and, faced with hellmouths popping up all over the world, the new Council's response was to force the Slayer's powers back into a single girl.
He curses the day the two met, though.
"Hey. You disappear without even leaving a note, or taking your designer shampoo and hair gel –"
He never should have given her a key. One day, the pieces will fall into place. She'll understand that when Buffy's message ended, he turned on his heel, headed straight for his car, and ended up halfway across the country without even one change of clothes or his favorite soap – and she'll laugh herself silly.
"- what else is a girl to think except that her boss's been kidnapped. Again!"
She laughed herself silly that time, too.
"I have not been kidnapped, Faith."
She heaves a sigh. "When are you coming home, then?"
In late July. Maybe early August.
Or later today.
"I don't know."
"You need an extra hand over there?" Pause. "Wherever you are."
That's Faith's version of a subtle prod for information.
But Buffy asked him not to tell anyone. She's had enough trouble with demons following the rumors spreading out from Portland.
Faith's curiosity will have to stay unsatisfied.
"I need you there." Not a lie. "Arrange meetings with all three clans, get them to sign the treaty."
"If they don't?"
"They will."
"They don't sound very enthusiastic about it, Angel."
The use of his name tells him Faith is now in full Slayer mode. She had it wrong a minute ago. The second spell took away the superhuman strength, the overdeveloped agility and reflexes – but nothing can make Faith less of a Slayer.
If she'd gone through her Cruciamentum, perhaps she'd understand it better.
"Enthusiasm means little." He smiles. The stains on the ceiling resolve into the shape of a horned purple head. It's mounted on a cave wall while dozens of living horned purple demons stare in horror. "Remind them of the Hywry's late king."
His Majesty was also less than enthusiastic.
"Ouch." Then she perks up. "Can I add my own threats?"
It took months to assimilate Faith's diminished power into some semblance of her trademark wild style. Spike says her unpredictability, added to her experience and instincts, makes her a worthy partner. When Connor smirks and nods, Angel never wants to know what kind of experiences Faith revisits on his son.
But while her fighting abilities have improved in the last years, her attitude still has traces of the rebellious teenager who took Sunnydale by assault.
He hasn't worked hard to find common ground for three opposing clans to let her loose upon them.
"Take Lorne."
"Come on!" comes the indignant shout. "Peace-loving Krevlornswath?" Faith has never forgiven Lorne for calling her a marshmallow after she sang at the new Caritas. Lorne is just as mad about her using his birth name – and butchering its pronunciation – in retaliation. "I'd rather take Spike."
"No." There is no end to the ways Spike can set fire to an already combustible situation. That boy never understood long-term strategy. At least Faith, with proper coaching, is a controlled flame. "Forget about meeting them. Just… stall things until the weekend. I'll be back on Friday."
His life does not stop because Buffy needs him.
He almost misses the time when it did.
"Okie-dokie, Dad." Before he can complain at the nickname, her voice grows stern. "By the way…. Angel? You don't sound okay."
"I'll see you in a couple of days."
He disconnects the call.
By Friday, he'll know how to pretend better.
TBC...