Title: Life With the Dead
Author: random shoes
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these people. But some of them own me.
Spoilers: "Damage" again. Also, I guess, "Once More With Feeling," but if you haven't seen that I just might have to shoot you.
Author's Note: First order of business, I want to thank all of you who've left me so many sweet reviews (some of them of quite a lovely length). You make it so much easier to keep my nose to the grindstone on this story. It's well on its way to becoming to the longest thing I've ever finished (fingers crossed), and that's largely your doing.
Second: SHAMELESS BETA PLUG: message me if you need a beta! I have too much time this summer.
Third: So, I used Dana in the last chapter, even though I knew some people wouldn't know who she was. I said then that it wasn't too important, and it isn't, but in case anyone is curious, doesn't want to go looking for that episode, and doesn't mind SPOILERS, (just in case you're slow, SPOILER ALERT) here's the thirty-second Dana explanation: Dana was a potential who was kidnapped and brutally tortured, turning her basically psychotic. When Buffy called all the potentials Dana suddenly become a psychotic slayer (in other words, a lot stronger). She escaped from a mental institution and had a run-in with Angel & co. during which she mistook Spike for the man who kidnapped her and ended up cutting off his hands (they were reattached, don't worry). Then Andrew and a bunch of slayers took her away, on "Buffy's orders." Also, Spike and Angel had an awesome conversation, which you should watch. END SPOILERS.

Business complete. Enjoy the show!

Old Friends in New Places
OR
The Death of Fred the Lobster

The first thing Buffy saw was Spike's hair, dull yellow in the glow of a nearby streetlight. And then the dark bulk of Angel's back. Booth was nowhere in sight.

"You didn't need to hit him," Angel said.

Buffy knew exactly the expression on Spike's face; she might as well have been looking directly at him. "Well, yeah," he said, "but I really wanted to."

That spurred her forward, past the vampires, right to Booth's side.

There was someone there already.

"They're dangerous," Booth was telling the woman, "I can't explain but—mmm." He'd tried to sit up in the middle of this sentence and it hadn't gone well.

"It's all right, Booth," the woman ordered. That's what it sounded like: an order.

"No it's really n—Buffy. Where did you—watch out!"

Buffy spun around, expecting to see a seven foot tall bug demon or something, and found herself facing Spike, his hands in his duster pockets and a satisfied grin on his face.

She made a complete survey of the area. No bug demons. "What? Where?"

"Me, love. He means watch out for me."

"Oh." She turned back to Booth—who was holding his head and trying frantically to stand up—opened her mouth, changed her mind, and turned again, tracing a complete 360 degrees.

"You," she pointed at Spike, "You hit him, didn't you?"

"He tried to stake Angel."

"But you shouldn't have—" Wait, did he just say... "You were defending Angel? You were defending Angel?"

"Didn't need defending," muttered Angel.

"And you," pointing at Angel, "what did you do?"

He shrugged. He didn't look guilty but...this whole situation felt extremely familiar.

"He's a vampire," supplied Booth. He was standing now, trying to look tough, but leaning heavily on the woman.

"I think you hit your head," mystery woman said, off-hand.

"No! I mean, yes I did, but that's not why...damn! I know you'll never believe me and I should just shut up but...oh screw it. Buffy?"

"I—" said Buffy.

"Booth—" said the woman.

"Oh for Christ's sake Bones, for once in your life can you just trust me? I can't prove it, and I know it's completely ridiculous, but that man," he was glaring at Angel, "is a vampire."

"I know," said the woman.

Buffy was pretty sure her face looked exactly like Booth's: mouth hanging open, eyebrows up around the hairline. Well, she didn't have a nasty bruise forming on her jaw, but...

Mystery woman used the silence to introduce herself. "Dr. Temperance Brennan. I'm Booth's partner."

"Um, hi," said Buffy. Where had this woman come from?

"You are Buffy Summers?"

"...yes." And why did she know Buffy's name?

"And I gather you are somehow acquainted with Angel?"

"Uhhh..." said Buffy.

Spike snorted.

"Yes," she said, as firmly as possible.

"You—you know?" said Booth.

The woman ignored him. "You were here with my partner?"

"Uh-huh."

"And you saw us come out and you...ran away."

Buffy did not like this woman.

"Are you...afraid of Angel?"

"No!" Buffy had been forming the word, but it was Angel who said it. It startled her into finally making eye contact with him. He looked...unsure.

"That is, you aren't. Are you?"

"Of course not!" His eyes closed, in relief? How could he think...

"I'm not," Spike said. "Afraid of Peaches, I mean."

"Excuse me," said Booth's partner, "but if you were not afraid of anyone, why did you run away?"

"Ah..." Actually, Buffy was done answering questions. She turned on the woman. "What are you doing here?"

"I came with Angel and Spike."

Booth was standing on his own now, staring at his partner. "Wait, but...how can you be okay with this?" He turned a lost look on Buffy. "And why aren't you, you know, slaying?"

Buffy took pity on him. "They're...well, they're good guys. It's a long story, but..."

"I thought you said vampires were evil. All of them."

"They are, usually, it's just that—"

"—we're special snowflakes," finished Spike.

"Um, yeah. They're different." Wow, was that lame.

"They have souls," said the doctor woman, as if she was saying they had umbrellas. "Miss Summers? Are you by any chance a vampire slayer?"

"Iwhahuh?"

"A vampire slayer."

"How do you—never mind. I don't want to know. Yep, that's me. Vampire slayer. The vampire slayer, actually. And I'm really confused, but I'm also way stronger than all of you, so this is what we're going to do: first, everyone's gonna take a deep breath, whether or not they, personally, require oxygen. Then we're all going to file calmly up the stairs to my friend's apartment, where Doctor...I forget your name, but you, you're gonna clean up Booth, 'cause I think his head is bleeding. You should check him for a concussion. You can do that, right?"

"Well, yes, but I am not a medical doc—"

"Whatever. Just make sure he doesn't wake up in a coma."

"It is not possible to 'wake up' in a—"

"Really don't care. While she's doing that, we," she shot Spike and Angel a look, "are going to have a talk, which will finish when I am no longer in any way confused. And then you're all going to go away and I'm gonna sleep for a decade or two." Buffy paused for a calculated moment. "Everyone calmed down? Good. Let's go." She turned towards the stairs, knowing the others would follow.

"Bravo," said Spike.

Buffy felt the corner of her mouth fighting upwards. She'd missed that. She'd missed him.

Temperance held Booth's arm on the way up the stairs. He seemed to be supporting himself all right, but she didn't want to take any chances. He was moderately inebriated in addition to his bruised jaw and the cut on his temple, and was overall a bit disoriented, although that was understandable. The entire situation was quite perplexing. Possibly she would find it amusing if she understood more of it, but right now it was merely perplexing.

She was in possession of two—somewhat questionable—pieces of information. First, they appeared to have interrupted Booth on a date with a vampire slayer. Second, that slayer was in some way connected with Angel and Spike. Temperance couldn't decide if this second surmise was odd or not. It would seem strange for a vampire slayer to be on familiar terms with vampires, yet these vampires were slaying vampires themselves, so perhaps it made sense. Or as much as anything concerned with vampires could be said to "make sense."

Also, this Buffy Summers was quite a bit younger than Booth. Not that Brennan subscribed to societal age rules, but Booth claimed he did, and she found it a little hypocritical of him to be seeing someone who must be at least ten years younger than himself. And...and she was surprised how quickly he'd moved on. It was a good thing. He'd said he needed to move on, and now he had. But she was surprised.

Ms. Summers knocked for several minutes before she received any response. Slow footsteps came towards the door, stopped, and then nothing happened. Presumably the girl was making use of the small lens built into the door.

"You're late," she said, opening the door, "...and, other...people..."

"Yeah," said Ms. Summers. "About that—"

"I told you to get lost," said the girl, in the general direction of Spike and Angel.

"What?" said Ms. Summers.

"Not you. Them."

"Oh. Look, I know they're...annoying, but they're, um, mostly harmless."

"Been spendin' time with Andrew, pet?" asked Spike. Brennan did not understand this comment. Neither did Ms. Summers, as far as she could tell.

"They're vamps," said the girl.

"I keep saying that," muttered Booth, "but no one listens."

The girl glanced at Booth. "Is he hur—are there two of them?" She was looking at Angel, at Booth, at Angel.

"Two of what?" said Booth. Brennan felt like laughing. He hadn't noticed. That was, well, a little bit hilarious.

"Uhhh," said Ms. Summers, "Yeah? I don't know. I don't know a lot of things right now. I'm so sorry to dump this mess on you—God, I was trying to be a comfort tonight, not a burden—but can we come in? I have to make sure he's okay and...figure some things out."

The girl shook her head. "Buffy, I really need this day to be over. With Maddy and everything, I can't—Look, you can use my apartment for whatever you need, but I'm not inviting anyone in. And I'm going to bed." With that the girl retreated into the apartment, leaving the door wide open.

Ms. Summers hit the doorframe with her forehead. "I'm a terrible person," she said.

"Nope," said Spike.

Angel reached for her shoulder, then seemed to reconsider. "We'll wait out here," he told her instead.

Ms. Summers nodded. "Booth and...doctor lady, c'mon."

They followed her into the apartment, Temperance still holding Booth's arm. It was not exactly a nice place to live, but it was clean and neat. Rather too clean and neat for an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old woman.

"My name is Dr. Brennan. Temperance Brennan."

"What?"

"You seem to have forgotten."

"Oh. Sorry."

"I think there's blood on my collar," said Booth.

Temperance found herself wanting to smile.

"Yep," said Ms. Summers. She led them into a tiny bathroom. "There should be..." She opened the mirrored cabinet and began pulling things out, placing them on the back of the toilet. Bandages, antiseptic, band-aids, a washcloth. "There. I'll be right back." She was gone only thirty seconds (an extremely quiet thirty seconds) and returned with an ice pack. "Okay. I'm gonna...go." She did.

In the absence of Ms. Summers, Temperance felt unaccountably awkward. It took her a moment to realize why: it had been nearly a month since she and Booth were last alone together.

"Sit down," she said finally, "and I'll look at your cut."

••••••••••••

Booth wasn't thinking about Buffy. He wasn't thinking about those two men: not about who they were, not about what they were, not about why Buffy trusted them. Just now he wasn't thinking about vampires at all; his sore jaw and leaking head were only background noise.

He wasn't thinking about these things, or, really, anything at all, because, for the first time in 27 days, Temperance Brennan was touching him.

Had been touching him, in fact, for ten minutes straight. Holding his arm, even after he'd remembered how to stand up and noticed that she was holding his arm. Standing with him, in his corner, on his side, regardless of what side that was. Serene in the middle of a cyclone, a crutch to lean on, a rock to hold. Even as the universe was stripped of any sense of internal logic, it had regained its balance.

He was becoming a lovesick puppy, wasn't he? Had been for a while, if he was honest with himself. Huh, something about a puppy, a lost puppy...earlier...Angel. And just like that Booth knew—in that way that drove Bones crazy—absolutely knew that Angel was in love with Buffy.

And then Bones stabbed him in the head.

"Shit!"

"It's only iodine."

"Warn me next time, okay?"

"I simply assumed that the pain associated with an antiseptic would be a great deal less than that associated with a gunshot wound."

He took a moment to unpack that. "Yeah. And if I could get people to give me a heads up before they shoot me, I would."

"That would be extremely impractical if the goal is to—"

"What's going on, Bones?"

"I don't know what you're referring to."

"Yes you do."

"I mean specifically. There are a large number of possibilities—an infinite number, actually. It's a very general phrase, and there have been so many odd events recently..."

He should be annoyed. She was being annoying. But—lovesick puppy.

"Okay. More specific. How did you find out about...about..." Was he really about to say the word vampire in front of Bones, and expect her to take it seriously?

She did it for him. "About vampires? Angel broke into the Jeffersonian."

"He what?"

"Broke into the museum. Very impressive, really. He must be both highly intelligent and extremely agile. Although I suppose two-hundred and fifty years of accumulated knowledge would make anyone appear unusually intelligent."

"Two—two-hundred and fifty years?"

"I believe it was two-hundred and fifty-seven, actually."

Booth couldn't take that in. It was part of the whole vampire myth, of course, and Buffy had probably mentioned it at some point, but there'd been so going on that he hadn't stopped to think. Immortality. Actual immortality. Two and a half centuries of it. That man had been born in the 1700s. And Booth had tried to kill him.

He suddenly felt a lot better about failing.

Bones was still talking, casually messing around on his head. "...however I think Spike is younger. The way they interact could easily be some variant of father-son relationship, although so far I've learned very little of vampire familial dynamics. Or if they typically have them at all. Spike and Angel are very unusual, or so I gather."

Get her back on track. "So, he broke in?"

"Yes. He was looking for those remains you found at the warehouse. They were victims of vampires, you know."

"Yes, I do."

"Oh. Well, he saw the murders in the paper, and was worried one or more of them had been made into vampires and might hurt someone. I was working late and I heard fighting—"

"He's the mysterious vampire killer!"

"What?"

"The missing body. Buffy said she was dusted, but she had no idea who did it."

"Oh. Yes. Your head isn't bad. It's not a small cut—I think you hit some glass when you fell down—but it will heal all right." She moved on to his jaw, which put her face terribly—wonderfully—close to his. He did his best not to react.

"I didn't fall down; I was knocked down. And wouldn't I have noticed if I'd fallen on glass?"

"How much have you had to drink?"

He chose not to answer that.

She didn't belabor the point; she knew she'd won. "I really can't do much for your jaw. It's going to look terrible tomorrow."

"I'm aware, Bones. I've been punched before." Not by a vampire, but still. "You caught him, and he just told you what he was?"

"Not exactly. I pulled the alarm and insisted he tell me what happened to the body."

"And he did?"

"Eventually."

Booth had no trouble at all imagining how Bones had forced a 250-year-old vampire to tell her his life story. That was...he'd fallen in love with an incredibly terrifying woman.

"So he just happened to be looking out for the welfare of random people he'd never met?"

"I think that's what he does. He helps people."

"So he's Superman."

"As far as I know, he is unable to fly."

"So he's Batman."

"That would be a fairly accurate analogy, yes."

That was it: his life had become a comic book. And he wasn't even the star.

He stood, examining himself in the sink mirror. He looked terrible: his entire cheek was turning purple, his head looked like someone had slashed at it with a pocket knife, and his hair was sticking up all over the—oh.

Booth knew why Angel had looked so familiar: he saw him every day. In the mirror.

••••••••••••

The silence in the hallway had its own personality. It was shy, awkward, a little needy, probably a teenager. A stranger, but a really familiar one, as if she was meeting the child of two old friends somewhere weird, like on a beach in Hawaii, or in the middle of Grand Central Station; its features were familiar, yet the arrangement was all wrong.

She was thinking of naming it Fred.

Angel and Spike, through some sort of vampire mind-communication thingy, had apparently decided that, seeing as Buffy had declared herself in charge, she was solely responsible for killing Fred. But she was rather attached to Fred at this point, and found it hard to stomach murdering him in cold blood.

When Dawn was little—this was BV: Before Vampires—she was one of those kids who named all the lobsters in the tank. She'd tell stories about how this lobster was married to that lobster, these two were twins, this one had broken the other's heart but he felt bad about it and still loved her. As soon as they were led to their table Dawn forgot all about her new friends, but it was too late: they were people now, and Buffy would not allow anyone to touch a hair (or claw) on their body.

This was also the explanation for Spike.

Another minute of silence and Buffy was going to go all nutso on innocent things, like the wall. Time to kill the lobster.

"So, ummm, what are you doing here? You know, together."

This amused Spike. "Together?"

"Ye—you know what I mean."

"Actually Buffy, I don't think I do." Angel's brows were creased in that way that always used to make her want to kiss him.

"I mean, when did you guys go all buddy cop movie?"

Angel grimaced. "Never, I would hope."

"Things change. Been a while since we had the pleasure, pet."

Buffy couldn't believe that. "Yeah. Been a while. Seven years, in fact. One of which I spent thinking you were dust. Care to explain?"

That was really something: Spike at a loss for words. A pity she was too angry to savor it.

"What? Too busy to take a couple minutes out of your day? Forget how to work a phone?"

Angel jumped in. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but in his defense—"

"And you! I know you know how to use a telephone. Didn't think I'd be interested in the sudden non-deadness of someone I cared about? Don't think it's newsworthy when you challenge the forces of hell to a duel?"

Angel with nothing to say? That was just business as usual.

"Okay. We'll try an easy one: what is the soulful dead brigade doing in Washington?"

"You didn't trust me anymore," said Angel, so quietly she barely heard him.

"What?"

Angel was staring at a spot somewhere to the right of Buffy's shoes. "He said—he said you didn't trust me. That none of you did."

Buffy desperately wanted to hug him, he looked so hurt. "He?"

"Andrew."

Startled blue eyes went first to Angel, then to her. She shifted under Spike's gaze, feeling he was accusing her of something, she wasn't sure what.

"A-Andrew?" Oh God, what did the dumbass do now?

"He said no one in your camp trusted me anymore. Said you gave the orders. Said that—that you couldn't trust me with one of your own."

"I don't know what—oh. Dana. Angel, I didn't mean—" No mistaking it. Spike was angry at her. But she didn't have time to figure out why; Angel looked like he was about to freeze over.

"Angel. Look at me." He did. So not a good Angel face. "I never, never told Andrew I didn't trust you. But I did say...I told him we couldn't trust Wolfram & Hart with one of our own." Angel turned away, and she couldn't see his face, and she started to freak. "I just wanted other slayers to take care of her; it was never about you. Andrew, he...he does that. Makes up stories. Maybe Giles said something to him, I mean, back then he was worried about you losing perspective—I don't know. I'm sorry, I should have sent someone else, but Andrew was the only one in the states, and there was this whole zombie thing in Scotland and Xander nearly got himself killed and then Dawn had this run-in with a thricewise and I had to find Willow but she does this thing where she goes sporadically AWOL and—"

Spike grabbed her arm. "Okay love. S'okay." She had a sudden, vivid memory of dancing faster and faster, smoke rising, welcoming the end...and Spike's hand, just where it was now, anchoring her to the earth. It had felt like sinking back then. It didn't anymore.

Spike took his hand away, but she could still feel the anchor.

"Angel?"

He turned back, and he was smiling—sort of. "Don't worry about it. It wasn't your fault. Anyway, it's no big deal."

No big deal? Yeah, right. "Oh. Okay..." suddenly anything else felt like a safe subject. "What brings you to, um, here?" Her voice came out high-pitched and weirdly formal. Also, had she just forgotten where she was?

It was Spike who answered. "Here being D.C. or here being this hallway?"

Buffy gave him a look with mildly violent undertones.

He rolled his eyes. "In D.C. on Peaches-can't-let-it-go evil lawyers business. In this hallway on account of me gettin' spooked by a phrase I happened to hear on the telly."

She had completely forgotten about that. Too bad it couldn't stay that way.

"Yeah. Saw it. Really hoping it's some kind of majorly not funny joke."

"Not likely."

"Nope."

"D'ya think—"

Beth's door opened. Booth's head appeared.

"Um, hi," said Buffy.

Booth said nothing. Instead he stared at Angel.

Ten seconds passed. Thirty seconds. A minute.

"Jesus," said Booth, and shut the door again.

"Guess he got hold 'uv a mirror," said Spike.