Because nobody likes a vague DISCLAIMER: All familiar characters and situations belong to the fantastical Joss Whedon.
Warning: PG13 Language!
This chapter goes out to all you hardcore B/A fans, as all it really is, is budding fluff. haha. You'll see what I mean.
Anyway, thanks for reading!
CHAPTER VIII:
To A Stranger
Passing stranger! You do not know
How longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking,
Or she I was seeking
(It comes to me as a dream)
I have somewhere surely
Lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other,
Fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me,
Were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become
not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes,
face, flesh as we pass,
You take of my beard, breast, hands,
in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you
when I sit alone or wake at night, alone
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
~Walt Whitman
†
Somehow... it all works out.
Her job situation starts and progresses rather fluidly. There'd been that hiccup regarding her name, but even that had sorted itself out quickly.
Her boss, whose name turns out to be Darlene, and Summer turns out to be the previous night shift waitress, had brought the issue up shortly after she'd appeared at the diner. They hadn't had a chance to get to that the day before, as Darlene had quickly jumped into the topic of hours and wage, and then sudden customers appeared and Summer had been politely shooed away and told to come back the next night.
"I'm not sure how it happened, but I never got your name, hun." She says with a sweet smile on her face, "I'm Darlene."
She's momentarily frozen, because the only name she's given herself isn't viable, and the only other option that comes to mind is 'Jane', and no way.
"I'm Ahhh..." She starts.
And in that precise moment she's saved by the sudden soft bellow, "Boss!" from someone behind them, and Darlene turns to face whomever it'd been, and then says "Table 5!" and then she's facing Summer once again.
"Sorry. Duty always calls." She apologizes then asks, "Anne, you said?"
She feels grateful for the sudden interruption and its easiest to just nod in aquiescence, so she does. She's not sure if she's an Anne or not, but its no worse than Summer. Not that Summer is bad either, in fact, she rather likes the idea of belonging to the notions of warm weather and freedom. Its the perfect anti-thesis to her dark hair but also the perfect companion to her light eyes.
She's being paid under the table, so although the last name situation arises, nothing more comes of it. She takes Miller after she eyes a poster for the brewing company, it's not the best but its hardly conspicuous.
Since the diner is only 24 hours on the good nights (Thursday thru Sunday/Monday morning) she has the other three days off. Her shifts start at 10pm and end at 6am so she has no real interaction with the rest of the staff other than her bosses (Darlene and her husband Mark) and those she works with directly.
Weekend nights are pretty good business, so she works with one other waitress named Penny, but once the club rush ends, just after 3am, she leaves. Her features are petite and her blue eyes light, perfectly balancing the bold toughness of her short white blond bob and the small bullring piercing in her nose. She's outspoken but kind, easy going in a way that makes Summer feel comfortable and helps her navigate the trade and tricks of the graveyard shift.
They serve while a guy named Sam, serves as cook in the kitchen. He's older than them, by about 10 years or so. His hair has prematurely peppered, but oddly, it doesn't age him as much as it works for him. He's carefree and witty, and even if she hadn't found out from Penny that he was the perpetual bachelor type, she would have realized it quickly. He's charming and debonair, in the way that he knows it and works it to his advantage.
"Don't worry though. Aside from the fact that he's more into cougars than kittens, he never shits where he eats." Penny tells her as well.
"He's a good guy despite his man-whoreness. Plus, he knows his way around a joke, and he makes a mean hamburger. Delish. I mean it."
It'd only taken her break, and the rest of that first night for her to agree.
†
He emerges from the confines of the room once he's sure she's left the building. Like the air in that space, he feels emotionally stale in these moments, and he isn't ready to risk a chance encounter just yet. As usual, he locks up after he exits, protecting his past and his precious behind a silver key.
Having already missed a night of patrol, he heads directly towards the lobby and out the courtyard doors. It's not until he momentarily wages with the street front exit that he realizes he must do something about them. Anyone off the street could (and has, really) waltz right into his home.
It never mattered before, because when Willow had lived here with him, the exterior of the Hotel had been in mint condition, mainly because her magic had made it so. But when she dissapeared (he can only think of it in those terms), it had all gone with her.
The interior changed as well, but only slightly. There'd been no real damage within its walls these past 100 years, and all that really shows now, is its age. He isn't really surprised by all this though, the simple mundane spells that carry no real power tend to fade away once the source, in this case Willow, is gone.
It still wouldn't matter if it were just him, but it isn't. There's a human living here now, unaware to the dangers that lurk around her. He's doing his part by maintaining a safe distance, but seeing the shape the exits currently are in, he knows he can make her that much more safe simply by fixing them. It won't take that much effort to accomplish, and he can easily work in the dark (he always does). So, he decides to forego one more patrol, and heads back inside to get his supplies.
...hours later...
It's been years, decades, since Angel's resolve has faltered. Usually, when he makes up his mind, there's next to nothing anyone, himself included, can do to change it. Her death is all the proof he's needed, and it's been the cement that's held his guilt and self-loathing together for the past 100 years. But now, he's breaking it.
Stay away, he'd told himself, and eventually, she'll go on her way. They always did. Cordelia, when he'd pushed her into the Groosalug's arms. Nina, just before the war on Wolfram and Hart. Buffy, the first time he left. Or so he thought, anyways. She was perhaps the only real exception.
It's morning, and the sun is on its way up into the sky, and he sits in the faded red chair, a book in his hands, waiting for her. He tells himself it's only to give her the keys to the newly renovated doors. But now that she's walking through the arch, he acknowledges the fact that he could have just left them under her door.
He closes the book softly, and since she's distracted by the work he's done over the night, he waits for her attention.
"Nice work," She says once she's looking at him, and points towards the doors.
"Thanks," He answers simply.
"I can't believe you did that all at night. Wasn't it hard to see?" Her voice is filled with curiosity.
He hadn't expected that, so he doesn't respond for a moment, but then he clears his throat and says, "Luckily, I have some floodlights."
It's not exactly true, but it's better than the actual truth.
"I see," She answers softly, nodding her head at the same time.
Before the encroaching lack of conversation arrives she says, "What a way to pass your night off."
An extremely small smile finds its way onto his face because of all the ways he could spend his night, doing work on the Hotel scores much higher than many of the other possibilities.
"It happens. This place always needs some care it seems. And well, I wanted..." He nearly blurts out the real reason he'd done the work, but his words drift off instead because telling her 'I wanted to make you safe' hardly seems like a good idea.
"You wanted...?" She prompts.
The eagerness in her manner of speaking allows him to come to his senses, so he doesn't answer immediately, just stands, the book held firmly in his left hand, and takes a few steps forward.
"To get it done already," He replies.
He holds out his free hand, and there is a small key ring in it.
"These are for you. One is for the gate, and the other for the inner door."
She reaches out to get it, walking down the steps to land parallel with him, but before she's close, he says, "Catch."
He tosses the keys gently, and even though his aim is perfect, she fumbles when they hit her fingers.
Her face says it all, he can tell she finds his actions odd, but even so she just says, "Thank you."
For the first time, the accompanying silence between them is awkward.
She begins to fidget so he says, "How was your first day of work?" His voice, hushed, timid.
"Pretty good. Kind of quiet, except for the after-party rush. The people I work with are really nice."
Her voice is casual and friendly, and he can tell she's trying to remedy the situation. If the air weren't filled with tension, he might have smiled at her for it.
"That's always good," He offers simply.
Deciding it best to end the conversation here, before things get more awkward or worse, complicated, he says, "Well, you must be tired, and i'm pretty beat too, so I'll see you around."
He steps backwards towards the stairs as she says, "Ok," the words clearly marred by disillusion.
"See you," Is all she finishes with as he vanishes out of sight.
He immediately feels bad about bolting the way he does, but knows it's something he has to do.
†
On her way to work, she opens the stairwell door nearly colliding with his tall dark mass. Instantly, his eyes are on her and a rush of warmth runs through her.
"Sorry," She says reflexebly.
"No need," He replies, and she smiles.
After a few seconds of quiet, he asks nonchalantly, "Heading to work?"
"I am. And you?"
With a smirk on his face he says, "Same."
Then he sweeps his hand forward and adds, "After you."
His voice is impossible to decipher, so she replies with a smile, and together they fall into step and walk down the stairs.
The next couple of weeks bring only a series of intermittent happy accidents such as this. While they are few and far between, and even with the little he usually says, unless they're on what she'd call a 'safe topic', such as books, the hotel or the city, major news stories, things of that nature, she comes to understand a few things about him.
It's clear to her that he isn't particularly interested in disclosure. All she knows about the man she shares a living space with is his name, that he works in security, and he has an affinity for books. She has no basis for comparison, but she still feels like he's the most complex person she's ever met. Even with how blasé he always is, she can still see that below the surface, there is more going on than she might ever comprehend.
Neither ever mention the past, her because she has none to speak of, and him, well... enough said.
She's just woken from a dream-filled slumber. They've been continuous from her first night in the Hyperion, and although she can't grasp them entirely after, they comfort her immensly because their presence seem to her as shadows of memories that do in fact exist, and are merely locked away until she finds the key.
She never thinks much of the fact that he, Angel, appears in them almost religiously. His is the only face clear in her dreams, and it makes sense to her since the only thing that fills her mind aside from her unknown past, and the trivialities of her present day life, is him. It's not just the mystery that surrounds him, nor the kindness he's shown her that's intrigued her. There's something fragile about him that doesn't seem natural, and she wants nothing more than to ease it away.
Of course, the level of separation between them has yet to be a bridge she's able to pass. And the dejavu of this feeling complicates her already confusing thoughts.
Stretching in bed, she sees that the sun is low in the sky, and there are only a few hours until night approaches. It's a Monday afternoon, and though it's her night off she'll stay up late. It's her night of transition, an attempt to seem like a normal person, with normal hours Tuesday through Wednesday.
She showers and dresses quickly. In a pale blue A-line cotton dress and her hair a long braid down her back, she heads out into the still muggy late afternoon. She decides its far too humid out for the walk she had planned, so she decides to head down to the street front shops, and do some window shopping, though, she's mostly looking from within than from out.
As she exits a small antiques store, she eyes a bookstore across the street. Whether because books remind her of him, or because she's decided she wants one of her very own, she goes inside.
There isn't much daylight within, and the artificial lighting isn't very bright, but the place is cozy and quaint. All the bookcases, tables and chairs are dark oak wood, and there are books littered across almost every surface. She smiles politely at the clerk behind the desk, then begins to wander around.
Eventually she finds herself strolling the Poetry section, and when her eyes flit over 'The Portuguese' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, she pulls it out and begins skimming through the pages. It's familiar though it really shouldn't be, and she finds herself loathing these little complexities of hers. The feeling of familiarity hangs around her like a bubble that never pops, the rush of memory and remembrance held prisoners within its glassy globe.
After a few minutes of this endless merry-go-round, a dark shadow passes by her, distracting her from the oddly remembered words. The bookcase in front of her is about a foot shorter than her, and after turning up, she realizes quickly that the shadow is merely a person walking down the next aisle. Her head turns up in their direction briefly, but she quickly loses interest in the woman browsing ahead of her. She would have returned to the book in her hands, if she hadn't caught sight of him as she surveyed the room.
He too seems to be looking for something, his fingers delicately skimming the shelves and spines as he searches. Her heart flutters responsively, her cheeks picking up a bright tint. He pulls out a small book and opens it, but then suddenly his head turns in her direction. She quickly ducks down, though she doesn't know why, since she's been hoping for an opportunity such as this, to create a real encounter with him, like the one that morning weeks ago. What had once been a flutter in her heart, is now a stammer, and the seconds tick by. After what she considers to be enough time, she peaks over the top of the unit. But of course, he's nowhere to be seen.
Her shoulders sink, and her eyes return to the book in her hands. Though it still appeals to her, she puts it back. Afterall, the desire to find him, is much greater. She turns around to heed the call, when she jerks back in response to his presence right in front of her.
"Hello Summer," He says, and there's this wonderful curious, small, always small, smile on his face, and if spirits ever soared, hers did in that moment.
"Hello Angel," She replies, and the combination of the low level of volume they're using due to the ambiance of the place, and saying his name is much more intimate than she ever expected it could be.
Trying to seem nonchalant despite the jumble that are her nerves, she points to the books at his side and asks, "Find anything good?"
"I found something I haven't read in... years, so I think I did good."
"Don't people usually buy books they haven't read before?" She teases, temporarily distracted from her thoughts by his words, while also hoping it might propel him to tell her a little about himself.
"Most probably," He plays along.
"But there's little out there worth reading that I haven't already read. Most modern literature leaves something to be desired."
She's about to ask what he means by that, when he continues, "What about you? No luck yet?"
He seems genuinely interested and his forthcomingness to speak is already overwhelming, so she answers honestly, "I'm not really sure what I'm looking for."
"Well I'm a literature aficionado, I'm sure I can help you find something you'll like. That is, if you want me to."
He seems doubtful that she'll accept so she decides to reassure him, "That'd be great. I trust you."
From the look on his face, she amends, "Your judgement. I've seen some of your collection after all."
Whatever had played on his face is gone all of a sudden, and then his voice is casual as he says, "Well let's start with the basics."
"Ok," She replies happily.
"Fiction, or Non-fiction?"
They peruse almost every genre in the fiction realm, save for horror, because she works nights and reading them during the day seems illogical; and romance, because she has her very own story playing out, and besides, romance novels and discussing them with an actual man seems like an embarassment she'd rather not face.
They maintain a safe distance the entire time, not just physically, but in the conversation as well. It's light and superficial, and it leaves her craving for more, as if getting to know him is crucial in some way she hasn't yet discovered.
To his obvious surprise, she picks out Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. It's a novel he's familiar with, and it's the story of a woman who quickly catches Summers attention. Despite not knowing the entire plot, she quickly connects with the various themes of it.
To her amusement, he picks out The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy by Douglas Adams for her. He hadn't read much in the genre, but it was a classic in its own right and he'd come across it, and he thought she might appreciate the immediately obvious comedic approach of it.
The Sun still permeates the sky when she's ready to leave. Her assumption that he's going to accompany her falls flat when he says out of the blue, "I just remembered there was something else I wanted. I'll see you later, at the Hyperion."
Startled, she begins, "I can wait..."
He shakes his head, and says, "It's alright. It might take a while, and you said you were hungry."
She was, slightly, but she had only mentioned it hoping they might do dinner together.
"Ok," She finds herself saying again.
"Thanks again for the book, and the lesson. It was fun."
"No problem."
His smile is polite, his tone one a stranger would use. Though, on some level, she supposes he still is.
"See you around, Summer," He says, and turns away, her faint 'Bye' lost in the commotion of his departure.
†
This second breach of contact, had been pure weakness. Despite what she probably thought, he'd caught sight of her long before she had of him. The gust of air that had followed her in had pretty much assaulted his vampire sense of smell.
Then, he caught sight of her; the boatneck cut of her dress, her hair pulled back exposing the curve of her neck and the line of her collerbone, the way she focused on the book in her hands, was all it took to keep him from running away. When she'd hid from his sight, instead of coming to his senses, it only magnified his need for more.
Captivated by her innocent sweetness, and his love of literature, his many reservations sunk into the depths of his mind througout the duration of their interlude. It took the physicality of the Sun to bring him back to reality, and the way a cat bolts at a sudden noise, so had he.
He leaves in the same moment she does, encased in the depth of the sewers, his footsteps unheard echoes to her own. By the time they arrive at the Hyperion, the Sun has finalized its descent, and he exits the foul stench of the underground and heads into the basement of the Hotel.
For long moments, he stands there silently, listening to the tread of her feet above him. As the combination of solitude and his racing mind grow, he realizes now, how dangerous that encounter had been. He already feels lighter than he has in a very long time, because of it. And he'd have to be blind (and deaf) not to notice the way she reacts to him.
He never expected to feel the pull towards another human being ever again. But it's there, the spark in the dormant volcano that doesn't beat within his chest. It cannot yet be described as love, whatever it is that he is feeling, but he knows one thing for sure; he longs to explore the uncharted territory of her skin, to feel her texture underneath the tips of his fingers.
Frightened by this and by the desire to head upstairs, he takes off back through the sewers, and heads out into the evening air. Now more than ever, he needs the clarity only a night of patrol, of slaying his kin, can bring him.
During the following couple of weeks, struggling to be careful, he manages to avoid her completely. After their shared moment in the bookstore, he finds that even their accidental run-ins now are too dangerous to risk. He returns to his ordinary schedule with veracity, pretending not to notice the reappearance of his numbness, nor the loathing he feels at his resumed and uninterrupted routine.
If, once upon a time, Angel sometimes spent his mornings and afternoons in idleness, he no longer did. No matter the hour, he preoccupies himself with some task, desperately clinging to the distraction it offers. When entrapped by the rays of the Sun and stifled by the confines of his room, he works on the upper floors of the hotel since the lobby is common ground. In fact it is here, where he never suspects an encounter to take place, that she finds him.
He's just starting the first coat of paint, the roller gripped in his hands as he moves it up and down along the wall. His back is to the door she stands at, so he doesn't catch her mesmerized gaze as it too follows his movement.
When he finally drops it back into the dispenser filled with paint, he becomes aware of her presence. After all the time that's passed since he's seen her, the rush of gratitude that surges at his failed awareness is bright within him.
He turns to her, catching the look in her eyes and the blush on her cheeks, but doesn't understand what's caused them until he remembers that he's clad only in a pair of pants and a ribbed white undershirt, and then he realizes it's the exposure of his skin that has her heart pounding within her chest.
"Want some help?" She asks a little too quickly.
Unable to deny it, a smirk forms on his face. He knows he should say no, knows he should send her on her way, but he can't. Despite his many efforts and the vast size of the Hyperion, here they are.
It could be the lack of human interaction he's had these past two weeks, or that he's just too tired to keep on fighting what seems inevitable, but what it really comes down to, bottom line: it's how much he likes being with her. Not in a romantic sort of way, but simply as a connection to humanity, the only chance he might have left.
"I wouldn't mind," He finally says.
Her response is a vivid smile, followed by an, "I'll be right back. Gonna put on something a little more paint friendly!" and without another word she dashes out of the room.
He decides to ignore his still ever-present qualms, and see this moment through. Besides, all they'll be doing is painting, and he has more than enough experience under his belt to keep the conversation in shallow waters. After today, he thinks he might be able to maintain a steady friendship with her.
Or at least, that's what he tells himself.
A/N:
See what I mean? I love me some fluff. haha
This chapter was really about establishing a relationship between Summer and Angel, not plot heavy I know, but crucial nonetheless. I only just delved into the work thing, but that'll be coming more into play within the next chapter.
Ok, as always, thanks again for reading! Hope you enjoyed!
Please review, feedback is always appreciated!
Thanks!