Part 20

Buffy ran until she smashed into Gunn, who had been just around the corner and just about to follow them into the Bronze. He'd been a bit slow in the actual 'following' since he'd had to stay with the car until it was parked so they would be able to find their way back without circling the block 12 times trying to find the right limo.

"Gunn?"

"Buffy? What are you doing running around by yourself like this?" Gunn asked, trying not to show his anger. It was a bad neighbourhood. She could easily have been kidnapped, shot, pawed, raped, beaten, or maybe even mugged...among other things.

"Please, just take me to the car. I'm going home." She couldn't bear to look Gunn in the eye. Not if he would be able to see the hurt and betrayal in them as she knew he would. After all, Gunn had always been more like a friend than a guy doing his job.

"Okay, but promise me you won't try killing yourself," Gunn said, looking gravely serious in his tux and matching stern expression.

Buffy couldn't help but laugh. She could never commit suicide over something like this. Not even if it turned out badly. "I can't believe you would even consider it."

"I didn't. I just knew it'd make you laugh...even though it's not really funny to laugh about suicide, I s'pose."

*****

After about 30 text messages and half a dozen voice messages on her cell, about 40 messages on her answering machine and even a few pages of pleading coming over the fax machine, Buffy was sure she was frustrated. She was even afraid to check her email.

Her mobile buzzed again, showing that another message had been received. Reluctantly, she opened it and skimmed through it. He wanted to explain, to tell her the truth...it was tempting, but Buffy deleted it nonetheless. Unless he thought of a more convincing way of getting the message through, Buffy refused to answer him out in any way.

With graduation being tomorrow, all their belongings had been packed and ready to be taken back to LA. The house had been placed on the market and had already drawn in quite a few potential buyers. It would be perfect—she'd go back to LA, write some sad songs about it all, record them and get over him.

She hoped she wasn't a bet like other girl had been (what was her name again?)—she even doubted it—but she was still hurt by the fact that Angel could be that kind of guy and wondered what kind of act he'd put on to make her fall for him.

Buffy hated to admit it, but Giles was right. There wasn't a chance in hell that she could have a lasting relationship. They hadn't even lasted a whole year.

Today was their 8 month anniversary.

*****

Angel was grunting in frustration. He couldn't get through to her; he couldn't even go to her house—he'd been refused access. It was paining him to just be around Spike and Faith. They never had fights or disagreements and never had problems understanding what they wanted from each other. They even seemed to be in love at times (although neither would ever willingly admit it).

He was furious by now. He couldn't come to any sort of conclusion as to how Buffy could distrust him like that. She'd looked at him with so much betrayal that he'd almost wished he'd done what she thought he'd done so he wouldn't have been so hurt at being accused of it like that. No, that wasn't true. He had done what she'd thought he'd done—just not to her.

He raked a hand through his already messy hair and lowered his head to the table in front of him. He looked at his own reflection in the over-polished wood. It was blurry, but he still looked like a complete and utter mess. Or maybe it was just his vision...

There was something in his heart that longed to be with her again, but another part kept telling him that he shouldn't be with her if she didn't even trust him enough to believe him over...well, anyone else—especially Darla. If she would only hear him out...

It was too late, though. He'd seen the removalists' trucks parked outside her house and loading boxes and pieces of furniture wrapped in large sheets of plastic. Graduation was tomorrow—it was as if she couldn't get away from him fast enough.

*****

Graduation came and went, and to Angel, it seemed the same with Buffy. She came into his life and now she was gone. She'd left with her family right after the ceremony and had hardly even had time to say all her final farewells. She didn't even seem to find the time to say goodbye to *him*.

It was as if he never existed to her. She didn't even make eye contact with him when she walked past him. She'd successfully turned him into the shell of the man he usually was. He was so out of it that he didn't even realise that Cordelia was hanging off of him for half of the time he stayed after the ceremony. When Spike finally pointed it out, he brushed her off like specks of dust on his jacket and left the scene altogether, walking home by himself in his graduation robes. He didn't care that it was too hot or that he looked odd—he noticed nothing and wished to stay that way.

He loved her and in his deepest fantasy, she'd loved him as well. But it didn't matter anymore—what was love without trust?

*****

Buffy looked longingly out of the tinted rear window of the limo and wished she could give in and jump out of the car to walk with him and let him explain. She'd seen him brush Cordelia off and it prided her to no end that he could still be the same guy she knew, even after all they'd been through.

He loved her and she loved him. There was nothing else that mattered, she tried to tell herself. But it didn't matter that he loved her. After all, what was love without honesty?

*****

The summer passed slowly for the both of them—Buffy was always on her toes, working on her new album, appeasing the press and getting her life back into its usual order. Angel, however, had become recluse and had resulted to helping his mother by driving her to and fro, helping her carry groceries and became a literal homebody. Spike and Faith had to kick him in the ass to get him to go to the Bronze and get out of the house.

Buffy's new album was a huge success and they had already begun discussing concert dates and other assorted preparation for what was to be her biggest show ever. They had the dancers, choreographers, lighting, production, sound, construction, costume and make-up crews already all under contract. It promised to be a big affair with sell-out crowds and extra shows.

Yet, through the commotion, all she could think about was how Angel was and how he was coping lately. Was he living it up and being the ladies' man she knew he had been before he'd met her? Or was he taking it like she was, being somewhat recluse and just wishing that they went back to where they were before all the trouble arose? **Scratch that. I don't want to know.**

*****

"You know, you shouldn't sit around feeling sorry for yourself," Spike said, giving Angel a friendly pat on the back. "I think that maybe you should try getting through to her again."

"And how do you propose I do that?" he asked tiredly. He just wanted to go back home and stare at the single poster he'd put up on the ceiling of his room, directly over his bed.

"Do something romantic. All lasses like a little romance—and I know that for a fact," Spike grinned.

Angel groaned, "I'm not going to even ask..."

"Oh, but you know I'm right."

"Get me drunk first—then I'll admit it."

"Sorry, didn't bring any fake ID. I woulda, but the bartender here knows I'm not old enough. Bugger, eh?"

Angel just shrugged, not really caring either way. "So...what do you suggest I do, then, Prince Charming?"

*****

After denouncing each and every suggestion Spike came up with, Angel trudged home on his own and plonked himself down in front of the television, relishing in the familiarity of sinking into the soft leather-covered cushions of the seat. It was annoyingly early, preventing him from falling asleep and annoyingly late to watch any of the Sunday night movies on offer. All he could conclude was that life sucked and that MTV was gradually getting more and more monotonous.

He spread himself out on the sofa and tried to fall asleep by forcing his eyes closed and waiting. He lay down like that for about five minutes until he gave up and sat back up. There was nothing that could keep his mind from wandering. It was time for a resolution and in his current frame of mind, he couldn't think of anything that resembled a resolution, let alone a vaguely romantic one.

Flicking through every channel available, he settled down to watch another of those celebrity gossip shows and slowly felt his eyes drooping from boredom and utter exhaustion a few minutes later.

"...Buffy Summers."

Angel's eyes snapped open at the mention of her name. He sat up properly again and glued his eyes to the screen as he saw his ex's face again and again and again. Apparently her album was doing well in the number of sales and had prompted a very speedy decision for a tour to be held.

"...Tickets on sale from September 18th."

**Whoa, that's a long time from now. It's only, what? August the... Hey, what IS the date?** He looked down at his watch. **Fuck! Why didn't anyone tell me it was already the 10th? That means I start college in a week...shit.** He quickly scribbled down the details from the screen and hurried upstairs to start packing.

UCLA was going to be too far away from home to be careless about what he packed.

*****

"Delta Terrace, Delta Terrace, where oh where is Delta Terrace?" Angel mumbled to himself, looking up from an incredibly vague map to his surroundings. He was trying to find his room—keyword: trying—and getting lost in the process. His parents had handled the rest of his luggage, figuring that they would save him the trouble of dragging all his belongings around while he got lost looking for his room and missing the first day of the three-day orientation program. His sense of direction sucked...actually, 'sucked' would be an understatement.

He looked from right to left. His eye caught onto the lettering on one of the buildings in line of vision to his left. There were too much concrete and too little trees, he decided—he would've completely missed the words 'Delta Terrace' jutting out of the wall had the his head not shifted to avoid the shine of the concrete at the exact moment he was looking in that direction. "Aha, there you are. Delta Terrace."

His key read '307', the room was decidedly considerably less troublesome to locate than the building. He turned the key in its lock and braced himself. He'd seen the pamphlets and heard about dorms from friends and relatives and nothing could've prepared him for the reality—it was very...

Homey. Pleasant, not too small (although still considerably smaller than his room at home) and consisted of two beds, two desks, a fridge, microwave, a TV, a set of drawers, two wardrobes, an adjoining private bathroom and several sockets in the walls for electricity, internet, phones, etc. There was a pleasant view out the window toward the courtyard below and the walls were an off-white colour. All in all, it looked comfortable enough and he couldn't wait to meet his roommate.

On his bed was a large box and two suitcases filled to the brim with things he would need plus the things his parents thought he would need. Angel immediately dumped his bag on top of the two suitcases and began to open the large cardboard box—his computer. Handy for three things: contacting his family (and bluffing about what a great time he was having), doing his assignments (or for using in a rush when he realised he'd been putting off an assignment for too long) and looking for more news on Buffy.

With that thought, he set to work shoving the whole box on his desk and throwing everything to the ground to open the suitcase being squashed underneath the other. Slipping his hand carefully underneath a pile of clothes, he pulled out a photo frame. In it was picture of himself and Buffy taken at the Santa Monica Pier—it was his favourite out of all the pictures he had of the both of them together. He wanted her back, for them to be the way they were again. He set the photo frame up on the shelf over the desk. When he was finally satisfied with its position, he started getting the rest of his stuff in order—the most important being the computer.

*****

Several minutes after he got the computer all set up and in working order, Angel heard the sound of a key turning in the lock of the door. In trundled a suitcase and beside it, a few boxes that were filled to almost overflowing. Angel heard the voice of, he presumed, his new roommate saying goodbye to his mother and father before he heard the door click closed.

A head peered through the doorway, a smile brightening on its face as soon as he saw Angel halfway buried beneath his table, fixing a wire that he'd accidentally dislodged with his foot. "Hi, you must be my roommate. I'm Jared, Jared Gulliver." He extended his hand out to Angel in a friendly manner.

Angel dusted his hands off and accepted the handshake. "Angel, Angel Ferguson." **Good thing he isn't one of those nerds who look like they'll stay in every night to study and do their assignments. How boring would being stuck living with a person like that be? Also, he didn't make a James Bond crack. That's definitely a good thing.**

"So, uh, Angel, what course are you doing?" Jared asked casually as he picked up a few of his boxes from where he'd left them and shoved them straight into his wardrobe.

"Business Economics. You?"

"Civil Engineering, but I have no idea what I'd do with a degree like that," Jared shrugged. "I bet that's what half of the people here are here for anyway—to get a degree and then have no idea what to do with it and end up getting a job as a postman or a fledgling actor."

"Count me out of that half then. I have bigger plans than to feature in a series of infomercials starring kitchen appliances or Tae Bo videos," Angel joked.

"Don't worry. You don't look the type anyway," Jared replied, laughing softly as he remembered the small collection of Tae Bo videos sitting on the shelf at home as a result of his mother's one-time drunken shopping spree. Add two exercise machines, some skin care products, a set of non-stick pots and pans, 500 slimming tablets and a set of complimentary steak knives and you'd get a pretty good idea of how drunk she was at the time.

His eyes wandered around the room and decided that it was a bit too bare than he would've liked. The walls were too white and it made him almost feel as if he were in a psychiatric hospital. With newfound resolve, he stuck his head into the wardrobe and delved into one of the boxes he'd chucked in just moments earlier and pulled out a large white roll with two elastic bands securing it together. Jared removed the rubber bands and unrolled it out onto his bed.

"This is exactly what this room needs—some decoration," he said. He held up the first from the pile, "This is my personal favourite."

Angel gulped. Buffy. Again and again and again. "So I take it you're a...fan?"

"Are you kidding? Who wouldn't be with a body like that?"

Angel suppressed his rage (although he supposed that Jared was right) and just continued to put his stuff away in the wardrobe and in the chest of drawers. **At least only I know what she looks like completely naked...**

"You're too quiet. You don't seem the quiet type. What's up?" Jared asked as he secured the last corner of the last poster to the wall. "I know we don't know each other well or anything like that, but now is as good a time as any to find out all this stuff, right?"

Angel wordlessly turned his gaze to the photo sitting in the photo frame and continued what he was doing.

Jared watched his new roommate closely as he looked towards the photo frame sitting on the shelf squinting to try to see the photo more clearly, succeeding eventually by getting closer to it.

"How'd you do that?" Jared asked, pointing at the photo.

"How'd I do what?"

"Manipulate that photo like that," he said, pointing at the photo. "And here I thought you weren't a fan."

"No, not technically. Besides, that's a real photo."

"Well then if she had one of those CD signing things in, what's this? Santa Monica? I would've heard about it...weird," he was now almost pressed right up to the photo frame, inspecting the photo for telltale signs of manipulatory work and coming up empty-handed, "very weird."

"She's my girlfriend," Angel finally said. "Or was, anyway," he added with dejection.

"You crazy motherfucker... There is no way I'm believing that," Jared said, backing away with each syllable. "Besides, didn't she used to go out with some guy...?" Reaching into his wardrobe once again, he pulled out a magazine and flipped to the page he remembered seeing the article on. "Okay then, I believe you."


Okay. AN time again. I did about an hour of research for this particular chapter. I drew all my UCLA information entirely from the UCLA site and even did one of those Virtual Reality things to get it as real as possible. If I got anything wacked out completely, then pretend it's real and try not to be offended by inaccuracy. Thanks. It took me about half an hour to find the site on the university housing...that's a pretty darned long time if you ask me. And also, note that this chapter is extra long. :D