All Disheveled Wandering Stars
S J Smith (laughnfx@yahoo.com)
Disclaimer: I am not now, nor have I ever been, Joss Whedon or any part of Mutant Enemy. Nor am I the writer of any of the lyrics/poetry included herein. I'm not making any profit on this and it's taking time away from my original work, so I should stop writing this right now and go back to my own stuff, but they just don't shut up.
Rating: Let's start with 'R'
Summary: "Where she tread, nothing would ever grow again, or that's what we'd been warned."
Distribution: Geekgirlz-r.us, Adult BA Shippers, His Girl, BA Fluff.
Spoilers: Consider everything up to "Rain of Fire" and at least "Conversations With Dead People" to have happened.
A.N.: If you want to know, some of this story was inspired by the novel, "Ariel". It was published in the early '80's and no, I don't have a copy of it because the last two chapters made me so mad I threw the book across the room. (Thought about kicking it for good measure, but that didn't happen.) Oh, and by the way, if the story edges up to "NC-17" rating, you'll be able to find the remainder at my site, www.GeekGirlz-R.Us.
* * *
Chapter 2:
IN CITY
Open any door
Remember everyone
You've meet before
Oh there's a wicked young man…
Alice Cooper – Dragontown
She's beautiful.
Sometimes, it was all he could think of, that she's beautiful. Sometimes it hurt too much to think of anything else because she shone so brightly, like a newborn sun. Those were the times when he'd catch her up and bury his face against her neck, holding her tightly so her heat burned. And she would know, like she always did and would wrap her arms around him, not speaking, because words were something neither of them had ever really needed with each other.
But tonight wasn't one of those times. Tonight, she danced with wild abandon under electric candlelight, the heavy pulse of the bass like a heartbeat beneath his dead flesh. Men, women, demons, all were attracted to her like moths to a flame, swarming around her, wanting to touch and this time, he watched from the sidelines. His predator's nose took in the scent of all the people, men and women in heat, strange new drugs, demons; all part of the crowd. As long as no one recognized them, they were safe.
Because now it wasn't just the demon world gunning for them.
Her eyes flashed towards him from the dance floor and he tilted his head to the side, a gesture she recognized. Without protest, she started swimming out of the pit, her arms flashing over her head, looping around one man's shoulders to get purchase to swing past another. Slices of skin shone like the moon through the gill slits in her leather dress and she used that as a distraction. If they saw her body rather than her face, more good luck. Though he didn't think anyone would recognize her here; it was another nameless city somewhere in North America, big enough that they could remain anonymous, that they could appear and disappear without raising eyebrows.
Buffy danced over to Angel, her opaline eyes blue under the fake fire of the chandeliers, charged by the peacock purple of her dress. That was the easiest thing to change, clothing; no more did he wear black and grey and russet, nor she pinks and creams or blacks and reds for hunting. Now they wore browns and jewel tones, sometimes exotic prints inspired by the dragons that flew overhead, but never, ever, the colors of their old lives. It had been an almost unspoken decision, when they made their escape, the shedding of the old skins to make way for the new. Buffy rubbed her cheek against the sleeve of his rich magenta shirt, linking her arm through his. "Time?" she asked.
Angel glanced out at the floor, the undulating crowds. "There's probably enough for one or two more dances," he told her.
Buffy flashed him a sparkling grin. "We'll save them for later." She tugged at his arm, pulling him towards the exit. He allowed himself to be maneuvered through the crowds. They made it to the staircase and past the bouncer; a gargoyle with a head like a skinned goat, the pale topaz of its eyes watching as they all but ran down the stairs. Buffy didn't bother looking back, she never did. He always looked, thinking again that someone might have recognized them, that someone might be watching but what was one more human-vampire couple in this brave new world?
"Come on," Buffy said, interrupting his thoughts, her chin tilted skyward. "Sunrise."
He paid the valet for the return of the motorcycle they'd acquired in the last town and they piled onto it, Buffy's slender arms wrapping around his waist, her soft heat pressed against his back like a welcome second skin. The Norton rumbled to a start at his touch and they charged out of there, heading back for the place they currently referred to as 'home.' It wouldn't be home much longer, they made it a point to not stay in one place long and it was getting close to that unspoken date that would send them out on the highways again. For that they'd need a car, though or something he could hide in during the worst part of the day. And they needed to decide where to go next.
As always, Angel drove the bike along a different route home. They never took the same way twice, even walking. Sometimes, they would park their vehicle two blocks away and climb the fire escapes, leaping from roof to roof. Others, they'd find a way into a basement that led to the right building. Paranoid? Maybe. Perhaps it was a way of surviving what they'd done.
He could sense the dawn fast approaching, his skin starting to tighten in apprehension to that fact. He guided the motorcycle down a ramp to a parking garage beneath a building. Buffy slid off, quickly moving aside some boxes and trash to set the bike under, camouflaging it quickly. When that task had been completed, they started for the stairs. This ruin wasn't too far from the one they'd been living in for the past three weeks. It might take a half hour to get there, more than enough time before the sunlight started flooding the streets and the humans and demons that were immune to its deadly beauty would be out in it again, trying to go about their lives.
He touched her shoulder lightly, his fingers resting a little longer than necessary on the softness of her pale skin. "Split," Angel said.
"High and low?" Buffy rubbed her cheek against the back of his hand, nearly igniting it from her warmth. "If you're not there in twenty--"
"Thirty," Angel interrupted softly, giving her a smile.
"—twenty-five minutes, I'm coming looking."
"Fair enough." He dropped a kiss on the corner of her mouth; tasting the drink she'd had earlier, the color that coated her lips, her own sweetness. "Go."
Her fingers drifted over his chest briefly and she gave him a look that he couldn't quite read before rising into the morning. He counted to twenty before turning off into a different way, seeking the grate that led to an underground conduit. If he concentrated, he could feel her moving on the earth above him, her footprints searing the soil over his head. Where she tread, nothing would ever grow again, or that's what they'd been warned. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, that the only true thing that happened from the war was their reunion. To think of their lives before the battles, well, that way madness lay.
But Angel could remember it. Sometimes it rose unbidden in his dreams; what he'd had, what he'd lost. He once had a son. He once had a family, a beautiful girl who loved him, a genius little sister, a pair of brothers, one a warrior, the other a scholar. He once thought that he could hold his own life within the palms of his hands, a reward from the heavens for fighting a war that truthfully could never truly end. But in the war to end all wars, the one that Mohra had warned him was fast approaching, the End of Days, he realized that there was no end, there was no other life but the one he lived. And he watched comrades and friends and family fall in that battle and one lone girl facing the hordes of darkness, a stake tucked into the waistband of her jeans, a sword almost bigger than she was clutched in her tiny hands. He felt the magic that raced through the land, powered by witches and Watchers and friendly demons, all imbuing the little girl with the strength she needed to beat back the demons who threatened to swarm through their world.
But someone made a mistake.
And things were never the same again.
Mostly, Angel could stop the memories there. Force them back under lock and key, buried deep in the depths of the ocean like the box he'd once inhabited. This morning was one of those times. The scent of the sewer brought back others, from farther in the past, memories of breaking a golden girl's heart, twice, while they were confined beneath the earth.
He shoved those thoughts away, too. Buffy and he were together now. And if it wasn't exactly the life they'd dreamed of, it was the life they'd chosen and they would play by its rules.
The memories must have held him captive because he missed any warning when he climbed out of the conduit. He forced the grating aside, waited for the count of twenty when it squealed in protest of his rough handling before he pushed it completely out of his way. And then he was on the surface again, in a basement but still the building that Buffy and he lived in. All that remained was climbing the stairs.
"Oh, how beautiful. Like Hell rising from beneath the earth."
He didn't allow himself to tense. Instead, he straightened, turning slowly to catch sight of a scarlet and black dress. A corner of her thin mouth curled up in a smile and she drifted slightly closer. "Drusilla," he said, keeping his voice completely neutral.
"Hello, Daddy," she said, the smile widening. She clapped her hands together. "Don't you want to know how I found you?"
"Does it matter?" he asked, seeing the others, ringing the room. Vampires and demons, joined together. He wondered who'd put them up to this. Drusilla wasn't sane enough to lead a gang.
Stomping one of her high-heel-clad feet, her mercurial temper shifted from delight to anger. "It does, Daddy. I've been searching for you for ever so long."
"All right, Dru. You've found me." He slid his hand into his pockets, rocking back on his heels, pretending ease. "What do you want? To catch up on old times?"
Her lower lip descended in a pout. "You talk so cruel to me," she said. "Like you don't really care." She swept closer, not within range, even Drusilla wasn't that stupid. Half closing her eyes, she took a deep breath of air and stepped back, her delicate lip curling. "You stink of the Slayer."
"If you've been looking for me, Dru, you should've known that," Angel said softly.
"She takes all my lovelies from me," Drusilla said angrily. "First you, then my Spike. It's all her fault."
Angel managed not to sigh. "Dru, what do you want?"
"You, silly. And my pretty boy, all together again." She hummed, swaying from side to side so the hem of her dress swung like a bell.
"Not gonna happen, Dru."
She smiled, wriggling her fingers so the dim light overhead caught the edges of her freshly manicured nails. "We'll see, Angel." Her middle finger and thumb snapped and the demons peeled off the walls.
Angel made the only choice he could and dropped back down the hole. Above him, he heard Drusilla's shriek of rage as he landed heavily. Pain shot through one ankle but Angel forced himself onto his feet and started running away from the building, back towards the Norton. If he could reach it, if he could reach it before they caught him, maybe Buffy would be safe.
A low snarl sounded behind him. Something was in the tunnel. Angel didn't bother looking over his shoulder, just tried to increase his speed. No weapons, he thought to himself, weapons weren't allowed at the club they'd been at earlier. Sunlight splashed down through gratings and he dodged to avoid it. No way to surface, not now.
Something landed against his back, throwing him facedown into the damp muck. Angel tried to lift his head. Something palmed his skull, eight fingers wrapping around it. He tried to shake it off, tried to push to his feet. The demon dropped into his kidneys, flattening him. Gripping him by the hair, the demon pounded his face once, twice, three times into the muck. Angel felt his nose break on the first strike. The pain caused stars to flare in his eyes. Still, he tried to break free, managing to wrap a hand around the demon's thigh and pull.
With a roar, it hauled him upright, dangling him from its grip. Angel blinked his blurry eyes, seeing a mass of blue fur with bright splotches. A double set of sharp, yellowed teeth came into view then that eight-fingered hand covered his face and pushed him back sharply.
The back of his skull rapped against the cement wall. His vision fogging out, Angel whispered, "Please…" as everything slowly faded to black.
* * *
Cafell had food.
It was the one normal thing Buffy could provide now. Cafell had food. Everything else could go hang.
She watched the border collie cross eat in her own neat, particular way, taking a few morsels in her mouth, carrying the bits across the room and then laying down to carefully chew that mouthful. Buffy wasn't sure why Cafell did things that way. She'd never had a dog before. The idea had never really occurred to her to want a dog when she was younger and once she became the Slayer, she really didn't have time for one. Or any pet for that matter. Now, she couldn't quite imagine her life without Cafell.
It wasn't always easy, having a dog. Cafell was a lot of work. She needed brushing and bathing and walking and had to be fed. But she was smart and she was a good dog. She'd even helped take out a vampire that had jumped Buffy one night, holding it down long enough for a staking. Buffy didn't know how Cafell knew the vampire was dangerous. Angel was a vampire and Cafell adored him. As far as she knew, he didn't smell any different because he had a soul. "Dogs are trained to be guardians, Buffy," Angel had said when she'd brought up the question to him. "Humans all smell like humans but dogs know which ones are a threat."
"So, you're saying Cafell knew this vamp was a threat because…why?"
He'd shrugged. "I don't know. But I'm glad she did."
Remembering that talk, Buffy bit her lip, leaning heavily back against the arm of the sofa. "Why didn't you tell me sooner, Cafell?" she asked the dog. "Why didn't you tell me Angel was going missing?" Her fingers toyed with the cross around her neck, twisting it on its chain.
Two days ago, he'd disappeared. Two days ago, she'd backtracked down into the basement, found the Norton exactly where they'd left it. Two days ago, she'd been almost sane.
Then she lived through forty-eight hours without him.
Rising to her feet, Buffy stalked around the room. It was sparse; the furniture consisted mostly of a couch, a bed, some kitchen stuff. A few shelves. They didn't need much. A place to store their weapons. A place for Cafell to stay. A place for their books to live. A haven at the beginning of the day, where they could rest and be Buffy and Angel, not whoever they were posing as this time.
And now it was just a set of rooms filled with memories of a time when he was here.
Buffy could see the irony in this. When she was younger, when they were younger, more innocent, Angel's disappearance for a day or two was no real cause for alarm. It was more something to be taken for granted. Sort of a 'here he is, there he goes' deal. But that was before the battle that broke down the walls between the worlds. If she let herself think on it, it would send her careening over the edge of madness.
Angel was alive. She would know if he died, if someone had gotten a lucky day and managed to dust him and the news would've been all over this town if someone had taken down Angelus. It wasn't a secret the demonworld would be able to keep. Someone would be bragging. Someone would be celebrating. Someone would've let it spill. And so far, nothing had turned up.
Buffy paused in front of a mirror, surveying herself. Here, at home, she indulged herself in comfy clothes, comfort clothes; things she might've worn before she became a fugitive. Pale pinks and soft blues, palest greys. Funny prints that had nothing to do with flames and dragon scales and weird demon writing and all to do with fuzzy bunnies and silly smiling butterflies. It didn't change what she'd become. Staring into hardened eyes, Buffy wondered what her sixteen-year-old self would think of the hair, Caribbean blue from the roots to her shoulders, ice white from her shoulders to the small of her back. She wondered what her mother, Joyce, would say if she could see her daughter, once the sun-worshipper, nearly as pale as a vampire. She wondered what Dawn would say, if she knew that she and Angel had walked away from everything and everyone they knew.
But she didn't wonder about it much. Tossing her hair back over her shoulders, Buffy paced the room again, chewing absently on a cuticle. Her bare feet took her on an unerring path past the sofa, around the dog dish, near the bookshelves, past the windowseat, back past the sofa. He was gone and no one was celebrating. That meant he was still alive. And if he was still alive, she could find him. Even if no one in town knew anything, and so far, everyone she questioned had no answers, just sympathy, thinking her one of the many girls in thrall to a vampire, there were other ways to get information.
They were just a little more messy.
Cafell lifted her head, her black ears flicking back and forth, her black nose sniffing at the air. They'd trained her to silence, never knowing when they'd need her to be quiet. Now the dog rose to a half-crouch and Buffy saw a flash of teeth. "Not Angel," she muttered to herself, grabbing the nearest crossbow. Pulling the string, she quickly inserted a bolt and aimed it at the door. "Cafell, down." Buffy reinforced her quiet order with the gesture for 'down', trusting the dog to obey her.
The three-beat knock came on the door slowly, as if someone was trying to make a point. Licking her suddenly dry lips, Buffy eased towards the door, the padding of her feet on the wooden floor her accompaniment. She knew how to walk so the boards wouldn't betray her. Still, the locks, when being shot back, always made that telltale clacking sound. Buffy scowled. "Who is it?" she asked in her fiercest voice.
"The Big Bad, baby."
* * *
