Author's thanks at end.
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Chapter two: Longing
'From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.'
- 'Alone', Edgar Allen Poe
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She was walking across the empty market square, the pavestones littered by the mess left behind by the tourists of the day. From the town came a merge of sounds, loud voices, music, the noise of cars, all borne by the night wind that swept noiselessly down streets, between buildings, caressing the falling majesty of the Coliseum as it rose in all its disintegrating glory against the starlit sky.
Yet, she walked with her head bowed, neither looking nor listening to the night around her. He wondered why. Angel hated following her like this, slipping in and out of shadows, never really there, never really gone. So close to touching but always only looking, waiting. There were only metres between them but it might just as well have been miles. She neither sped up nor called out, nothing to acknowledge his presence, and yet he felt certain that she was aware of him. How couldn't she be? Just the sight of her made him shiver with cold and burn inside at the same time, tingles dancing down his spine. Maybe she didn't feel it anymore, he thought, slipping into a dark, narrow alley. Maybe she didn't care anymore. She hated him being there. He knew it, had felt it; had smelt her agitation, her confusion. And yet, there was something else, there had to be something else.
She could not have turned her back completely, could not have been as indifferent as she had acted.
But even as his mind battled itself in ever smaller circles, a shadow of doubt clawed its way into his unspoken debate, as he remembered something Spike had said during their first day spent locked in some motel upon arriving in Italy.
''And that is one of the reasons you can't stand me around, isn't it? Knowing that she is not as destroyed as you are, that her bloody life didn't shatter like yours, that she doesn't feel the pain you feel – because of me. When it really mattered you stuck your bloody tail between your legs and jumped ship. When she really needed you, you were too bothered about perfecting your Tortured Hero act to fret about her. But I wasn't.''
He had snarled some spiteful reply and clocked the white-blonde vampire in the face, but the truth was he feared that Spike was right. And even more so upon seeing her again and feeling the same burning desire to hold her, to walk with her, to slide a finger down her cheek, while she had given him nothing but an icy shoulder and a fleeting, indifferent glance.
From the shadows cast by the peach-coloured building, he glanced across the square that lay bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight spilling from the cloudless skies above. It was empty.
He blinked. Somehow she had managed to slip away and he hadn't even noticed. That wasn't planned. Taking two tentative steps forward, he felt the faint light glide across his pale skin as he left the shadows of the building behind.
Immediately something struck him with such force across the side of the face, he felt himself stumble and crash against a wall that seemed to have sprung out of the ground from nowhere. Before fully regaining his balance, he spun on his feet, the rush of the brawl causing the familiar stretching sensation to pull at his face as he morphed.
Yet the sight of Buffy standing tensely before him, stake raised and legs slightly spread in a fighting stance sent a strange chill rocking through his body and he struggled to return to his human visage. Her eyes were slightly narrowed and her mouth was nought more than thin line; she was strangely pale. He wondered if she had intended to stake him.
'Buffy -' He began uncertainly.
'Stop following me!' There was an edge to her voice, which it struck him she trying to hide; as if it was about to break while she fought to keep it steady.
'I'm sorry...' He was not sorry about stalking her tonight but he knew that was not truly what she was referring to either. But he was sorry that he could not let her be because it hurt so much to see her again.
'You shouldn't have come back.' Her words chimed familiar in his ears and he realized with a shiver they echoed the dream he had had back in LA. It seemed a lifetime ago now, and yet it was hardly more than ten days time. It calmed him slightly to see she had placed the stake back in her belt and was eying him strangely, her arms crossed defensively before her chest.
There was some conflict brewing within her, he could sense it, though he could not read exactly what feelings were haunting her. It infuriated him.
'I'm sorry – sorry to bother you.' It was difficult to look her in the eye.
She didn't answer but merely arched a single eyebrow at him and that simple gesture hurt him more than he had thought possible.
Since she did not look like she had any intention of speaking, he went on. 'I worried about you...'
'Well, newsflash: no need. I'm not a squeamish little teenage girl anymore and I don't need you dogging my heels. Not anymore. The times I did, you weren't there anyway, but that taught me to fight on my own, so hey, why bother?' Her voice struck him like a white-hot dagger; getting staked in the heart could not possibly hurt as much as this.
'The demon has reached town,' he tried, ignoring the spitefulness, and painful accuracy, of her previous comment. 'I didn't want you to get hurt...'
She cocked her head at him and the corners of her mouth curved upwards, yet her expression could not have been further from a smile.
'That's real cute if it wasn't cos the 'even-though-she-gave-me-the-brush- off,-I-will-follow-her-around-for-her-own-safety' thing didn't tick the box labelled 'stalking'.' She rolled her eyes. 'God, why am I even talking to you?' And she had turned on her heel and was walking away from him. Again.
It took him the better part of a second to find his voice.
'Buffy!'
And he realised his arm had shot out to grab her shoulder. Thinking the better of it he slowly curled his fingers to a fist and pulled his hand back to rest at his side. She paused and he saw her shoulders tense but she did not turn around. Neither did she run away.
'I didn't mean to crash into your life like this...'
Her blonde locks rained down over her right shoulder as she cocked her head. 'I'm sure you didn't,' she said acidly, spinning around to face him and he saw the pain and frustration in her eyes, smelt her anger. 'Because some of us actually have a life.'
Her words stung and he lowered his eyes, looking at the pavestones at his feet without truly seeing. She spoke again and he felt his gaze being pulled upward by the sound of her voice.
'So – what's the what? Apocalypse coming up and you thought of something you couldn't tell me on the phone, because, hey, why bother calling, staying in touch or even acknowledging my existence.'
'You haven't been too eager yourself.'
'No. Great surprise this: I've been busy staying alive and when I got done with that part, I had to rebuild not only my own life but everybody else's. That's hard work! Guess you know the drill, being head of Wolfram&Hart -' And the name was mentioned. He felt strangely empty within and at the same time as though he was being dragged downwards. Perhaps this was how it felt having an empty leaden case in ones stomach. '- but maybe trust and loyalty aren't exactly the selling points of an evil, powerful law firm?'
She didn't trust him. It was funny how many times in one night that could occur to him, though not as funny as how much it hurt every time. He wanted to punch something.
'Why are you afraid of me?'
This time her lips slipped so far back he could see her teeth as she grinned at him. 'Pur-lease, get over yourself!'
'Then what's wrong?'
This made her angry; he knew it would. Her arms lashed around her sides as she stepped nearer to him, her neck arching slightly towards him as it had so often done when she was angry or so sad that she was furious. It saddened him he no longer knew which.
'Oh, so it's me there's something wrong with?! You are just such a self- righteous -' she searched for the right word. 'You can't just bash into my life and expect all hell's angels to find their golden harps and start chiming! People move on! I don't need you anymore, so stop kidding yourself!'
He would have preferred her to hit him. It would not have hurt as much.
'Buffy, please...'
She turned away, her head slightly bowed; her right hand moved to the side of her face to tuck strands of unruly blonde hair behind her ear but paused beside her eye, as if she was shielding her face from the sun. Or from him.
When she spoke there was a softer note to her voice, but also a sadder, more desperate, as if she was pleading.
'Just go, Angel. Please go.'
And he did. Even though his heart was screaming so loudly at him that he could hardly hear what his head was telling his legs to do, he turned and slowly walked away, never looking back.
So he did not see how her hands cupped her face and her shoulders shook as she stood alone in the middle of the square, the silver gleam of the moon playing in strands of golden hair, crying.
He strode along the dark alleys and the brighter lit streets, hearing nothing but the rapid, rhythmic drum of his own boots against the ground and the whirling noise in his ears. He had somehow thought that if he could just see her, talk to her, touch her again, everything would have been all right. She would have understood.
He kicked a dustbin in rage and it scuttled across the tarmac.
Who was he kidding? Well, apart from himself, that was; that part of him that still clung to the belief, the hopeless illusion that if she was there, it could not be that bad. It would work out in the end.
Hell, he was just a fool.
He stopped in his brisk flight, resting his forehead against the nearest wall, the cool stone not dulling the fire of rage and frustration that still blazed within him. Closing his eyes, he took some deep, much-needed breaths to calm his jumbled thoughts. She had moved on. Wasn't that what he had wanted? Wasn't that why he left her all those years ago?
Then why did it hurt so much? Why did he want nothing more than to just hold her again, talk to her, see her smile? Hear her say his name. A soft moan was building at the back of his throat as the images sped through his confused mind and his fist shot out, hammering into the wall before him, the stone crumbling satisfyingly under his now bleeding and scratched hand. He curled his hand into a fist, treasuring the sensation of the fractures of stone digging into his flesh.
And yet the pain could not distract him from the hurt he felt within.
X
The heat of rage she had felt only a moment before had vanished and all she felt was cold, empty and very alone. Her head was spinning and her thoughts slurred with the sight of him, her mind buzzing with his voice and her hateful reply.
She looked back over her shoulder. The square was dark and very Angel-less. After all, she had told him to leave her alone. Funny, she thought, how he actually sometimes does what I ask of him; and yet it did not feel funny at all. Her stomach was squirming painfully and something was growing uncomfortably in her throat.
She took a hesitant step forward but when her leg still supported her body she slowly began to walk away. She would have to take a detour around the nearby graveyard before heading home.
And when she really wanted a distraction, the entire demonic population of Rome were taking the night off.
She fiddled her stake restlessly.
Somehow she had expected that if he showed up it would not be so hard. Everybody said that if you loved something and lost it, then your mind would take on a personal promotional campaign to make the past greater and more beautiful than the truth would have. Nostalgia or something like that.
So she had expected to look at him and go something like 'is that all?' or maybe 'what's the big deal?'. And instead her mind had gone blank – like wiped, completely bare and her throat had felt as if she had been dying of thirst for a couple of weeks. Her heart had stilled for a second before all blood had rushed to her head followed by the rhythmic drum thundering quicker than before. It was entirely possible that for a second her face had caught a striking resemblance to a giant tomato.
And because she always responded to stress, shock and fear by lashing out in anger, she had ignored him, raged at him because her confused mind had refused to come up with any other plans of action. All whilst her stomach was tightening inward in her disgust at herself, her anger at him was soon replaced by the mindless fury that burned within at her own stupidity – her desperation to feel again.
And now she had done it again. Trust Buffy to be tactful and suave; she had shouted at him, pushed him away, while in her mind she was heavily debating whether she wanted to touch him or hit him. Her heart was in no doubt but her head refused to cooperate, her indecision doing nothing to dull her temper.
It had been so long. So long time had passed, so many things had changed, and still she looked into his eyes and forgot everything but Angel and Buffy. Forgot everything but her burning desire to touch him again, take his hand again, be comforted by him again. It was almost as if all the terrible things that had happened after he left hadn't existed at all.
So she had shouted at him, been cold and pretending not to care. Pretending.
She kicked a can and it clattered away.
God, she was so tired of pretending.
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When he returned to their hotel just before dawn, Angel had retreated into that protective, brooding silence that had hung over his head like a shadow the first time Wes had met him. Wes had not asked what had caused it because he already knew. That was the thing that usually happened when the vampire's thoughts began to involve a certain blonde slayer.
Wes had left the Scoobies' household shortly after midnight to get some sleep to return again this morning after he and Giles both agreed that they could do nothing useful if they were both too sleep-deprived to recognise an 'a' from a 't'.
Not that he was too eager himself, mind. He had a distinct feeling that they still looked upon him as the good-for-nothing wimp they had known five years ago. Fortunately, he didn't look the part anymore. He was far from clean-shaven and the faultless suit had been replaced by a grubbier brown jacket slung carelessly over a black shirt. His hair was no longer combed neatly back and he no longer tripped every time he encountered something resembling a staircase. He smiled softly for himself as he turned down the street leading to Giles' hideout, which was in short walking distance from the hotel. Apparently, getting your throat slit was good for something.
As he walked he tensed his right arm slightly and felt the stake slit out from its protective den under his sleeve. He pushed it back in for only to release it once more.
Only for the sake of it. What was it Spike had called him? He chuckled. 'Mr
Gadget'. Truth was he liked being properly equipped; it gave a sense of security and control, something he was not willing to let slip again since it had ended badly every time that had happened. Thus the reason for having two guns in his belt.
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Dusk was in the air. Xander put his head back to stare at the grey sky above him. They would probably have rain later tonight. Who did that surprise; the night he had the patrolling gig. True, Kennedy was out too, but that would not make him any less wet when the weather gods decided to open the taps.
Voices down an alley to his left suddenly caught his attention and he paused; hiding in the shadows cast by the building he inched closer.
'We can't take him on. Cerbero knows that brutal violence ain't gonna do the trick. Shame, but he wants the book as well and he doesn't know where they took it.'
It was definitely vampires, Xander deduced from the slight lisp in
their speech. They were probably waiting for the sun to set.
'So what?' A second voice said. 'We tail him?'
'Yeah,' the first one said, 'we did and he dusted our guys last night.'
'Hardcore.'
'Totally. But Cerbero has this plan: couple o' years back, Angelus went all smoochy with the Slayer.'
Xander cursed under his breath. Of course it was Angel they were after and now the fucking corpse had gone and landed Buffy in danger all over again.
'So we take her as blackmail?'
'In a nutshell.'
And Xander made a decision. He didn't care what the others thought of it because they were not here to disagree. He cleared his throat and stepped out of the shadows; the two vampires spun on their feet to face him and two stupid grins spread across their ugly faces at the same time.
'Hey, an eavesdropper!' The shortest of the pair announced gleefully.
He held up a cross and they recoiled. 'OK, it just so happens that the Slayer's my friend and I cannot let her get hurt.'
Vamp One, the tallest, looked at him. 'And it just so happens I couldn't care less.'
'No,' Xander said, 'but your leader might – watsisface - Cerbero.'
The vampire's yellow eyes narrowed. 'What's this?' he snarled.
'A proposition,' Xander said.
'For what?'
'For your leader.'
The vampire huffed. 'I got that. How can I know this isn't some petty trick?'
'Honestly,' Xander said, 'would I hang around you guys if it wasn't for real?'
The two vampires exchanged a look and it looked to Xander as though they agreed with that.
'Take me to Cerbero.'
X
To someone who had seen the Master far too close for it to be healthy, Cerbero was really not that fear-inducing, Xander thought. Without his vampire visage the demon looked like a man in his early thirties, clad nicely in denim jeans and a black shirt and blending perfectly with the posh surroundings of the hotel room.
'Who are you?' was the first thing he said upon setting eyes on Xander.
'Does it matter if I can give you Angel?'
The vampire gave him a strange look from his place in the armchair. 'What?'
'I give you Angel and you won't touch the Slayer,' Xander said, doing his best to come across as tough and unsympathetic.
'A trick?'
'It could be,' Xander admitted, 'but since I can't kill you and have no personal desire to do so, I can't see why you shouldn't trust me. The Slayer's my friend and I will not see her hurt, least of all because of Angel. Hell knows he's hurt her enough for two lifetimes.'
'I see,' the vampire hissed quietly.
'We will come alone. I bring you Angel and walk away. You leave the Slayer be.'
Cerbero raised his head and offered Xander a snakelike smile. 'Deal.'
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A/N: Thanks so much to my reviewers, CF, Tariq, nimwen, AngelicDreams and Gwenyver. I really, really appreciate the support :-)
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Chapter two: Longing
'From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.'
- 'Alone', Edgar Allen Poe
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She was walking across the empty market square, the pavestones littered by the mess left behind by the tourists of the day. From the town came a merge of sounds, loud voices, music, the noise of cars, all borne by the night wind that swept noiselessly down streets, between buildings, caressing the falling majesty of the Coliseum as it rose in all its disintegrating glory against the starlit sky.
Yet, she walked with her head bowed, neither looking nor listening to the night around her. He wondered why. Angel hated following her like this, slipping in and out of shadows, never really there, never really gone. So close to touching but always only looking, waiting. There were only metres between them but it might just as well have been miles. She neither sped up nor called out, nothing to acknowledge his presence, and yet he felt certain that she was aware of him. How couldn't she be? Just the sight of her made him shiver with cold and burn inside at the same time, tingles dancing down his spine. Maybe she didn't feel it anymore, he thought, slipping into a dark, narrow alley. Maybe she didn't care anymore. She hated him being there. He knew it, had felt it; had smelt her agitation, her confusion. And yet, there was something else, there had to be something else.
She could not have turned her back completely, could not have been as indifferent as she had acted.
But even as his mind battled itself in ever smaller circles, a shadow of doubt clawed its way into his unspoken debate, as he remembered something Spike had said during their first day spent locked in some motel upon arriving in Italy.
''And that is one of the reasons you can't stand me around, isn't it? Knowing that she is not as destroyed as you are, that her bloody life didn't shatter like yours, that she doesn't feel the pain you feel – because of me. When it really mattered you stuck your bloody tail between your legs and jumped ship. When she really needed you, you were too bothered about perfecting your Tortured Hero act to fret about her. But I wasn't.''
He had snarled some spiteful reply and clocked the white-blonde vampire in the face, but the truth was he feared that Spike was right. And even more so upon seeing her again and feeling the same burning desire to hold her, to walk with her, to slide a finger down her cheek, while she had given him nothing but an icy shoulder and a fleeting, indifferent glance.
From the shadows cast by the peach-coloured building, he glanced across the square that lay bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight spilling from the cloudless skies above. It was empty.
He blinked. Somehow she had managed to slip away and he hadn't even noticed. That wasn't planned. Taking two tentative steps forward, he felt the faint light glide across his pale skin as he left the shadows of the building behind.
Immediately something struck him with such force across the side of the face, he felt himself stumble and crash against a wall that seemed to have sprung out of the ground from nowhere. Before fully regaining his balance, he spun on his feet, the rush of the brawl causing the familiar stretching sensation to pull at his face as he morphed.
Yet the sight of Buffy standing tensely before him, stake raised and legs slightly spread in a fighting stance sent a strange chill rocking through his body and he struggled to return to his human visage. Her eyes were slightly narrowed and her mouth was nought more than thin line; she was strangely pale. He wondered if she had intended to stake him.
'Buffy -' He began uncertainly.
'Stop following me!' There was an edge to her voice, which it struck him she trying to hide; as if it was about to break while she fought to keep it steady.
'I'm sorry...' He was not sorry about stalking her tonight but he knew that was not truly what she was referring to either. But he was sorry that he could not let her be because it hurt so much to see her again.
'You shouldn't have come back.' Her words chimed familiar in his ears and he realized with a shiver they echoed the dream he had had back in LA. It seemed a lifetime ago now, and yet it was hardly more than ten days time. It calmed him slightly to see she had placed the stake back in her belt and was eying him strangely, her arms crossed defensively before her chest.
There was some conflict brewing within her, he could sense it, though he could not read exactly what feelings were haunting her. It infuriated him.
'I'm sorry – sorry to bother you.' It was difficult to look her in the eye.
She didn't answer but merely arched a single eyebrow at him and that simple gesture hurt him more than he had thought possible.
Since she did not look like she had any intention of speaking, he went on. 'I worried about you...'
'Well, newsflash: no need. I'm not a squeamish little teenage girl anymore and I don't need you dogging my heels. Not anymore. The times I did, you weren't there anyway, but that taught me to fight on my own, so hey, why bother?' Her voice struck him like a white-hot dagger; getting staked in the heart could not possibly hurt as much as this.
'The demon has reached town,' he tried, ignoring the spitefulness, and painful accuracy, of her previous comment. 'I didn't want you to get hurt...'
She cocked her head at him and the corners of her mouth curved upwards, yet her expression could not have been further from a smile.
'That's real cute if it wasn't cos the 'even-though-she-gave-me-the-brush- off,-I-will-follow-her-around-for-her-own-safety' thing didn't tick the box labelled 'stalking'.' She rolled her eyes. 'God, why am I even talking to you?' And she had turned on her heel and was walking away from him. Again.
It took him the better part of a second to find his voice.
'Buffy!'
And he realised his arm had shot out to grab her shoulder. Thinking the better of it he slowly curled his fingers to a fist and pulled his hand back to rest at his side. She paused and he saw her shoulders tense but she did not turn around. Neither did she run away.
'I didn't mean to crash into your life like this...'
Her blonde locks rained down over her right shoulder as she cocked her head. 'I'm sure you didn't,' she said acidly, spinning around to face him and he saw the pain and frustration in her eyes, smelt her anger. 'Because some of us actually have a life.'
Her words stung and he lowered his eyes, looking at the pavestones at his feet without truly seeing. She spoke again and he felt his gaze being pulled upward by the sound of her voice.
'So – what's the what? Apocalypse coming up and you thought of something you couldn't tell me on the phone, because, hey, why bother calling, staying in touch or even acknowledging my existence.'
'You haven't been too eager yourself.'
'No. Great surprise this: I've been busy staying alive and when I got done with that part, I had to rebuild not only my own life but everybody else's. That's hard work! Guess you know the drill, being head of Wolfram&Hart -' And the name was mentioned. He felt strangely empty within and at the same time as though he was being dragged downwards. Perhaps this was how it felt having an empty leaden case in ones stomach. '- but maybe trust and loyalty aren't exactly the selling points of an evil, powerful law firm?'
She didn't trust him. It was funny how many times in one night that could occur to him, though not as funny as how much it hurt every time. He wanted to punch something.
'Why are you afraid of me?'
This time her lips slipped so far back he could see her teeth as she grinned at him. 'Pur-lease, get over yourself!'
'Then what's wrong?'
This made her angry; he knew it would. Her arms lashed around her sides as she stepped nearer to him, her neck arching slightly towards him as it had so often done when she was angry or so sad that she was furious. It saddened him he no longer knew which.
'Oh, so it's me there's something wrong with?! You are just such a self- righteous -' she searched for the right word. 'You can't just bash into my life and expect all hell's angels to find their golden harps and start chiming! People move on! I don't need you anymore, so stop kidding yourself!'
He would have preferred her to hit him. It would not have hurt as much.
'Buffy, please...'
She turned away, her head slightly bowed; her right hand moved to the side of her face to tuck strands of unruly blonde hair behind her ear but paused beside her eye, as if she was shielding her face from the sun. Or from him.
When she spoke there was a softer note to her voice, but also a sadder, more desperate, as if she was pleading.
'Just go, Angel. Please go.'
And he did. Even though his heart was screaming so loudly at him that he could hardly hear what his head was telling his legs to do, he turned and slowly walked away, never looking back.
So he did not see how her hands cupped her face and her shoulders shook as she stood alone in the middle of the square, the silver gleam of the moon playing in strands of golden hair, crying.
He strode along the dark alleys and the brighter lit streets, hearing nothing but the rapid, rhythmic drum of his own boots against the ground and the whirling noise in his ears. He had somehow thought that if he could just see her, talk to her, touch her again, everything would have been all right. She would have understood.
He kicked a dustbin in rage and it scuttled across the tarmac.
Who was he kidding? Well, apart from himself, that was; that part of him that still clung to the belief, the hopeless illusion that if she was there, it could not be that bad. It would work out in the end.
Hell, he was just a fool.
He stopped in his brisk flight, resting his forehead against the nearest wall, the cool stone not dulling the fire of rage and frustration that still blazed within him. Closing his eyes, he took some deep, much-needed breaths to calm his jumbled thoughts. She had moved on. Wasn't that what he had wanted? Wasn't that why he left her all those years ago?
Then why did it hurt so much? Why did he want nothing more than to just hold her again, talk to her, see her smile? Hear her say his name. A soft moan was building at the back of his throat as the images sped through his confused mind and his fist shot out, hammering into the wall before him, the stone crumbling satisfyingly under his now bleeding and scratched hand. He curled his hand into a fist, treasuring the sensation of the fractures of stone digging into his flesh.
And yet the pain could not distract him from the hurt he felt within.
X
The heat of rage she had felt only a moment before had vanished and all she felt was cold, empty and very alone. Her head was spinning and her thoughts slurred with the sight of him, her mind buzzing with his voice and her hateful reply.
She looked back over her shoulder. The square was dark and very Angel-less. After all, she had told him to leave her alone. Funny, she thought, how he actually sometimes does what I ask of him; and yet it did not feel funny at all. Her stomach was squirming painfully and something was growing uncomfortably in her throat.
She took a hesitant step forward but when her leg still supported her body she slowly began to walk away. She would have to take a detour around the nearby graveyard before heading home.
And when she really wanted a distraction, the entire demonic population of Rome were taking the night off.
She fiddled her stake restlessly.
Somehow she had expected that if he showed up it would not be so hard. Everybody said that if you loved something and lost it, then your mind would take on a personal promotional campaign to make the past greater and more beautiful than the truth would have. Nostalgia or something like that.
So she had expected to look at him and go something like 'is that all?' or maybe 'what's the big deal?'. And instead her mind had gone blank – like wiped, completely bare and her throat had felt as if she had been dying of thirst for a couple of weeks. Her heart had stilled for a second before all blood had rushed to her head followed by the rhythmic drum thundering quicker than before. It was entirely possible that for a second her face had caught a striking resemblance to a giant tomato.
And because she always responded to stress, shock and fear by lashing out in anger, she had ignored him, raged at him because her confused mind had refused to come up with any other plans of action. All whilst her stomach was tightening inward in her disgust at herself, her anger at him was soon replaced by the mindless fury that burned within at her own stupidity – her desperation to feel again.
And now she had done it again. Trust Buffy to be tactful and suave; she had shouted at him, pushed him away, while in her mind she was heavily debating whether she wanted to touch him or hit him. Her heart was in no doubt but her head refused to cooperate, her indecision doing nothing to dull her temper.
It had been so long. So long time had passed, so many things had changed, and still she looked into his eyes and forgot everything but Angel and Buffy. Forgot everything but her burning desire to touch him again, take his hand again, be comforted by him again. It was almost as if all the terrible things that had happened after he left hadn't existed at all.
So she had shouted at him, been cold and pretending not to care. Pretending.
She kicked a can and it clattered away.
God, she was so tired of pretending.
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When he returned to their hotel just before dawn, Angel had retreated into that protective, brooding silence that had hung over his head like a shadow the first time Wes had met him. Wes had not asked what had caused it because he already knew. That was the thing that usually happened when the vampire's thoughts began to involve a certain blonde slayer.
Wes had left the Scoobies' household shortly after midnight to get some sleep to return again this morning after he and Giles both agreed that they could do nothing useful if they were both too sleep-deprived to recognise an 'a' from a 't'.
Not that he was too eager himself, mind. He had a distinct feeling that they still looked upon him as the good-for-nothing wimp they had known five years ago. Fortunately, he didn't look the part anymore. He was far from clean-shaven and the faultless suit had been replaced by a grubbier brown jacket slung carelessly over a black shirt. His hair was no longer combed neatly back and he no longer tripped every time he encountered something resembling a staircase. He smiled softly for himself as he turned down the street leading to Giles' hideout, which was in short walking distance from the hotel. Apparently, getting your throat slit was good for something.
As he walked he tensed his right arm slightly and felt the stake slit out from its protective den under his sleeve. He pushed it back in for only to release it once more.
Only for the sake of it. What was it Spike had called him? He chuckled. 'Mr
Gadget'. Truth was he liked being properly equipped; it gave a sense of security and control, something he was not willing to let slip again since it had ended badly every time that had happened. Thus the reason for having two guns in his belt.
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Dusk was in the air. Xander put his head back to stare at the grey sky above him. They would probably have rain later tonight. Who did that surprise; the night he had the patrolling gig. True, Kennedy was out too, but that would not make him any less wet when the weather gods decided to open the taps.
Voices down an alley to his left suddenly caught his attention and he paused; hiding in the shadows cast by the building he inched closer.
'We can't take him on. Cerbero knows that brutal violence ain't gonna do the trick. Shame, but he wants the book as well and he doesn't know where they took it.'
It was definitely vampires, Xander deduced from the slight lisp in
their speech. They were probably waiting for the sun to set.
'So what?' A second voice said. 'We tail him?'
'Yeah,' the first one said, 'we did and he dusted our guys last night.'
'Hardcore.'
'Totally. But Cerbero has this plan: couple o' years back, Angelus went all smoochy with the Slayer.'
Xander cursed under his breath. Of course it was Angel they were after and now the fucking corpse had gone and landed Buffy in danger all over again.
'So we take her as blackmail?'
'In a nutshell.'
And Xander made a decision. He didn't care what the others thought of it because they were not here to disagree. He cleared his throat and stepped out of the shadows; the two vampires spun on their feet to face him and two stupid grins spread across their ugly faces at the same time.
'Hey, an eavesdropper!' The shortest of the pair announced gleefully.
He held up a cross and they recoiled. 'OK, it just so happens that the Slayer's my friend and I cannot let her get hurt.'
Vamp One, the tallest, looked at him. 'And it just so happens I couldn't care less.'
'No,' Xander said, 'but your leader might – watsisface - Cerbero.'
The vampire's yellow eyes narrowed. 'What's this?' he snarled.
'A proposition,' Xander said.
'For what?'
'For your leader.'
The vampire huffed. 'I got that. How can I know this isn't some petty trick?'
'Honestly,' Xander said, 'would I hang around you guys if it wasn't for real?'
The two vampires exchanged a look and it looked to Xander as though they agreed with that.
'Take me to Cerbero.'
X
To someone who had seen the Master far too close for it to be healthy, Cerbero was really not that fear-inducing, Xander thought. Without his vampire visage the demon looked like a man in his early thirties, clad nicely in denim jeans and a black shirt and blending perfectly with the posh surroundings of the hotel room.
'Who are you?' was the first thing he said upon setting eyes on Xander.
'Does it matter if I can give you Angel?'
The vampire gave him a strange look from his place in the armchair. 'What?'
'I give you Angel and you won't touch the Slayer,' Xander said, doing his best to come across as tough and unsympathetic.
'A trick?'
'It could be,' Xander admitted, 'but since I can't kill you and have no personal desire to do so, I can't see why you shouldn't trust me. The Slayer's my friend and I will not see her hurt, least of all because of Angel. Hell knows he's hurt her enough for two lifetimes.'
'I see,' the vampire hissed quietly.
'We will come alone. I bring you Angel and walk away. You leave the Slayer be.'
Cerbero raised his head and offered Xander a snakelike smile. 'Deal.'
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A/N: Thanks so much to my reviewers, CF, Tariq, nimwen, AngelicDreams and Gwenyver. I really, really appreciate the support :-)