Author's Note: Fwah. Another update within a day. Go me.

The O.C.

Act Two: Secrets

The evening was casting a shroud over Newport Beach as the sun sank beneath the Pacific's surface, making a line of a soft, glowing green at the horizon. It was cue for the young woman to immediately put up with some accusations as she nearly escaped out the door.

"Buffy—where do you think you're going?" her mother said, narrowing her sharp blue eyes as she entered the foyer.

Buffy froze, save for stuffing the pointed wooden stick in her Chanel clutch beneath the veil of her back. Assuming her mother didn't have x-ray vision, which wouldn't surprise her in the least, considering what Buffy had been through, she wouldn't be in too deep. "I'm, uh, meeting Cordy at the Crab Shack in town." She improvised, lying effortlessly. "You know, since seafood's big with the yummy." She added, offering a corny smirk.

Julie Cooper gave another contracting of her eyes at her daughter, then let up, "Fine, but be back before curfew."

That was way to close for comfort. We need to get a tree in the backyard or something that I can climb out on or something, like on TV. Buffy mused this with a slight smile playing with her lips as she walked down the sidewalk lacing the circle that had three homes perched along it; the Cooper's, the Cohen's, and an unpurchased home. She stopped her pace for a while, absorbing her surroundings. From here, she could easily see through the Cohen's windows, and sighed. She hadn't really been there since she was about twelve, but had an unspoken case of the giant green monster when it came to its occupants. Kirsten and Sandy were so nice, and—weren't her parents. Well, her father, Jimmy Cooper, was fine… it was her mother, the walking rumormonger, and resident bitch… who really was—oh, she didn't know. Her relationship with her mother was rocky, and the boulders were practically raining since Buffy had learned she was a vampire slayer.

Whilst Julie probably assumed Buffy was out getting drunk and raving with all of the other socialites her age, she was in a graveyard, doing what her Watcher, the Pacific Harbor school librarian, called patrolling. Vampire killage, as Buffy so chose to call it. She had no one to talk to about it—she hadn't even told her best friend, Cordelia, about the whole thing. Not that she'd believe her. And she was better off not knowing anyway. She didn't want Cordy getting killed at the expense of knowing her secret.

Suddenly, Buffy was taken out of her contemplative state when she noticed a boy, closer to a man, was standing outside of the Cohen's driveway, leaning against the opened gate.

"Um—hey," she greeted casually, noticing her clutch wasn't zipped, and the stake's tip was dangling out obviously. Quickly, awkwardly shoving the tip into it, she added, "… who are you?"

He grinned. "Whoever you want me to be."

She closed her eyes, and crossed her fingers, opening them again. "Wait a minute, you're not Brad Pitt… you disappoint me." She teased. "So, you're… staying at Cohen's or something—"

"I'm their cousin." He rushed.

"Whatever you say," she flashed a smile. God, you look like such a dork, Cooper. Control your flirting, woman! You have a boyfriend, remember? "You've got a name, right? Brad Pitt perhaps?"

"Angel."

"Angel," she repeated. "Is that like Cher?"

"Angel Atwood," he amended. "You?"

"Buffy Cooper—I know, it's weird and stuff—"

"Well, you're talking to a guy named Angel…"

"True." She had a sinking, regretting feeling in her stomach as she said, "Um, I better get going—"

"Right," he replied, staring at the ground.

"Well, will I see you tomorrow?" her heart fluttered.

"I can set time aside," he tried for a smile. For her.

"Good… see you, then… Angel…" Buffy suddenly remembered something. "Wait—would—my friend, Harmony is throwing a party at her place… you wanna come?"

"Sure."

"Great—that's a big world of awesome."

That night, needless to say, patrolling was a bit abbreviated in comparison to most Friday nights. Thoughts of Angel flooded the space usually occupied by focus on her 'job', and she found herself taking more breaks to daydream, or rather, nightdream (did that even make sense?) on headstones. God, he was so pretty. And he came off as sweet. But still—the fact remained; she was taken. And it wasn't like her man wasn't too bad himself; Spike (no one was really sure if that was his real name or he was in dire need of a new nickname) reeked sexy from head to toe, and… well, she'd been with him for so long… and her mother approved, which was quite an accomplishment. But still, Angel had been added into the equation now… and… God, when she fell for somebody, she was like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup colliding with a rock.

"Oh, taking in a less-than-law abiding citizen is a great idea," Kirsten Cohen jeered, surprising herself by sounding like Julie more by the minute. "He stole syringes. Does that say anything to you?" she asked, leaning her upper body against the marble counter of their kitchen.

"He has a very big passion for an upcoming medical career?" said Sandy hopefully.

She attempted to not smile unsuccessfully, but then lapsed into rant-y mother mode once more. "And what about Xander?"

"What about Xander?" a teenage, dark-haired boy sauntered into the kitchen in Spider-Man pajamas and a spoonful of sorbet jammed in his mouth. "Oh, I see," he beamed, the utensil still dangling from the corner of his lips. "This is about the vase, right?"

"What vase?" Kirsten's eyes widened in alarm.

Xander popped the silverware out of his mouth. "Um, nothing—but—there's someone in our driveway…" he observed, staring out the window.

"That would be Angel—" Sandy began.

"Who?" Xander interjected.

"Angel, he's one of the kids I'm defending… he doesn't have anywhere to go…" Sandy explained.

"So, what'd he do? Pop a cap too far up someone's punkass?"

"Alexander Cohen…"

"Oh golly jee, Mother," Xander began sarcastically. "Jeepers, I shouldn't use that word…" he paused. "Is he staying?" he asked as Angel began up the driveway.

"Yeah," Sandy answered firmly before Kirsten could even draw a breath against it. "Just one or two nights, okay? We'll set up the guest room… he won't be any trouble, I promise."

"He said about a teenage convict." Kirsten sighed.

"Don't worry," Sandy insisted as Angel entered.

"Oh, so… you must be Angel," Kirsten remarked, studying him for a moment before offering a formal handshake. "I'm Kirsten, and this is A—"

"Xander," the fellow teen finished for her. "Xander Cohen…" he said in a James Bond esque voice.

"We'll just leave you two to talk," Sandy offered, and the Cohen parents disappeared into their own room.

"So—did you, like, kill someone or something?" Xander asked as soon as they were out of sight.

"Stole—syringes." Angel answered hesitantly, still not growing on the excuse.

"Ah, you're like…"

"No, it's… it's not like that. Bad time, bad place. That's all. Shit's being tossed in my fan."

Kirsten's dreams were plagued that night, not unlike the past few weeks. It was the same, the same horrifying memory that her mind insisted on never allowing her to forget…

The fourteen-year-old blonde had only been in her father's building on two other previous occasions, and they were so long ago that she'd forgotten what Wolfram Hart was like. Well, aside from that fact, the whole building had been renovated, so any semblance of a memory would be proved obsolete. Luckily, she knew well that her daddy worked in one of the heads of the departments, so he was perched on the top floor. But finding his office was a whole different challenge.

After nearly forty minutes of searching, she'd finally found the room, with her father sitting nobly, like a king of sorts, behind his desk. But he wasn't alone.

A man dressed in tweed stood beside him, smiling slightly. "Kirsten," Caleb greeted, his not resorting to the nickname 'Kiki' making her feel unsettled. "There's someone here I'd like you to meet. His name is Quentin Travers and he's come quite a long way to find you."

"F-For what?" she managed to stammer.

"Kirsten," Quentin spoke with an overpowering British accent. "I must insist that you come with me."

"Why?" she suddenly found her movements on autopilot as she backed away.

"You are very special, Ms. Nichol," Quentin answered unspecifically. "You have the potential in you to become something greater than you can imagine, but to do that, you must come with me."

"I don't want to be great—" said Kirsten nervously as Quentin grabbed her hands, and forced her onto the wall. "Daddy!" she pleaded, shrieking. "Make him stop!" he unveiled a vile, forcing its contents down her throat. Her desire to fight back lessened, as did the images around her, and the last thing she saw was her own pleading eyes reflected in her father's unforgiving ones.