The Road Home
Summary: AU; everyone's human. Buffy Summers dodges family and friends to escape her wedding and make it back home, single. But when she returns to L.A, she finds herself stuck with a grumpy, homeless roommate without who, she soon finds, home wouldn't be home at all.
Disclaimer: 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' and all associated with it belongs to Mutant Enemy, Fox, Joss Whedon etc. I own squat.
1. Of Arriving, Departing and Angry Cats
"So… you wrote a note and left? That's it?" Indirectly, the tone was incredulous and disbelieving, the speaker's surprise at Buffy's actions showing through.
It was hard for Buffy to answer that question. After all, it was the one that kept poking at her inner conscience, all week, reminding her that this wasn't how things should be done. It kept whispering in her ear, you aren't supposed to run away! It's wrong! You owe him at least a proper explanation.
She knew that; she knew it all too well. But how else could she have broken off things with Liam 'Angel' Spencer? Their relationship, before and after college, had been the most significant in her life so far. In high school, they'd been together from her first day as a freshman, when he'd dropped her books and, instead of walking off, had actually apologized, over and over, while bending to pick them up for her. No other sophomore, she'd insisted to Xander, would do that for a freshman. And when he'd asked her out for dinner at the end of the week, her answer was an automatic 'yes'.
Time passed, and his rigid belief in what was right for her began irking Buffy. When he left for Harvard, she was somehow relieved, and yet miserable, to have a reason to break up with him. When she emerged from her bedroom at the end of that summer, it may have been with swollen eyes, but, as Xander often pointed out, it was also with a new, free spirit, no longer dominated by a presence stronger than hers.
Then, two years after she graduated from PAFA, she ran into him on the beach in L.A. She was fighting with the guy at the hot-dog stand for overpricing his merchandise when she heard a voice behind her go, "Oh, man, Buffy?"
And, lo and behold, behind her stood Angel, clothed absurdly for the beach, in an Armani suit, his Ray Bans propped up on his forehead. He looked both surprised and amused to see her, and she later found his amusement was in the fact that she was actually arguing with the hot-dog vendor. They'd made small-talk for a few minutes before she looked, biting her lower lip, over the shoulder of her one piece. He noticed and asked her, politely, if she was here with someone. Buffy explained uncomfortably about Anya, who Buffy was trying to convince that public beaches were better than nude ones. He'd laughed and let her go, and she had, never expecting to hear from him again.
He'd called that very night. Asked her out for dinner, and she, upon Anya's prompting, agreed, albeit reluctantly.
The man she ate with that night was almost nothing like the man she'd broken up with seven years ago. He was polite, let her order for herself, and even agreed to share the bill, respecting her as a woman and a person. He told her of his new job at Wolfram & Hart, for who he was attending a seminar in town. She told him how she'd opened her own gallery. They discussed past times, her inheriting he mum's business-adeptness, his life in New York, the weather, why he hated the beach, everything. To Buffy, it was like getting to know him again, the new him. She liked the new him a lot more than the old one. But she knew it was going nowhere, him being in New York and her in L.A.
And then, he'd been transferred to L.A. To her surprise, he ambled into her gallery one day and asked Kate, her receptionist, if they were affiliated with any decorators, as he needed decorating done. To say she was surprised would've been an understatement. He'd grinned when he noticed her behind Kate, mouth open, and waved a little hand. "Hey, Buff."
And as simple as that, he was back in her life.
And with the note she'd written, he'd be out.
Buffy sighed, stirring her coffee with a spoon. "I didn't know what else to do, Tara. Yes, I know it's the cowardly way out but… I didn't have the strength to break his heart again, and see him while I did it."
Tara shook her head, the neat ponytail at the back moving, too. She asked in a quiet voice, "Buffy. Do you really think he's out of your life? Will you really never have to face him again? Honestly, Buffy, tell me; do you really believe that?"
Buffy had already though a lot about this one. "Tara, he moved to D.C. practically half a year back. He's got nothing left in L.A. Well, except me. And we haven't even started moving my stuff, you know. Very little of it is packed. I felt so reluctant to move anything from its place at home, you know, almost as if subconsciously I knew the wedding wasn't going to happen—"
"Why?" Upon Buffy's blank look, she elaborated: "Why did you subconsciously feel it wasn't meant to be?"
Now, this was hard. Maybe she shouldn't have come to Tara, she thought, right now. The grey New York weather made the professional, 28 year old therapist look tired, and somehow, Buffy felt she'd come at the wrong time. The shadows under Tara's eyes, which Buffy had noticed the second she opened the door to her apartment on Fifth, had definitely not been there a month ago, when they'd met at the Smithsonian in D.C. Perhaps, it was because the offhand brunette, Kennedy, Tara had brought to D.C. wasn't around. Buffy knew Tara; she knew that if Tara had recently broken up, the questions she was asking were not just for Buffy, but also, somehow, Kennedy.
"I don't know," she said, apprehensively, "its may be because whenever I'm with him, I still think of what Angel, the school Angel, would've wanted done. Cause, he's so… perfect. I felt the need to be perfect, too. I felt suffocated with him." She broke off, biting her lip, then began, her voice more tentative than ever, "Also… probably because… well, the spark wasn't there?" At Tara's nod of encouragement, her voice grew confident. "Yeah, that's it. I knew Angel in school, and then, it was all about the attraction. This time, however… he was perfect. Perfect, you know, boyfriend material: good looking, polite, expressive, sweet, well-earning, everything. But the spark, the click wasn't there, you know? Because no matter how much I tried, this time, the pull wasn't there. I had changed; I didn't need a replacement for my Dad anymore, you know, to watch over me, like he did in school. I needed a…"
"A soulmate." Tara said, her grey eyes full of understanding.
Buffy reflected upon this. Then she looked up, hazel eyes reflecting amazement, and said, "Yeah. A soulmate."
Liam Spencer leaned back in his business-class seat, an arm thrown tiredly over his eyes. It was a matter of minutes before they'd arrive at Heathrow, London, where he'd have to take a quick cab to Le Meridien, where he'd be back with his Buffy, the beautiful person he'd seen change from a shy, reserved girl to a confident, bold woman who could make her own decisions. But his mind, however, was not on the blonde at all. It was with Cordelia Chase, the latest addition to the Washington D.C. team of W&H.
When he'd first arrived at the offices in Rome, Angel had noticed straightaway the tall, tanned brunette of clear Spanish descent who stood at the back of the elevator. He kept sneaking looks at her, wondering exactly why she winced every time someone in front of her moved, or the elevator jerked. He found out soon enough; when the elevator emptied itself out on tenth floor, leaving just the two of them, he watched as she heaved a relieved sigh and dropped her purse, crouching down and cradling her left ankle. Angel looked, too, and noticed the wound. His eyes widened and, cursing, he crouched down next to her and batted her hands away from the injury. "What happened?" he asked, as he whipped out a clean white handkerchief to tie around her ankle.
"I-I tripped," she explained, shakily, "on the Spanish Steps. I was late for my meeting, so I didn't st-stop anywhere. They say the n-new boss is a temperamental freak."
He chuckled, concentrating on bandaging the wound with his makeshift dressing. When the doors of the elevator opened on the nineteenth floor, she asked him if he could help her and he'd offered that he'd be glad to. As they slipped out, Angel inwardly thanked God that nobody had stopped the elevator between the tenth and the nineteenth floor. One of her arms around his neck, one of his around her waist, he supported her to where she directed.
He himself had no idea where the corporate law meeting was being held. He figured he'd ask around, later. But when he pushed open the door she asked him to, he realized he'd found the meeting. Amidst the low, mass murmur of ''morning, Mr. Spencer' by his colleagues, he glanced at Cordelia, who had visibly paled, and was staring back him with wide eyes. She swallowed, visibly, and said, even more shakily than before, "Um, I meant my new, m-mental g-genius, go-good tem-tempered boss!"
He was still chuckling as he got off the plane, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his brown coat. As he approached the baggage claim, his mind remembered one of the details of his many conversations with Cordelia the past week. She's going to be in Rome for another week…
And, before Angel knew what he was doing, he had booked himself a ticket on the same flight he had just gotten off. As he sat on the benches at the airport, the silliest of grins on his face, Angel pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number he had become extremely familiar with over the last two years. When he got her voicemail, Angel wasn't surprised; she hardly ever picked up.
"Hey, sweetie, it's Angel. So sorry, but the meeting's going to be extended a little. I'll be back before the end of the week, though, I promise. Are Anya and Xander there yet? Call if you've got the time. Love you, Buffy."
As he hung up, Angel felt a mist of apprehension seep into his mind. He was getting married at the end of the month, after all, so what was he doing lying to his fiancée, to sneakily spend time with a girl he'd known for lesser than a week? Was he getting cold feet? No, no, he reassured himself. He wanted to marry Buffy, and that was that. With Cordelia, it was just his rescue-complex kicking in. Sweet girl definitely needed his help… plus, he had to work with her, so technically, he was doing nothing wrong at all.
After all, he mentally scoffed, it wasn't like he was going to cheat on Buffy! Really! Even if Cordelia seemed to understand him in a week more than Buffy had after two years, didn't mean the love he had for the blonde had suddenly dissipated. Just because he seemed to have found the perfect partner for him, even though he knew her for just a week, didn't mean he was going to drop two years of comfortable compatibility and warmth. After all, passion wasn't everything. No, of course everything would be fine. It had to be.
It had to be.
"Nice room," Xander remarked, coat on his arm as he entered the suite Angel had booked for them.
Anya turned around, mouth open in shock. "Nice?" she hissed, "Nice? That's all you can say!"
He grinned and looked about. One of the best rooms in Waldorf, he wondered why, exactly, Angel was willing to have the two of them over practically a month before the wedding and pay for their stay. Course, Xander wouldn't let him. Anya might disagree, but Xander had his principles, and one of them was 'Neither be a lender, nor a borrower be'. His senior spring play had cast him in the role of Antonio, and in spite of the happy ending, Xander had learnt quite a lesson. Plus, he thought as he took in the Jacuzzi, satellite TV, mini-bar, Angel already had to spend on the wedding, Buffy, the honeymoon, Buffy, their new house, Buffy, etc. without him adding to the poor guy's expenses.
"Oh, who am I kidding? We're not leaving this room till Buffy breaks down the door!" And, saying so, he tackled the blonde to the huge, king-sized bed with a canopy, laughs and giggles giving way to low moans.
Will spent his first few days in L.A. outside the house. He played pool, got drunk, cheated at poker, got into a bar fight, got kicked out only to go and repeat the process at another trashy pub. He woke on the fourth day with a throbbing head and vowed to not touch alcohol for what little was left of the week. He also noticed the cat, Pontiac (weird name for a cat, he'd thought), was following him wherever he went, and he didn't leave the house for the rest of the week, purring.
Or rather, Will discover when he bent down to pet the brown-black feline on his fourth day home, growling.
"Bloody, fuckin' 'ell!" He roared as Pontiac's sharp teeth, the ones he'd showed off the very first day, sank into the skin of his hand. He pulled his hand away, yowling and screaming while the cat sat there, looking peaceful now, watching him.
Will rushed to the bathroom, where he washed his hand and, to ebb the pain away, shook his wet hand, splattering drops of water all over the mirror, the tiles and the cat, who had followed him. Pontiac hissed, hair rising as he sat up on his haunches.
Will stopped, eyes narrowing at the cat. "What in the name of 'ell possessed you to do that?" He screamed at the cat while yanking the medicine cabinet open with his uninjured hand. He pulled out some cotton and a bottle of antiseptic. "Don't you know I 'ate antiseptics! They bloody sting! And… o', for God's sake," he muttered as he applied the antiseptic to his knuckles, palm and fingers. He winced at the throb the liquid brought. The damn cat had done a lot of damage in a very short time. "I'm talking to a bleedin' cat. Man, I am so, so screwed." He looked at Pontiac, blaming him for it all.
It was then that he noticed the cat was shivering. Will frowned, and got off the toilet seat, slipping down on the tiled floor next to the tub where Pontiac lay curled up. Tentatively, Will stretched out a hand; when there was no growl, or hardly any acknowledgement of the hand at all, he touched the cat's fur. Beneath it, he could feel the bones. Frowning a bit, Will stroked the cat gently, wondering what was wrong. Then, he noticed that one of Pontiac's paws was hanging in an odd way. Gently, Will picked it up and rolled it in his hand. A small sound, something like a whimper, escaped the cat. Will sighed, let the paw go and picked the cat up cautiously, softly, his own pain forgotten as he took Pontiac down to the kitchen.
He carefully put the cat into its basket, making sure the hurt paw wasn't crushed under its weight. Then he looked around the kitchen, eyes hunting for the water and food dishes he was sure Anya had showed him. He noticed them, shoved thoughtlessly under the sink, and bit his lip shamefully.
Will retrieved the empty dishes, filled them with water and cat food, and retrieved an old bowl which he filled with milk. As he put the milk back into the fridge, he noticed there was hardly anything to eat in there; chocolate, cheese, milk, chocolate syrup, some mangoes and oranges, but that was it. As he placed the saucers before Pontiac, he made a mental note to buy groceries tomorrow morning. The cat sniffed suspiciously at the food, then bent down cautiously and took a bite, eyes on Will. After few more bites, Pontiac decided it was all right and happily dug into the food he'd been denied for almost a week.
Will sat there on the floor of the kitchen, watching the cat, and later bandaged his paw. Morning found him asleep on the floor of the kitchen, Pontiac spread across his chest, both purring away.