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.

4. Illuminated

Sleep had become a stranger to Angel ever since he'd met Cordelia. Her flashing opaque eyes and long tresses kept his eyes open, his mind comparing them mentally with flowing golden hair and light eyes that changed color whenever he dared search for sleep. Eventually, he had come to terms with himself; he treated himself to Cordelia during the day and his head let him sleep, albeit fitfully, at night.

Tonight, though, was a different issue. Entwined in the arms of the brunette who had easily embraced him, he dreamt of Buffy. He dreamt of her laughing eyes as she dashed down the beach, her agile limbs easily outrunning him. It was her golden hair that flowed like silk through his fingers, her skin that gleamed like gold in the afternoon sun.

But when he woke up in cold sweat, it was in Cordelia's arms.

"What's wrong?" she asked in a whisper, her hands light on his shoulders. "What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost." The concern in her voice stirred him from his thoughts.

Guilt flooded Angel's entire being. A darting glance at the glowing bedside clock told him what day, what time it was. In the ungodly hour of 2 AM, he said to Cordelia, "I wish I had." Cradling his face in his hands, he repeated, in a whisper, "I wish I had."

Willow went back to work the next day and Will was left with a newly broken heart, humiliated pride and the memories of an embarrassing evening.

At eleven in the morning, he set about to cleaning up the house, ignoring the hangover he'd given himself after getting home long after midnight. He could've sworn, however, that his godmother had given him till 11:20 PM only, because everything after that had been a disaster.

He dusted the shelves in the dining room, reddened eyes staring at the crystal figurines as though they could tell him why, after pulling up in front of the house last night, he'd said, "So, it wasn't a date, then?"

As he vacuumed the carpeted floor, the whirring of the motor answered him in Willow's breathless voice, "Oh, Will, I' so sorry! I'm just so used to Oz taking me out to dinner I didn't even think you, as a guy, would be interested in me. . ."

The sounds of the dishes clunking in the sink as he washed up the week's pile made him flinch. Flinch in embarrassment, of course, because he just had to say, demandingly (!), "Oz? Who's Oz?"

The huge garbage truck coming down the street reminded him to rush to put out the trash. Oh, it also reminded him of her easy answer. "Oz is my best friend, Will."

When he finally collapsed into an armchair, Pontiac in his arms, he closed his eyes tiredly. His mind, however, was not done. "Oh, okay, then. Goodnight."

Willow had smiled, (pityingly, he thought, slightly bitter), and leaned over to give him a hug. Not even a short one, a good, long friendly one. She'd pulled apart and said, "I'm sorry, Will. I'm working tomorrow but once I'm done I'll be right over, okay? We can stay in and watch some movies, if you want." And with a flutter of her silvery shawl, a whiff of her rose perfume, she was gone.

A flick of his wrist and the TV in the living room was blaring. He flipped channels until he found something he was looking for. He smiled, and decided to watch the movie, glad he'd noticed its name in the TV listing.

"Women," he asked Pontiac, holding the cat up, "Who needs them!"

Pontiac, however, fell asleep halfway through Will's celebration of male independence. And when Gone with the Wind was ending, nobody heard Will say, perfectly in time with Rhett, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn!"

Just before take-off, Buffy switched on her laptop for the first time in weeks and decided to check her mail. The stewardess gave her a good glare, to which Buffy could only reply with a cheeky grin. As passengers all around her took their time in getting in and cribbing about their seats, Buffy was glad she had a window seat. Whenever she got an aisle, or middle, seat, it was like a rule that she'd also get the passengers who just had to use the bathroom every half an hour.

Signing into her email account, her eyes widened as she noticed the long list of mails. At second glance, she saw most were from Anya. She was either asking Buffy where things were when the latter had left for London, or she was giving her a play-by-play record of her own trip, or she was asking her where the hell she was. A few were from Xander, some from work, and two or three from Dawn. However, the one that caught her eye was one from Angel.

Clicking it open, she saw it had been sent just few days ago. She wondered why he was mailing her; hadn't he read the note she'd left at the hotel? Frowning, she read through it rapidly.

Phrases jumped out at her. 'Haven't replied to my voicemail', and, 'I'm having no fun in Rome without you'. There was, 'Sorry, we might have to delay the wedding; I've a lot of work here' and 'it was wrong of me to leave like that'. But what surprised her most was: 'I hope you're doing well in London; miss you and love you'.

When she was done, she went back to her inbox and clicked on the one Anya had sent, titled: Where in hell are you guys! Her frown deepened, and she clicked 'Back' on the small screen but didn't open up any other mails.

Apparently, Angel hadn't gone back to London a week after she'd left. He'd stayed back in Rome, and to explain himself, he had left a voicemail on her cell phone which she hadn't received. Xander and Anya had gotten hold of her note, she guessed. Odd.

She went back to her laptop and opened Anya's latest mail. It said they were tired of waiting at the hotel for her or Angel to show up and were leaving for France. The one before asked her to come back. An earlier one told her they had arrived in London. Going back to the inbox, Buffy opened the email which told her, from the date, that Anya had sent her this one just before she left L.A.

The lighting in the plane was adequate, but the rack for handbags above her head gave her restricted light. The window was no help; New York's grey weather hadn't given up. Buffy rubbed her tired eyes and thanked the laptop for its inbuilt light. Lit up by its glow, she read Anya's typed up letter and even in words, she could tell the other blonde was beating round the bush about something. But about what?

The mail ended with Anya typing, formally, 'Yours, Anya'. Rolling her eyes, Buffy closed the window and put away the laptop, succumbing to the airhostess's glares.

If Buffy had enough patience and had scrolled down the mail a little more, she'd have read, in the smallest font possible, that there was a guy living in the house she was heading to in L.A.

When Will woke up that morning, his back hurt. He realized, soon, why: he was sleeping upside down on the stairs, the cat still in his arms. He dimly remembered trying to drag himself to open the door when Willow had rung the bell last night, then giving up and falling asleep right there.

He refused to open his eyes, but Pontiac was hissing and struggling against his arms. Grumbling, Will let the cat go and promptly, his legs slipped down the stairs they were inclined against. As he lay stretched out against the bottom step, Will caught a whiff of jasmine, mixed with a hint of clove.

He opened his eyes. And there, in front of the open door, lit up by the early morning light, stood a goddess, gently petting Pontiac.