Chapter 2

Cordelia hurried down the concrete stairway, her heels clacking loudly against the pavement. She scooted to a halt outside the jewel-toned red and dark wood bedroom, hanging on the frame of the makeshift doorway, one foot wedged into the room to get a better assessment of the situation.

"What does she need?" Cordelia asked with a measure of uncertainty. She peeked over one of the vampire's massive shoulders but couldn't get a glimpse of the corpse-like woman hanging from his outstretched arms.

"Bandages, antiseptic," Angel answered her without turning to face her. With every ounce of gentility he could muster, he laid the body out across his crumpled, unmade bed. The wrinkled ivory damask sheets instantly absorbed drops of blood that pooled from her miscellaneous wounds. "And clothes, Cordy," he finished abruptly.

Up in the office, Wes looked solemnly at the telephone flashing insistently on Cordelia's desk. He frowned as he picked up the receiver and pressed it under his ear and dialed the number for voicemail. Cordelia's voice spoke perkily back to him, rising and falling in an odd way, as though she were unsure what she needed to say. "Thank you for calling Angel Investigations! We—oh, we help the helpless! Unfortunately, we are unable to take your call at this time. But, oh-but! Please leave us a message, and we'll call you right back!" Wes frowned, shaking his head, then dialed another series of numbers and codes into the keypad.

"Um, hi. Is this where I reach Angel? Um," There was scuffling in the background, a few voices that sounded familiar but couldn't be discerned. "Um, this is Dawn, that is, um, Dawn Summers. I…" She cut off again, and the phone echoed as she cuffed her hand over the hand-set and called out to someone behind her. "I…sorry…I'll have to call back."

Wes stared blankly at the phone, working over the high-pitched young voice of a teenager and the name, Dawn Summers. Dawn…hm. Shrugging his shoulders with disinterest, he erased the message and dropped the receiver onto its hook. Whoever it was, he thought, they'd call back when they obviously had more time. It seemed strange that two women with the same last name would show up in the same day, but Summers was almost as common as Smith in the west. Uneasily, Wes headed down the stairs to put himself to better use.

"Wesley!" Cordelia called as she ran by him, throwing the keys to apartment directly at his head. He reached for them, caught them as they flew, and looked blankly at a series of unusual key-chains with odd sayings in bright purple and pink fonts. "Can you drop by my apartment and pick up some extra clothes? Sweats, tee shirts, that kind of thing."

"You need to change clothes? What? Now?" Wesley asked, confused.

"Not for me! They're for Buffy." Cordelia called back to him over her shoulder.

In the bedroom, Cordelia slid a first aid kit onto the table alongside the bed, and popped the fastener open to retrieve the goods inside. Angel, sitting alongside the unconscious Slayer, reached silently into the box and pulled out a small bottle of peroxide and a gauze cloth wrapped in sterilized packaging. The screeching of a chair filled the room as Cordelia dragged the heavy furniture across the floor and perched on top of it, a pair of steel sheers clutched in her fingers.

Buffy awakened to the snip snip of the scissors cutting away her shirt. Cuts that had clotted to the fabric burned and stung, leaving her wincing, her forehead crinkling as if that action would relieve her of the pain. She stirred, tossing her head slowly against the pillow, lifting her hands to protectively cover the wounds inflicted upon her body. It seemed hours before she could affectively open her eyes, and when she did, she would have sworn they were still shut, that she was still dreaming.

A hand, gentle and light on her shoulder, confirmed otherwise. The sweet, angelic face of a familiar vampire stared down at her, his eyes dark and worn, full of concern, of worry; full of fear. He'd dressed in a dark blue shirt, but it was stained and dirty and reeked of blood and filth. Though it wasn't possible, though Angel would never show his age, he seemed to possess deep worry lines in his large forehead and around the corners of his straight mouth. Even the mess of chocolate hair that stuck out from his scalp seemed pressed down by gravity, revealing his despair.

"Where…" Buffy croaked meekly. She clutched at her abdomen and struggled to sit up, to throw her legs over the edge of the bed, to leave and continue on her way. Reflexively, Angel pressed down upon her shoulder, keeping her still. She didn't struggle against his grip, but she didn't seem relaxed by it either.

"You're in LA," Cordelia offered, placing the scissors on the table and pulling the bed sheet up to cover her revealed skin. "Angel and Wes found you on the pier."

"Cordy, could you…" Angel asked, still not turning to face her. Cordelia nodded without another word, got up from her perch, and stepped quietly from the bedroom.

"I need to go," Buffy sighed, lifting her hand to brush Angel's grip away. He removed it for her, even going so far as to help her up. Their hands brushed against one another, briefly leading the vampire back to a time in a bed very similar to this one. He frowned, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"Please stay, Buffy." Angel sighed, his voice soothing but insistent. "You don't…you aren't…"

"I'm fine. Everything is just fine, okay?" The Slayer winced as she spoke, touching her fingers lightly to her ribs. The warm, wet sensation of blood oozed between her digits.

"Buffy, you aren't fine." He was frustrated now, and on his feet. "You're pale, and you look sick. When was the last time you ate? You're injured, badly, and I know—I know, you heal. But you aren't strong enough to waltz back out onto the streets looking like this."

Quivering green irises rose to meet Angel's face, to attempt to penetrate his eyes before he could register the depth of her feelings. It wouldn't work, and in some small way she knew she'd never have enough strength, enough resolve, to hide from him what she felt, and why she felt it. Inside her glare, he found her soul trembling near the surface. She was begging for help, for kindness, for someone to lean against while she dealt with the multitude of problems she'd obviously been running from. Though she'd never admit it completely, though she'd never speak the words outright, Buffy needed help, and help from the only person in the world who could understand what she was experiencing.

"Lie back down," Angel ordered her, though his voice was more relaxed. Hesitant, the Slayer complied, moving back up onto the mattress and pressing her back into the sheets. A large hand reached out to the table once again, retrieved the sheers, and continued cutting open her soiled shirt. A sigh escaped his breathless throat as he gazed down at her brassiere; a silky white selection of lingerie that might once have been beautiful in its lace and satin, but was now so marred by blood and dirt that it seemed more sad and pathetic than sensual.

"Don't look at me like that," Buffy grunted through a tight, strained mouth.

"Like what?"

"With pity; don't pity me."

"Why did you come to LA?" Angel asked deliberately, picking up the cloth and disinfectant. He poured the solution into the gauze and pressed it firmly against Buffy's torn and jagged skin. She moved to whimper, but did not utter a sound.

"It doesn't matter," she retorted, struggling to keep tears from falling down her face.

"It does matter. Buffy, tell me why you came." He looked down at her, frustration and anger unmasked in his large brown eyes. In his hand, he shifted the position of the cloth, drenching a large cut with stinging medicine. Buffy dropped her eyes from his, no longer daring to infuriate him. Any tears that had clung to her eyelashes dried up, and though the pain on the surface of her gut was intense and difficult to bear, she did not cease herself from the mattress, nor tremble, nor show her true face.

"Tell me why," Angel frowned, removing his hands from her. The cloth was soaked in her blood. He threw it against the wall with a flick of his wrist.

"I came to die."