There was a 24-hour Wal-Mart in Queens. Buffy was glad she was such a conscientious traveler. Giles had helped her do some research for the trip, but he had been in London at the time, and it was harder over the phone to stress that what she really needed to know was where she could buy an iron in the middle of the night, where the nearest Chinese take-out place was, and how to get to Bloomingdale's. Instead he'd burrowed his nose in books about Angelus, trying to figure out what he had to do with the Al Franken thingy. Good old Giles.
She didn't see much of Giles any more, now that Sunnydale was a smoking crater. They still corresponded, comparing notes on this and that apocalypse, but she'd often gotten the impression that he was rather . . . alone. At least he wasn't alone in being alone. Buffy had had a boyfriend or two since she'd died, but she'd never had anyone serious in her life except Riley. Buffy sighed and juggled her Wal-Mart bags while she rooted through her pocket to find her key. That vampire better have his sheet on or else she was going to be seriously pissed.
When she got the door open, her eyes went straight for the radiator—and saw the pipe ripped out of the wall. She dropped her bags, rushed in—and saw him stomach-up on the bed, sheet pooled around his hips, feet hanging off the end because he was too long for it. His hands were crossed behind his head and his eyes were closed. Buffy took two angry steps, resisted the urge to tear the sheet off in fury, and barked, "What the hell are you doing?"
He cracked open an eye. "It's called sleeping."
"You destroyed the radiator!"
He yawned and scrubbed a hand over his face. She raised her hand to hit him across the jaw, because he was a vampire, because he'd escaped, because no one should look that good while making sleepy faces. His hand caught her wrist easily. "I'm sorry," he said simply, and there was something so earnest in his eyes that she believed him. His thumb moved into the palm of her hand, for just the barest of moments. She trembled. He dropped her wrist as if it had burned him. Perhaps it had. His skin was cool and lifeless and hers was thrumming with blood. "I didn't know how else to make it clear to you that I'm not going to leave you."
Now it was boiling with blood, the words "I'm not going to leave you" ringing in her ears. Those were the words of a lover. "I'm not falling for that," she said tightly. "If you think I'll leave you alone for one minute without—"
His hand moved back to join the other one behind his head—the one that still had a manacle cuffed around its wrist. She tried not to notice the way him lying there like that made it so that both the phrases "half-naked" and "beneath her" applied. He looked at her blankly. "Did Darla let you chain her up?"
Buffy's mouth opened, and then she clicked it shut. "Darla was different," she said after a moment.
The wicked smirk returned. "Yes. She is. She likes . . . different things. Chains too, I guess." His gaze wandered over her, and Buffy felt as though she was being undressed. "But Darla would never let a Slayer do that."
If Buffy hadn't worked with Darla for nearly three years she might have been surprised, might have allowed the comment to get to her, might have blushed. But being in close proximity with a vampire—even one with a chip—had seriously dulled her to embarrassment and shock. That, and all the apocalypses and prophesies and demons she'd had to deal with over the years. She raised a brow. "You might not know Darla as well as you think. But anyway, we'll never know. She's dust."
His face shut down, just went completely blank.
"Are you sorry?" she asked curiously.
He didn't turn away, as she half expected. "No," he said simply, his dark eyes for a moment coal-black.
She felt herself falling into that gaze. Unsettled, she reached for his hand and used her key to unlock the cuff that was still around his wrist. Walking over to where she had dropped the bags, she picked them up. "Here," she said, tossing them at him. "Go in the bathroom and put those on." Then she turned around and busied herself examining the radiator. She didn't want to have to see how he managed to get off the bed with the sheet still covering all the necessary parts, or whether he would bother.
"Thank you," he said to her back. He went to the bathroom and shut the door, thoughtfully removing items from the bags. She had bought him clothes. It felt funny. This whole situation felt funny. She had made the decision to once again attempt to rejoin humanity very easy for him, but he hadn't exactly considered all the practicalities of it. He'd gotten a sudden vision of being human, of sleeping in a real bed and wearing real clothes, of helping her and protecting her and warning her when she was in danger. Half of him was expecting that vision to just suddenly become a reality; the other half was completely lost as to how to make it happen.
He'd been living worse than an animal. He owned nothing tangible, had no where to go; there was hardly anyone he knew. Worst of all, he didn't know how to act, especially around her. He ached with need for her, in more ways than one. She was too much; everything about her made him remember hope and love and sex all at the same time, and it was making his self-control fray about the edges. He had to pull himself together. He had to learn to walk like a man again.
He pulled the clothes out of the bags and looked at them, unfolding one of the shirts. He didn't remember these things; they weren't his. Everything was so unfamiliar. He didn't know anything about this decade—or the last—or what was going on in the world—both of the living and of the dead. If only he could have dealt with everything one step at a time. But this—the Slayer, her search for Angelus, Darla, the shower, the shampoo, the clothes—hell, having to form coherent sentences—it was too much. He wanted to put his head in her lap and ask her to touch him until he could remember what it was like to be human. Right now it was a memory tucked away for too many centuries to count.
Shaking his head and gritting his teeth, he picked up the clothes and opened the door again.
Buffy whipped around, relieved that at least now he would be clothed—only to be disappointed. There was still the sheet, no longer cloak-like, but loosely pulled around his waist with one hand, his front bared to her gaze all the way down to his hip bones. His other hand held the sweat-pants and T-shirt she had gotten him. "I can't wear these," he said simply, and thrust them out toward her.
"What? Why not?" Was he going to tell her the underwear was too small? Crotch-sizes only went up so high . . . She had tried not to think about underwear too much. The idea of boxers or briefs on that body could have taken all night. She'd just grabbed a bunch of different things and hoped something would suit.
He was plucking the tag on the T-shirt. "'Fruit of the Loom'?" he read. "I've never heard of it."
"So?"
He thought for a moment. "I wear Battaglia's. Venanzi, maybe."
"Are those designers? You're straight off the street smelling like rat dung and you're talking about designers?"
His eyes turned upwards, thoughtful. "You're right. They're from the sixties. It's been a while. Who's in now? I like silk."
"The hell you do! I . . ." That smart-ass half smile was back, tugging at his wide mouth, and realization dawned. "Are you just trying to give me a hard time?"
The smirk fell away, and he looked thoughtful. "I don't know. It's been a while since . . ." He looked away. Good, Buffy thought. He should be ashamed of himself, and she wanted him to be just as uncomfortable as she was. Who'd've thought she'd be discussing fashion with that filthy, disgusting bum she'd plucked off the street? And who'd've thought that, several hours after offering his heart, begging her to kill him, he'd take issue with Fruit of the Loom? Jeez.
He changed what he was going to say mid-sentence and finally just said, "It's been a while since I thought about it."
"I'll say, Raggedy Andy. Fruit of the Loom is decent stuff. And cheap. Which means I could afford it. Which," she trailed off, "is usually what cheap means."
"Okay. But . . . you didn't get any shampoo . . . ?"
"What do I look like, the errand-boy? I was trying to help."
The vampire was still looking away. "Sorry."
"Now get in there and get dressed."
He pressed his lips together, looking both contrite and frustrated. She didn't give an inch, too busy with her own confusion to care much about his. Perhaps taking in a vampire, even if he had a chip, wasn't such a good idea. He was, after all, a bum.
The vampire turned on his heel, went back into the bathroom, and shut the door. Several minutes later he emerged, in the gray sweats and white T-shirt she had bought for him. "There," she told him. "Isn't that comfy?"
"No."
It was true. In what any normal person would think of as comfort clothes he looked distinctly uncomfortable. The shirt was a little tight across the chest, and Buffy berated herself for having gotten that size on purpose. She most certainly did not need to see the shape of his chest any more than she already had. He kept running his hand through his hair, frowning.
"How did you break the radiator?" she asked finally.
He looked at the radiator, then at her. He took a step forward. "Pulled," he said simply.
"You do realize I'm going to have to pay to fix it. And that I'm probably on ice as it is for letting another person stay in my room. They charge extra for that, you know."
He took another step forward. He still reeked of flowers. "I'll pay."
"How long have you been dead? Three cents and the cardboard box you live in isn't gonna pay for it."
Another step. "I have money." He paused, then amended, "I can get money. Eventually."
He was quite close again, looking down at her. She wanted to back away, but she stood her ground, thrusting her chin up toward him. "What?" she demanded peevishly. "What is it?"
"I hurt you."
"What?" she repeated, and put her hand to her head, where his eyes were fixed. Oh, great. There was still blood caked in her hair from her cut to the head when he had thrown her in the alley. No wonder the lady at Wal-Mart had looked at her like she was off her rocker. But by now, the cut itself had healed. She shrugged. "It's gone. No big."
"Yes, but . . ." He moved his hand, and for a second she thought he was going to try that hair-touching thingy again. For that second she thought she might let him. But he apparently remembered the no touching rule because his hand froze, and then dropped. He looked away, and suddenly seemed miserable. "I can smell the blood."
"Oh! Oh," she said again. "Sorry. Let me . . ." With her hand on her head, she rushed over to her luggage, and rummaged until she found the gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and, for good measure, her pajamas. Then she went to the bathroom, poured some of the antiseptic on the gauze, and began cleaning up the blood and what little vestiges of the wound were left.
The vampire followed her, standing in the door of the bathroom. The smell of her blood had been driving him crazy, but he hadn't really wanted her to clean it up. It smelled so good. He'd heard some humans thrived on the smell of coffee even if they didn't drink it. He didn't know, he'd never had much coffee when he'd been human—but apparently, vicarious nasal digestion didn't work for vampires. She needed to clean it or else he'd shortly be sinking his fangs into her throat. As pleasant as that sounded, a part of him was disgusted with himself. A part of him wanted that revulsion to manifest physically, to stave off the other things he was feeling. But as much as he welcomed nausea, he only felt thirst and the arousal of anticipation. It was very hard not to ask if he could help her clean up.
"There," she said, after a minute or two. "That better?" He nodded. "Good. Because I'm going to change and do my bed-stuff now." He remained standing there. "Do you mind?"
"Sorry," he said, but this time didn't look sorry, and stepped back from the door. When she came back out in her shorts and tank top, his eyes examined her outfit curiously. Her skin was so golden, and her bare legs looked shapely and strong. "You . . ." he began, "—you even look . . . ."
He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked, how desirable, but he didn't remember how these things were said. He only knew that she had not dressed to impress, that she was merely going to bed, and that with her simple, loose-fitting clothes she was somehow still impossibly making him crave that it be he who bedded her.
"What?" she demanded, her hands clenched into fists. "I even look what?"
"Nothing." His mouth opened at her scowl. She looked upset at not receiving an answer. "Uh . . . Sleepy," he suggested.
"Hmph," she replied, and crossed her arms over her chest. "We'll sleep at dawn, Angelus. Now we need to talk."
A/N: Ah, yet another chapter in which nothing happens.
Angel's preoccupation with the clothes derives from a line to Whistler in "Becoming" ("I don't want to dress like you"). I thought it was telling that clothes were among his first concerns. I had some trouble researching fashion designers for the kind of clothes that Angel would have worn in the '60s (one thing I do know, Angel was not a hippie), but the searches popped up Battaglia's and Venanzi. I really know nothing about these people (retailers?) or fashion in general so if anyone wants to pitch in, please do!
Jason, I, too, prefer to think of most of the characters as surviving. For instance, if Angel hadn't been around in "Dark Ages," Buffy could very well be dead, too. As for Spike: since it didn't seem to me that Spike and Dru's arrival in SD had everything to do with Angel, they did come and Buffy did meet them in the universe of this fic. Lastly, your thesis about the fluke is interesting; maybe you should write your own fic about it ;o)
Special thanks (once again!), a2zmom. I missed that about hotels, I guess; I went back and fixed it. Hope that you feel better, or that, if you have consumption, you say something either very tragic or very witty on your deathbed ;o)
If anyone else sees any errors, or is a beta well-versed in Buffyverse seeking LOTS of work, please let me know. Thanks to those who've r&r'ed.
Disclaimer: "You even look . . ." is half a line stolen from S1.7 : "Angel" (as is the phrase "walk like a man"). I don't own Buffy, Fruit of the Loom, or Wal-Mart. Ah, Wal-Mart. Because sometimes, you really do need to go buy an iron at 4am.