IsleofSolitude: Thank you for the review! Yes, a grown kid would have made for an interesting plot as well, but I fell in love with the idea of Angel reconnecting with a heavily pregnant Buffy. I hope you -and every one else- will like this next part. :)
PART TWO
Buffy makes herbal tea.
From the smell, he can tell it's an expensive brand, perfectly brewed. Sense memory takes him back to lazy mornings at the Hyperion. Other memories hammer in that Buffy was a coffee girl, one hundred percent and proud of it.
It must have irritated her to abandon caffeine.
He can imagine her moaning about it, numbering all the reasons why her morning cup of joe was her best friend. There were seven reasons, he remembers that, at least four of them were related to the flavor. The eighth one, the one she told him in the cover of darkness, was that strong black coffee reminded her of her dad at the breakfast table.
For the first time in years, Angel wonders if her father is still alive. He should know, he feels. He lives in the same city as the man.
Does Hank Summers still have coffee at breakfast?
Does he know that his older daughter can't do so anymore?
"You made tea," he points out. The comment sounds stupid to his own ears, especially now, two minutes after he accepted the cup.
He can't taste it, but her expression says it's an excellent one.
Maybe Giles finally taught her how to appreciate it.
Maybe Wesley would have taught him if Angel had asked.
From the couch in front of his, she nods, and then sips hers. "You never liked OJ." Right. The little boxes she used to take on patrols, for hydration. Until she noticed his dislike of the smell of preservatives in the juice. "There hasn't been any blood in my fridge in -" She stops herself, and glances up at him quickly before taking a deep breath to complete her sentence. " - in months."
Not years.
"Spike mentioned you a couple times." Not by name, but Angel hadn't groomed him from a whelp into decent competition for Drusilla's favor not to recognize the taunting glimmer in Spike's eyes.
Buffy scowls into her cup. "I told him not to give my address away."
Angel has never been unaware of Buffy's whereabouts. Tenancy at Wolfram & Hart left him with a long list of private investigators, with supernatural strengths and otherwise. Since Buffy never distrusted humanity, he chose the less travelled route. His hunch paid off; he hasn't had to call in someone new in years. A middle-age woman putting her girl through Ivy League makes a better shadow than any demon he could have hired.
He can confess. Or let the other vampire take the fall for this one.
It's not as if Spike isn't an expert at climbing back into Buffy's good graces, anyway.
"You were in the directory?" The lie is so bold that Buffy doesn't bother to call him on it. "It's a nice apartment."
It really is.
He looks for bits of her bedroom at Revello Drive until he remembers the desolate crater where Sunnydale used to stand. Then he wonders if the old furniture would have fit in this room.
It's subtle, but his eye catches the changes in style. The decoration is edgier, more daring. There are no weapons openly displayed, and the stone images covered in protective runes are set in a discreet pattern around the room. But a painting hangs in the focal point of the room, an expensive piece of art if he's seen any. Perhaps a random visitor would only see a harmless twirl of sunset colors; but Angel looks at it and shivers inwardly, reminded of flames of hell and an eternity surrounded by them.
This isn't the sanctuary of a school girl with a crappy night job; this is the abode of a woman who's challenged her demons on top of the world's.
This is Buffy's new home.
Where she makes tea because caffeine is off-limits for the next... two months?
"You're staring," she scolds.
Angel remembers that time she woke up in his bed, and he realized they wouldn't be able to keep a relationship for long. The sewer where he broke her heart. That last second that erased twenty-four hours of bliss, and the one that followed that had her across the room, telling him that she would try to forget.
In none of those moments had it been as difficult to meet her eyes. "I - I was trying -" He waves toward her, to the expanded middle of her body. "Seven months?"
"Minus four days." Her eyebrows rise. "You're good."
His head attempts an acknowledging nod. Instead his eyes sink into his tea. Maybe if he stares deep enough he'll discover how he's supposed to act in this situation.
He doesn't think he should leave, though.
But that doesn't tell him why he should stay.
"Welcome to the awkward," Buffy mumbles after another moment of silence, clearly disgruntled.
Her hair is longer than he remembers; even hastily gathered into a high ponytail, it reaches the middle of her back. The color is darker, too, and he wonders when she started dyeing it.
But it still smells of strawberry shampoo.
Some things don't change, he tells himself.
Some things don't need to change.
Setting a woman at ease, that's a talent that never went away. He just stopped using it to lure his victims in.
His cup makes a tinkling noise as he sets it on the low table. He leans forward, loosening his shoulders into a relaxed line. He knows his smile is thin, but at least it's not a lie. "Medieval princess," he says.
Her brow furrows.
"Halloween? Running around scared?" The corner of his lips twitch up. "In a wig?"
Buffy blushes, and her mouth falls open to form a perfectly affronted 'o'.
"You remember our conversation that night?"
Cheeks still reddened, she nods.
"Right. That was awkward."
Her laugh is refreshing.
And neither the sound of it, nor the way it makes him smile back reflexively, has changed one bit.
Their eyes meet across the gap between their seats, and the situation stops sinking in and starts sliding into place instead.
They burst out laughing.
He tries not to, but he can't stop.
Story of his life.
"You need a stand-in," he states half an hour later while he rinses the tea pot. "That's why you called me."
Her kitchenette is all wooden tones with splashes of beige. It reminds him of Joyce's kitchen, though he is unsure whether to mention that. Her mother was never a subject they discussed amongst themselves, not even when they were standing by her grave.
"I was thinking of free help to paint the baby's room, too," Buffy grits out. She wasn't happy when he planted himself by the sink and started doing the dishes. She was even more infuriated when he refused to move away. Something about being able to take care of herself, thank you very much.
"You could have called anyone for that."
Her eyes become green slits that slice through him. "But you're the artist."
Her tone speaks of charcoal portraits at windowsills.
...and he'd thought Darla's mood swings were bad.
"I can work on a mural," he offers, his voice level and understanding. What a century with his sire hadn't taught him, three years with Cordelia had beaten into him. In case of unwarranted female displeasure, deflect and appease until the storm's passed.
Buffy glances up at him, uncertain.
He wonders when's the last time someone stood up to her on her turf. "If I have time for it, of course."
He is rewarded by a apologetic 'Sure. Sounds nice.'
Buffy was never good at saying 'sorry'.
They spend the next few minutes caught up in the monotony of housework. Her contentment in the task is obvious, even if she's miffed at being delegated to drying. He tries to remember a moment like this, back in Sunnydale. He comes up with the picture of a much younger Buffy who'd tried to dust the basement apartment, and the embarrassed look on her face as she'd somehow managed to knock over the glass figurines he kept on a shelf.
Now he tries to picture her starting a life in Portland, setting up a home in this tiny apartment in-between Hellmouth emergencies.
He kind of wishes he'd asked his detective for more details.
"Angel?"
From the corner of his eye, Angel catches her fiddling with the edges of the kitchen towel. The expression on her face warns him that she is warming herself up to something. It doesn't take long for Buffy to sense his attention. Immediately, her eyes drop to her hands as she starts wiping off the spoons he just set on the rack.
Angel waits.
She tries to keep her voice smooth, but the question comes out bewildered instead of curious. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you called."
She nods, mostly to herself, probably doesn't notice how her hand moves to lie below her breast. "That I did."
The smile that follows is more of a welcoming sign.
He smiles back, and hopes that, just this time, he will be able to leave without regrets.
TBC