Disclaimer: The Buffyverse was created by Joss Whedon, Veronica Mars by Rob Thomas, and the storyline by me.
X X X X X
"Um --" Buffy said, and then stopped.
When she hasn't spoken again after a minute, I said, "Um? That doesn't seem to fit this new level of openness."
Yes, I realize I'd backed her into a corner. But she'd backed me into one as well. My rep was that of Veronica Mars, girl detective. It would look suspicious if I didn't try to find out exactly why the hell she was so keen to figure out what I had in my water guns. And she was smart enough to peg a lack of curiosity on my part as another piece to whatever puzzle I was to her.
She leaned back in her chair. "Yeah. I suppose it is." After a second, she added, "And I suppose if I don't tell you, that you'll try to figure it out anyway?"
"The answer to that would be a distinct and definite yes," I said.
"And if I asked you not to?"
"Well, see, my curiosity's piqued now. I'd just have to keep going."
"And if I said you wouldn't believe me?"
"I'd say I'd seen enough crap and weirdness in my life that that's not likely to be an issue."
"Not this weird."
"Trust me," I said.
"And if I told you not to?" I think she was portraying it as a hypothetical. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Buffy hadn't yet metamorphosized into George Patton, Jr. yet.
"I'd say you have no right to tell me do anything."
Another period of silence. Buffy wasn't Faith. It wasn't in her personality to simply threaten to beat the living hell out of me if I persisted. And I wouldn't listen to her if she did. If I'm willing to go up against a gang like the Fitzpatricks, I'd be willing to take on an irritable Slayer.
But, like I said, Buffy wasn't like that. I could tell that she was weighing her options right now. I could see three realistic ones. One, frantically make up something on the spur of the moment and rely on "Sunnydale, home of the terminally clueless" to carry her through; two, get up, run, and try to avoid me in the future; or three, actually tell me the truth.
If I'd been a betting woman, I would have placed money on option one.
This is why I'm not a betting woman.
"I'm telling you now," she said, "You won't believe me."
"Try me."
She sighed. "Okay. Meet me back here tonight shortly after dark. Bring your Supersoaker and be ready to run like hell if I tell you."
As calmly as I could -- inside, I was ready to be knocked over with a feather -- I said, "Dangerous?"
"Yup."
"I'll be there."
She sighed. "I hope it isn't your funeral."
Things had built up to the point where we pretty much had to part company right then and there. Small talk and window shopping after a big confrontation has a definite air of the anticlimactic. Buffy left the office and I sank back to the couch.
What. The. Hell?
Apparently I'd backed Buffy into enough of a corner that she thought telling me the truth was the only way out. Either that or she was going to try to have someone scare the hell out of me.
And again, Buffy Summers didn't seem nearly that Machiavellian.
I would have avoided it if I could have. But the only way for that to happen would have been to refuse to tell her -- which would have only fueled her suspicions; refuse to ask what the hell she thought I was packing -- which would have fueled her suspicions -- or to not have set up the meeting at all.
Ah, time travel. Where art thou when we need you?
(The only time travel I remember being done in the Buffyverse -- Buffy's "Been There, Done That" experience in The Magic Box aside -- was Illyria. And she was a God. So I wasn't solving this through any convenient trips back through time. Not unless this was not only the Buffyverse, but the Back to the Future-Verse. And noticing a distinct lack of anyone remotely resembling Christopher Lloyd or Michael J. Fox flying around in converted Deloreans, I'd have to say the odds of that were pretty slim.)
At least I had lead time. About seven hours or so, but that should be enough.
So. Home. To Backup, and lunch, and whatever homework I actually needed to do.
X X X X X
There was one piece of good news to come down the pike: Dad called.
"Guess what I have in my hand."
"The keys to the kingdom?"
"Try again."
"A rabid weasel?"
"I think you'd be hearing my screams. One more try, sweetie."
"The agreement between Amelia DeLongpres, Abel Koontz, and Jake Kane?"
"Why is it always takes you three tries, sweetie?"
"Because it allows for maximum humor with minimum annoyance value, of course."
"You," he said, "Are entirely too analytical."
"I've been told that at times." The humor left my voice. "Dad. Good job."
"Thank you. You know this is only the beginning."
"Yes," I said, "But now we at least have that beginning." Still, he was right. We might be able to work up a good book on the subject using the evidence we had now: The shoes mysteriously traveling from Lilly's bedroom to Abel Koontz's boat; the security camera (in the original timeline it had been a traffic camera, but those weren't quite so common yet) that had revised the timeline of her death; and now this.
But that wouldn't get Abel Koontz cleared -- not yet, anyway -- and it wouldn't get Aaron Echolls convicted.
No, that evidence, the tapes of Aaron and Lilly having sex, I still had well-hidden. The only other person who knew they existed was Aaron Echolls, and he would have no idea I had them.
"So, you're on your way home now?"
"Passing the Nevada border as we speak. That should get me back in time for a nice dinner."
Hmm. Potential conflict. "Do you mind making it an early dinner?"
"Provided you're not shoving tuna in my face the second I walk in the door, no."
"There goes that photo op."
"I live to disappoint. Why the early meal?"
"I'm meeting Buffy Summers at around 7 for some fun and exciting school-related activities."
"Define school-related. I want to be sure you mean something to do with studying, and not something to do with TP'ing Principal Snyder's car."
"Dad! I would never do that." A pause then, "It's too unoriginal."
"Veronica –" he said with just that hint of fatherly exasperation that let me know that, while he wasn't upset, he would appreciate a serious answer to the question.
"I'm helping her with some schoolwork. That's all."
"Just be careful. You know how Sunnydale gets after dark."
"I will."
"Good. See you this afternoon."
X X X X X
We went out for an early dinner – being careful to keep our gloating to inside the apartment, where Dad informed me that he had already made several copies of the agreement between Koontz and Jake Kane, and hidden them in various hard-to-reach places. "Just in case Clarence Weidman happens to find out what I've been up to."
Oh, I wouldn't doubt that. Clarence Weidman, for all of his faults, is damned efficient is finding out things you're trying to hide from him. In any battle of wits, I was backing my father, of course, but Weidman had more than wits: He had boatloads of Kane Cash.
Still, if we told him that we didn't think it was a member of the Kane family, he might be convinced to back off.
I wouldn't go placing any large wagers on that. But then, you know me and my history with gambling.
We got home, I grabbed my school bag – making sure to pack the water pistol. (I was going to add some hot sauce when I got to Dad's office, to make sure Buffy saw me do it. It honestly wasn't a bad idea – a dash of that hot sauce in plain water, in someone's eyes, would hurt like hell.)
I beat Buffy there, by how much I'm not sure. I went inside and got the hot sauce, adding a few drops to the mixture in my water pistol.
When I closed the closet, I nearly had a heart attack. Then it was all I could do to stop myself from smiling.
Angel was standing in the front office.
Not to sound too much like the Master, but we'd obviously reached the "scare the hell out of Veronica" portion of the evening. And since Buffy wasn't reckless enough to throw me into the line of fire, this was what she'd come up with.
Either that, or this was an awfully big coincidence. And while, unlike Buffy, I do believe in coincidences (I'm willing to concede the leprechauns), I'm not dumb enough to believe this is one.
"Veronica," Angel said, in that smooth-not-threatening-and-scarier-because-of-it voice I'd heard hundreds of times. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," I said. "After all, my father owns the place." I didn't let on that I had any idea what was going on. I'm really quite proud of myself. Meryl Streep's got nothing on me, I tell you. Nothing.
"The door was open," he said. A lie, of course. It hadn't been. It hadn't been locked, but it hadn't been open.
Still, I had to play this out. I had the water pistol in my hand -- I didn't want to use it on Angel, both because I didn't want to hurt him and I didn't want to tip my hand on the holy water. I would if I had to. Buffy would show up before things went too far, rescue me, and then see how I reacted.
She hadn't thought it through. Even assuming I was the average Sunnydale resident, living my life in frantic and determined denial, I would have gotten suspicious when I saw her hanging around the person who'd attacked me.
And I'm not the average Sunnydale resident. Wouldn't have been, even if the Adversary hadn't let me keep my knowledge of the future and the way things worked. (Note to the Adversary, whom I assume is listening in on my private thoughts: That is not a suggestion for a future challenge. Really. One is enough.)
"So," I said, "As you can see, I'm okay."
"I can," he said, making no move to leave.
"Did you want to hire me again? Some other ex-boyfriend of Buffy's starting to rouse your suspicions?"
"No," he said. "Nothing like that."
"Then I'm really going to have to ask you to get going," I said, continuing to follow the script.
He stepped forward and put his vampire face on. "I really can't do that."
Okay, now my hand had been forced. I fired the water pistol --
Not at his face. At his hands.
They started burning. He yelped in pain, cursed, and said, "Buffy!"
Buffy came running in the front door. "Yes?"
"You were right. It is holy water. Though it hurts worse than any other kind."
"That would be the hot sauce," I said. Then looking at Buffy, "So this was your secret? Vampires exist?"
"You knew?" she said.
"I knew," I said. "I don't carry this cross around because of my deep and abiding faith." I pointed to my necklace. Then, to Angel, because there's no way I would have known this: "So what? You're a good vampire?"
"Yes."
"But he's the only one," Buffy said. Then, again, more seriously: "You. Knew."
Deliberately mocking her tone, I said, "Yes. I. Knew. How. Do. You. Know?"
"Knock it off," she said. "Why didn't you tell me that was holy water?"
Allowing some disbelief to enter my voice, I said, "How was I supposed to know that you knew?" To Angel I added. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Yeah. Holy water doesn't kill us unless you plunge us in a pool of it. I'm going to have trouble holding things for a while, though."
"Well, then, next time don't make your act so convincing," I said.
"How did you know?" Buffy asked. "And if you say any variant on the words 'I'm a detective," I'm going to hurt you."
"Well, then, I'm not going to be able to answer you," I said. "I observe. I notice what's going on around me. And I'm not an idiot. Once I knew, I did research. Used my best judgment to try to sift out the serious information from that written by Anne Rice fanatics. Figured out that vampires weren't all that was out there -- but that at least I could protect myself from them if I carried the holy water and wore a cross. I'm not superhumanly strong and I don't carry a gun."
"Guns don't kill vampires," Angel said.
"I imagine a bullet through the head or kneecap might slow one down a little," I said. "That would give me time to run. But, again, I don't have one. Now. Here's a question for you."
"Yes?" Angel and Buffy asked at the same time.
"Not you," I told Angel. "You. How do you know?"
She went over to the reception area couch and picked it up. "I am superhumanly strong."
"You fight vampires."
"And the occasional demon, robot, mummy, and praying mantis woman. Don't ask."
"Wasn't about to."
Putting the sofa down, she said, "You can't tell anyone." Angel echoed her.
"Wasn't about to," I repeated. "There are a couple of other people who've figured out the supernatural exists. They have no more intention of trying to fight them than I do. I want to know enough to be able to protect myself as best as I can. If I hear someone in trouble, I'll try to help. But I'm not suicidal."
Buffy suddenly realized something. "That mugger you rescued Sheila from," she said. "That was Spike." A minute or so of conversation established that it was, indeed, Spike. "So if you know, why don't you do more?"
"I'm not a fighter," I said. "I'm -- yes -- a detective. And from all I've read, vampires appear to be notoriously resistant to being susceptible to the kinds of things detectives do. I knew there was someone out there fighting them. Now I know who. Trust me, there's no way I'm going to tell anyone. Short outcast blonde solidarity."
Raising an eyebrow, Angel said, "You do realize that makes you SOB's, right?"
Buffy and I looked at him, each other, and laughed. "Fine. SOB's it is," I said.
As we walked out of the office, Buffy said, "So, if I need a detective . . . "
"Call me." After a second, I added. "I may even give you a discount."
"May?"