SUNNYDALE
Weeks later …
"Kiss before you go?" Fred asked with a winsome smile and wide, bright eyes as she leaned back in her chair and looked up at Wesley.
Spike wasn't sure if Fred had intended for her peach-colored sundress to match the color of the shirt Wesley had paired with a pair of tan khakis, but whether intentional or accident, Spike instinctively found their synchronized wardrobes to be supremely irritating.
Wesley leaned down, brushed his lips against Fred's cheek, then raised himself upright with the barest hint of a blush on his face. "I shouldn't be long," he informed Fred. "Meet you out front in about half an hour?"
"Absolutely," Fred said as she turned back to the book set in front of her. The text was in some language Spike had never seen and he didn't recognize any of the demons in the pictures, and he'd seen a lot of demons. The edges of the book weren't curled from water damage … which probably meant it had been one of the ones Giles had tucked away so that inadvertent eyes wouldn't stumble across something dangerous.
"No kiss for me?" Spike called out to Wesley as he leaned against the book counter.
Wesley didn't bother to turn around as he rolled his eyes, pushed open the library's swinging doors, and vanished into the school corridor.
"Looks like things between you two are going well," Spike said to Fred in a tone of forced, cheery sincerity.
Fred didn't pick up on his subtext, which wasn't like her, but he'd grown used to her occasionally acting in ways that weren't quite Fred.
"They are going so well," she gushed as she assumed a dreamy expression and grinned.
"Not too cramped at his place, I hope?" Spike asked.
Fred shook her head and laughed. "Nope, and I'm glad he offered his spare room, because the apartments you guys have down in the basement are just beyond depressing." She blanched and shuddered.
"He offered?" Spike prompted her. "I seem to remember you laying the hints on awful thick that you desperately needed to be rescued from the miserable living situation you'd found yourself in."
Fred held a hand up to her mouth and unsuccessfully tried to hide her giggle. "There's nothing wrong with pushing things along, right Spike?"
"Nope," he confirmed with a nod, "and I'm guessing you didn't end up needing that spare bedroom once you'd moved into Wes's apartment." He leaned back against the book counter, folded his arms across his chest, and fixed her with his best knowing leer.
Fred frowned at him and replied in a prim, formal manner, "That's between me and Wesley." She hesitated a moment, furtively glanced about even though she knew very well that no one was in the library besides her and Spike, and whispered, "But no."
Spike laughed, Fred laughed, and he felt his concern over her being in Sunnydale ease. It didn't vanish, but it did diminish
If she keeps acting this normal I'll be able to stop keeping an eye on her … which would be great, because I don't want to do it anymore.
"Wesley seems different, right?" she asked, and though the question was phrased in a nonchalant manner, Spike imagined that it was anything but.
"He's no longer quite the worthless twee nitwit he was," Spike replied, and he hastened to soften his words when he saw Fred begin to glower, "after all, he did bail out Giles and the rest of us when the Master attacked. He's certainly more like the Wesley we knew back before … well, you know." He didn't pride himself on his ability to spare people's feelings, but he'd recognized right off that directly speaking to Fred about Wesley's death would be needlessly cruel.
"He just needed a boost of confidence and to get out in the world a bit," Fred replied.
"Boost of confidence?" Spike asked with a laugh lurking behind the words. "Is that your pet name for what you're giving him?"
Fred's face turned scarlet, she hastily glanced away, and Spike couldn't help but laugh uproariously.
"Very funny," she finally muttered.
"Is it strange?" he asked. "I mean, it isn't him, but …"
She interrupted him with harsh, forcefully voiced words, " It is him." Fred appeared to realize that she'd spoken at a far louder volume than she'd intended. "In the ways that matter to me, he's my Wesley." She glanced down at the table, tilted her head, then asked in a far quieter tone, "I know that you know what I mean, Spike. You've been through this."
I should keep my mouth shut.
"It wasn't the same," he said despite his better instincts. "I got to know Buffy, my Buffy, for months. And they were bloody twenty plus years apart in age, and it wasn't the same thing at all."
Completely different situation … right?
"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" Fred asked. "Feelings are feelings, and I … I didn't know when I got here if I would feel the same way about Wesley in this world, but I took one look at him and I knew. I just think of it like this," her words tumbled out of her mouth, and Spike could tell that she'd spoken them to herself countless times, "he has amnesia. If Wesley got conked on the head and permanently lost a few years of memories, the ones with me in them, I wouldn't stop loving him. I'd know that after enough time together he would …"
Spike held up his hand. "Enough," he said. "I get it, and I wish you the best with … whatever it is between you two."
"Thanks," Fred said in a flat, expressionless tone while she pressed her lips into a thin line and watched him with a wary eye.
Time for a change of subject.
He strolled over to the table, snatched up the book she was reading before her reaching fingers could move it away from him, and opened the tome to a random page. "Vicious stuff this is, by the looks of it."
"Spike, stay out of my business," Fred admonished him with a stern gaze as she held out a hand.
He handed the book back to her. "Whatever your business is, it's safe, right? You've made it bloody clear that don't want to talk about Illyria, but magic and demons and Old Ones tend to never bring about anything good. You should know that better than anyone."
Fred had never been skilled at hiding her emotions, and Spike watched a panoply of reactions come over her in response to his comment. First, her spine stiffened in anger, then her brow furrowed in thought, and finally her eyes widened with a sudden realization. "Spike, have you been spying on me since I got here? That would explain why you always seem to be hanging around the library whenever I'm researching something."
"No, no," he hurried to reply. "We travel in the same circles, is all."
He could tell that Fred didn't buy that for a moment.
"Don't worry," she assured him, "I'll probably be out of your hair soon enough."
And what does that mean?"
"But you're making the get-together tonight, right?" he asked.
Fred nodded. "Giles's birthday party? I wouldn't miss it. Besides, Angel mentioned the Bronze often enough when he'd been drinking … in between moping about Buffy … and I'd like to see it for myself."
"With a lot of scrubbing, they maybe even managed to get the blood stains out," Spike replied.
Fred winced. "That's morbid, Spike."
"See you there, then," Spike said as he strolled towards the library doors. He pretended to pause in thought by the exit, then turned back. "You mentioned something about getting out of my hair … you planning on leaving, Fred?"
"Maybe," she replied in an evasive manner that didn't remind him very much of Fred at all. "But first, Wesley and I have a train to catch."
He considered asking her what she meant, but he had a feeling Fred wasn't going to be forthcoming, and besides, Buffy would be waking up from her post-patrol nap soon and he most definitely wanted to be there to help her shower and watch her get dressed.
. . . . . . . . .
He didn't need to stick to the shadows anymore, but old habits died hard. The train station was nearly deserted … Southern Californians preferred cars … and the construction dated back to the seventies, which suited him just fine. The twenty-first century had too many screens, lights, and devices that emitted sounds representing varying degrees of annoyances for his taste, and this felt far more comfortable.
I should have left weeks ago.
He knew why he was still in Sunnydale, of course.
Her.
The tattoos that sinuously twisted around his body were living things. Sometimes they lay still and quiet, other times they were writhing, molten wires laid across his flesh. The mere thought of Buffy always brought the glyphs to life. He'd seen glimpses of her now and then since that night in the library, the night she'd nearly died, but he hadn't approached and she hadn't spotted him. Even when she was on patrol and slaying, she looked beautiful, and he had long since concluded that his desire for her was a cancer on his soul that would slowly kill him if he stayed.
I'm never coming back to Sunnydale.
He knew that was probably a lie, but it was one he had to tell himself. He glanced up at the bright red LED clock set above the train platform. His ticket had already been stamped, the few belongings he wanted to bring with him were in the duffel bag sitting by his feet, and with every fiber of his being he wanted to leave the shadow he was clinging to, climb the stairs leading towards daylight, and go find Buffy.
If you don't stop thinking about her it will kill you.
Not literally, of course, but in the ways that mattered.
"Angel," a cheery, bright, female voice called out from off to his left. "We've been looking all over the station for you, why are you huddled over here in this dreary corner?"
He hid his flinch as best he could, but he did flinch as he pressed deeper into the recess and searched for the voice. For an instant, just an instant, he thought he saw the shadow of a massive, many-appendaged creature on the ground beneath the steps leading from the station to the train platform, but he blinked and the shadow vanished.
"Wesley," Angel exclaimed in surprise as he watched the former Watcher approach with a young, thin woman in tow. She smiled with bright, even teeth as though she recognized him, but he didn't recall ever seeing her before. He glanced her up and down, took in the cheery, yellow floral sundress, oversized sweater, and comfortable-looking suite boots along with the light brown hair, dark eyes, and confirmed that he'd never seen her before in his life.
"Angel," Wesley said. "I'm glad we found you before you left."
Angel glanced at Wesley, at the young woman, then back at Angel. "Why'd you want to find me, and how'd you know I'd be here?"
"I happen to know a little magic," the woman confided with a lopsided grin as she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Truthfully, that's not quite right … it's more like I have a close friend who is always happy to cooperate whenever I need something."
"Okay," Angel said in a hesitant, confused manner.
The woman tilted her head to the side as she glanced him over. "It's great to see you again, Angel. And you're alive, with a hint of a tan, and no more thirst for blood or any of that. You suffered a long time … believe me, you told us all about your suffering, a lot … and you deserve this. You have no idea how happy I am for you." She lowered her voice back to a whisper and added, "Sorry about Buffy, though."
"Fred," Wesley said in a chiding tone as he glanced sidelong at the pretty young woman by his side, "I've warned you that people find it off-putting when you talk about them as if they know you when they've never met you."
"Of course," Fred said with a giggle. "Winifred Burkle, Angel, and it's good to meet you … again." She extended her hand towards him.
He walked forward, hesitantly took it, and gave it a firm shake.
"You're hot," the woman, evidently named Fred, said as she gasped and turned over his wrist. "The tattoos!"
He yanked his arm away and thrust his hands into his pockets.
"I knew about the tattoos," Fred said with a flustered look on her face, "I mean, Wesley and Mr. Giles told me, but … wow … and those are all over you?" She gazed up and down his body, which made Angel uncomfortable and seemed to cause Wesley quite a bit of discomfort.
"When she said hot," Wesley interrupted, "she was referring to the tendency of the Enochian Runes to admit heat, not your physical …"
"I know what she meant," Angel cut him off while Fred continued to smile at him. "Now that we've met, Fred, what are you two doing here?"
"Oh, Angel," Fred said with a shake of her head. "It shouldn't be like this."
"Like what?" he asked as he blinked in confusion.
She reached out and rubbed his upper arm, and while he wanted to retreat from her touch, he was kind of stuck in the middle of the nook he'd been lurking in and there was no place to go. "You shouldn't be sneaking out of Sunnydale by yourself, you're a hero."
Wesley coughed a few times, held a hand up to his mouth, then cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said after he'd finished. "Carry on."
"You saved me," Fred said. "The other you, I mean, but you've probably figured that out by now."
"I kind of thought you might be from a different world," he confirmed as he rubbed the back of his neck, eyed the empty tracks, and wished his train would arrive. "You guys all have that, we-know-everything-about-you attitude that I saw more of than I needed with Spike and Buffy."
Even saying her name hurt.
Fred patted his arm and stared up at him with sad eyes. "I know," she whispered. "I know how much you care about her, and I'm sorry, Angel. I wish I could tell you that it will go away, but you were kind of a wreck about her for all the years that I knew you, and …"
"Anyway," Angel said in a far louder voice than he had intended, "what brings you here?"
"You," Fred replied.
"More specifically," Wesley interrupted, "where you are going, and what you intend to do."
"The hotel," Fred interjected, "the Thesulac demon … Judy … trying to help people."
His tattoos ran cold along his skin, which as far as he could recall, had never happened before. "How do you know about …" He realized how stupid he sounded before he'd even finished the first sentence. "Right," he said in a flat, irritated tone, "you were probably there for all that."
"Some of it," Fred confirmed with a nod. "After you saved me, we worked together for a long time. Angel, we all made a good team, and we saved folks who were in trouble. Folks that nobody else could help."
"Really?" he said as he blinked in surprise. The woman probably didn't weigh a hundred pounds, she carried no weapons that he could see, yet for some reason he had the strangest notion that she was far more dangerous than she appeared. "I usually work alone."
I hope that didn't sound as lame to them as it did to me.
Wesley rolled his eyes at Angel's comment, not much, but enough to be visible, and Fred giggled for a moment.
I guess it did sound as lame to them as it did to me.
"You need help, Angel," Fred said.
Angel stared at Wesley. "And what's your part in all this?"
Wesley stood up straighter and met his gaze. The ex-Watcher seemed … different. The pressed khaki slacks were just as he remembered, but the boots were new, as was the polo in place of the button-down shirt and tie. The glasses were gone, he looked more sure of himself, and Angel guessed from the odd bulges of the fabric covering his torso that he had at least one gun and two other weapons tucked beneath his jacket.
"Angel," Wesley said in a firm, clear voice, "I appreciate what Buffy, Mr. Giles, Faith … even Spike … are trying to do in Sunnydale, but it isn't our place. They have their way of doing things, and I respect that, but Fred and I are not particularly interested in following their lead. I am hoping I can rely upon your discretion with that observation."
Wes grew a spine.
"I know what you mean," he informed Wesley with a shrug of his shoulders. "It can be a bit …"
"Overbearing," Fred suggested. "Now, Los Angeles ..." Her expression turned to one of enthusiasm as she clasped her hands together. "It's a fresh start, or a do over, I guess, but whatever you want to call it, trust me, Angel, you need us. Also, if we're being honest, we need you." She and Wesley exchanged a glance while they held hands for a few seconds.
"You two?" Angel asked as he pointed at one of them, then the other. "Together?"
They both nodded.
Nicely done, Wes.
"We have a second chance," Fred said, and though her voice was light, there was a strange, keening sense of desperation behind the words that Angel found unsettling. "We all do, and we won't make the same mistakes this time." She pressed against Wesley and he wrapped his arm around her waist.
"What, like a little evil fighting team-up, or something?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
A flicker of something crossed Fred's face, the irises of her eyes shone purple, just for a second, and then it was gone. Wesley didn't notice, Angel was sure, but it had been there. He thought it had been there, at least. He hadn't been sleeping well, lately.
"Angel, I think you should …" Wesley started to say, but then Angel raised his hand, shook his head, and cut him off.
"Whatever happened in some other world, it isn't me," Angel replied with as much patience as he could muster, "and I'm not interested in having my hand held, or holding someone else's hand." The platform shuddered, he heard the sound of an approaching train, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Now, if you two will excuse me, that's my ride." He reached down, picked up his duffel bag, and moved to circle around Wesley and the strange young woman.
"Angel, wait," Fred insisted, and the strange sound of urgent need was back in her voice. "You can't go it alone, this isn't the way it's supposed to be!"
That's exactly what I tried to tell Buffy, and look what that got me.
He shrugged and continued moving around them. "Maybe, but it's the way it's going to be."
"Dear," Wesley said as Fred continued to approach Angel with an outstretched hand. Undeterred, Fred continued to cry out to him. "We're supposed to be in that creepy old
hotel, Gunn needs our help, and Lorne will …"
"Lorne?" Angel said in surprise as he stopped for a moment. The silvery length of the train rustled with a deep hum down the tracks, there was a squeal of brakes, and the compartments ground to a halt. The doors swung open with looping, synchronized precision, and Angel knew that in roughly five minutes the train would be leaving. Still, he found himself curious. "How do you know Lorne?"
Fred seized upon his curiosity and hurried to reply, "Green demon, tells fortunes, kind of has a thing for you." Fred was kind enough to ignore Angel's red-faced expression and Wesley's surprised glance at her comment. "He's your friend, our friend, actually, and … and … you shouldn't be heading off to Los Angeles by yourself, Angel, you're just going to end up dead."
The last few words had been delivered in a rushed, frenzied manner that made him wonder if Fred was about to stamp her feet.
"Don't ruin things, Angel," Fred whispered. "I've dreamed about this moment, about having a chance to do things better."
He was about to reply when two figures stepped out of the train. The shorter, a brown haired man with a piercing blue eyes and an angry expression, straightened his tie, tugged at the cuffs of his black coat, and locked his gaze upon Angel. The taller of the two was a rather attractive, if severe looking, woman with auburn hair, stylishly coiffed hair wearing an impeccably tailored purple pantsuit, pumps of the same color, and a white blouse. She, too, stared at Angel with a determined expression.
Both Wesley and Fred noticed that Angel's attention was elsewhere and in unison swung around to gaze at the man and woman who had begun walking towards them. "Lilah," Fred said with a flat, monotone voice while she gave a slight shake of her head. "And Lindsey, I should have known you two would come as a package deal."
The woman Fred had identified as Lilah glanced at the man apparently named Lindsey, and neither seemed surprised that they'd been recognized. They approached to within a half dozen feet and stopped.
"Demons of some kind?" Angel whispered to Fred.
"Worse," she replied. "Lawyers. Lindsey McDonald and Lilah Morgan … they work for Wolfram & Hart."
I definitely know the name Wolfram & Hart, and I feel like I should know the name Lindsey McDonald …
"I'd ask if we'd met," Lindsey said to Fred, "but from what little bit of the briefing I could stay awake for, it's a confusing mess of dimensions and realities and frankly who gives a fuck, am I right?"
"What do you want?" Wesley asked as he extended his arm and tried to usher Fred behind him. Angel couldn't help but notice how happily Fred smiled at Wesley's protective gesture, but he also noticed that her feet remained firmly planted where they were.
Lindsey immediately replied, "What I want is to not be sent here to deliver a message like I'm a first year associate."
Lilah folded her arms across her immaculately pressed blouse and jacket and added, "Yet, here we are."
"What message?" Angel asked.
The man glanced at his watch while Lilah responded to the question. "You're going to miss that train," she informed him. "Go somewhere else, anywhere else, or stay here and pine after the denied love of your life. Hell, go lock yourself in a box and get dumped into the bottom of the ocean, we don't care, so long as it doesn't involve Los Angeles."
"You've lost your L.A. privileges," Lindsey informed him with a wink.
"You two should go," Fred said, and while her voice was sweet and the words were softly spoken, Angel felt his tattoos go ice-cold.
It was at that moment that he remembered where he'd heard the name Lindsey MacDonad. "You," he said as he pointed at Lindsey with his index finger.
Lindsey stared back at him with an annoyed, impatient expression. "What about me, freak?"
Angel drew his coat around him and felt his tattoos slide beneath his skin. "You've been kind of an inspiration to me."
Lindsey reached up, rubbed at his eyes, and glanced over at Lilah. "I cannot believe we're out here running errands involving cast-offs and half-breeds."
"Why is it so important to Wolfram & Hart that I stay out of Los Angeles?" Angel asked.
"This isn't really a question and answer sort of meeting, asshole!" Lindsey screamed. His voice echoed throughout the platform and Angel watched as a few people ducked their head out the doors of the train to see who had yelled. "It's a do as we say, or else, sort of meeting."
"Why not just kill us all now?" Wesley asked.
"Wes," Angel growled, "don't give them any ideas."
"We can't," Lilah said as she glanced at a thin, silver watch with a light blue dial. "A deal was made, slate has been wiped clean, all of that bygones be bygones crap." She lowered her wrist and stared at him. "We're here to politely suggest that you not run up a new tab."
"I've never even met you people," Angel protested. .
"Look, pal," Lindsey said as he glanced back at the train. "None of this is really your problem, so don't make it your problem." He extended a finger and pointed at each of them in turn. "You, this exile from another dimension, and her unemployed former Slayer babysitter can just go find somewhere else to call home besides Los Angeles. Do we understand each other?"
"Oh yeah," Angel replied as he stepped forward to stand in a straight line with Wesley and Fred. "We definitely understand each other."
"Good, now fuck off," Lindsey as he stepped back, turned on his heel, and stalked back into the train.
"Love the tattoos, "Lilah whispered to Angel before she followed Lindsey through the metal doors.
The doors slid shut, a voice rang out from the intercom system and announced the destination of the now-leaving train, and a few seconds later the engine lurched into motion and pulled the cabins behind it into the tunnel.
"I hate those guys," Angel murmured as he watched the train glide down the tracks.
Fred glanced up at him. "Now that's more like it."
He barely heard her words, yet he nodded his head in agreement and scratched at his chin. "Something needs to be done about those guys."
"You can't do this alone, Angel," Fred told him. "You need us, and we made for a good team. Trust me."
"I agree," Wesley said. "I will admit that I wasn't sure if, or when, Wolfram & Hart would take an interest in any of us, but now that they have, I suspect that they will at some point make themselves our adversary."
Angel stepped forward, considered his options, then turned back to Fred and Wesley.
"I'll probably end up dead," he informed them with a fatalistic shrug. "And if you come with me, you'll probably end up dead, too. Or worse."
"I mean, that's not the plan, right?" Wesley said with the barest hint of a smirk on his face.
Angel stared at him in surprise for a moment, then he began to laugh. An instant later, Wesley and Fred joined him.
"Three nights from now, Lorne's place," he suggested. "Pack what you need to pack, and we'll get started."
Fred's eyes glittered beneath the halogen lights of the train station and her smile stretched ear to ear.
"Or if you change your mind," Angel added, "no hard feelings."
"Three days," Wesley said with a nod.
Angel grabbed his bag, nodded at them both, and retreated up the steps of the train station. He flinched when he hit the sunlight, a habit he suspected would take years to break, and vanished into the station.
"See you soon," Fred whispered as she reached out and once again grabbed Wesley's hand.
. . . . . . . . .
"Sweetheart," Giles said in a soothing tone as he beckoned for Jenny to come closer to the bed, "I'd rather lose my remaining foot than have you crying every other night for my sake."
Jenny brushed at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat and nodded. "I know," she said between hoarse, ragged breaths, "it's just not fair."
Giles could not help but sigh as he stared down at the ruin of his right leg. The doctors had done a good job at making a neat, even stump that could be slipped into a plastic and aluminum prosthesis. There wasn't much more than six inches of lower leg remaining beneath his knee, and thank heavens he had that much, or he wouldn't have been able to walk to the extent that he was presently able.
Jenny's mood always improved once he was up and about, so he hurried to slide and secure the stump into the prosthetic limb. Now, of course, would come the most difficult part, but he had gotten better at using his left leg to tilt his hips to and fro while he slid on his pants.
"Let me help you," Jenny said as she scrambled to the side of the bed, crouched down, and helped ease the gray slacks over both his left leg and the ugly, wedge shaped protrusion strapped to the stump of his right leg.
Giles forced a chuckle from his throat. "Earlier today you were in a hurry to get these pants off, now you're in a hurry to get them back on … these are mixed signals, Ms. Calendar."
Jenny looked away, laughed, and just like this spirits lifted and the tension broke.
"I don't know how you do that," she said as she buckled his pants and helped him with his shoes. "Just crack wise and carry on as if everything is fine."
When she finished, he stood, tottered a bit until he'd gained his balance, and reached for her hands. "I am alive," he reminded her, "you are alive, and while we lost people we cared about, we did not lose everyone."
"How many witches are there in this town?" she asked. "How many favors do people owe you? There has to be something that someone can do to fix your leg."
He quickly shook his head. "Magic is unpredictable, especially when utilized for selfish purposes, and and it always comes with a price. Too many I care about have paid such prices already, and I do not wish to do so as well."
"Selfish purposes?" Jenny asked in an incredulous tone. "You lost your leg saving Buffy Summers! How was that selfish?"
He pulled her close, cradled her against his chest, and said nothing. The soft wool of her sweater was warm, he could feel her body beneath the cotton dress, and as he had explained on multiple occasions, he would have much preferred to spend a quiet evening at home this particular evening than going to an overly loud bar and drinking overpriced cocktails.
"Okay, I get it," she finally said as she patted his back. "I'm sorry to bring it up again, I know this is supposed to be a happy night." She pulled back and looked up at him with a smile. "After all, it is your birthday." She ran a hand down the front of his white shirt, plucking at the buttons as she did so.
"We could call Buffy and tell her we cannot make it," he said in a throaty, eager whisper. "Come up with some excuse?"
"What?" Jenny said as she put her hands on her hips and pulled away with mouth agape. "It's your birthday party, Rupert! We are going to meet everyone."
"At a former vampire lair," he said with a resigned air to his voice. "How charming."
"The Bronze has been rebuilt," Jenny assured him as she grabbed her purse. "I'm sure it'll be fun."
Maneuvering down the stairs was always a challenge, but Jenny had finally taken the hint that he preferred to manage on his own. He held on to the banister and lowered himself slowly step by step on his good leg until he'd reached the living room. "Shall we?" he asked as he grabbed the coat slung over the back of a chair.
"Say," Jenny asked as she pulled open the front door, "will that Fred girl be there?"
Giles narrowed his eyes and stared at her in surprise. "I imagine so … why?
"I don't know," Jenny said as she stepped outside and waited for him to follow. "She's really nice, it's just, there's something about her."
Giles considered Jenny's comments while he locked the door. His stump was beginning to hurt, which it always did whenever he climbed down the stairs, but he had resolved long ago to keep such discomforts to himself.
"I know what you mean about Fred," he replied as he turned away from the now-locked door and tucked his keys into his coat pocket.
"There's something … sad … about her?" Jenny said as though she was searching for the right word. "Or … I don't know … like she's looking for something that's already gone, and she just doesn't realize it."
Jenny looped her arm through the crook of his elbow as they walked towards his car. "I worried about this with Buffy, and Spike as well, I suppose. This world must seem so close to the one they knew that the temptation to get lost in the memories has to be overwhelming. The problem is that it isn't that other world. Ms. Burkle, I suspect, desperately wants this to be the home that she's lost … but it can never be."
"Should we talk to her?" Jenny asked. "Is what's going on with her and Wesley healthy?"
Giles quickly shook his head. "She is a rather determined young woman who has made it clear, explicitly at times, that she does not need my guidance. As for Wesley …" He snorted and shook his head. "I imagine that at the moment, his world rises and sets with Winifred Burkle." As they approached the car, he moved to circle to the driver's side door and was stopped by Jenny's grip on his forearm. He glanced down and then at her. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"I've never asked, Rupert, and I don't intend on ever asking," Jenny said as she looked up at him with worried, dark eyes, "but if there was something that I needed to know about myself from that other world, you would tell me, right?"
Oh, Jenny … I should not have looked. Buffy warned me, but she let the decision be mine, and I wish I had not looked. If I had known from the first about what Angelus did to you, I would have injected Angel with the Mohra blood myself.
"Of course," he reassured her, "but there's nothing to know." He smiled at her with all the warmth he could muster, she squinted at him as she likely searched for signs of deception, and then finally she nodded.
"Good," she replied.
. . . . . . . . .
"I'm telling you, you're missing out," Spike exclaimed a he plucked a deep-fried wedge of onion from a decorative, fan-shaped cluster and dunked it into a pink, creamy sauce sitting in a small bowl set in the middle of the dish. He inserted the onion slice whole into his mouth, smiled and with mumbled words said, "Tastes just like it used to. Even better, really, cause now I have working tastebuds."
"How do you know it doesn't just taste good now because you couldn't really taste it before?" Wesley asked as he picked up an onion, inserted it into the sauce, and raised it to his mouth. Before it could reach his lips Fred nimbly plucked it away and with a satisfying crunch bit down on it.
"What?" she asked with a full mouth as Wesley stared at her with an aggrieved expression. "That wasn't for me?"
Everyone laughed, hands reached for the three bloomin' onions set in the middle of the table, and they all gazed around at their surroundings in between speaking to one another about whatever crossed their minds. The Bronze had been rebuilt, cleaned, polished, disinfected … yet somehow, it was still the Bronze. A band was setting up their instruments on the stage, the pool tables were occupied by living players, and while the venue wasn't particularly lively for a Friday, the night was young.
Xander wiped his hands on a napkin, turned to Spike, and said, "The more I think about it, Spike, it's gotta be the caveman. I mean, everything that makes the astronaut an astronaut, he doesn't get to use."
Groans were heard from around the table, Fred put a hand on Wesley's arm and shook her head when he started to join the conversation, and Giles rubbed at the bridge of his nose after he'd drained what remained of the beer he'd ordered as a chaser.
Fred groaned, set down her foam-topped pint glass with an unsteady hand, and leaned over to kiss Wesley on the cheek and leave a red lipstick smear behind. "This topic is off limits when we get to L.A.," she informed him.
The table fell silent and the other eight people exchanged glances before they stared at Wesley and Fred.
"Something we should know?" Giles asked as he removed his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his sleeve.
Wesley winced and patted Fred on the knee. "Honey, this is Giles's birthday party … we said we'd wait."
"My bad!" Fred exclaimed as she reached for her drink, nearly knocked it over, then grabbed the wobbling glass and raised it to her lips. "Cats out of the bag now, though." She pursed her lips in thought. "Did people use to put cats in bags? Sounds cruel."
"Los Angeles," Spike said, and something in the way he said it silenced everyone. Nine sets of eyes swiveled to him. "Fred … why do you want to go to Los Angeles?"
A flicker of sadness crossed her features, then vanished. "It's home, Spike," she replied.
"Well, whether you stay in Sunnydale or move down the road a few hours, or eight if you're hitting the 101 in the afternoon, we can always count on each other, right?" Buffy asked as she sipped at the lime green appletini she'd ordered.
"Very leader-ly," Spike congratulated her as he reached for another piece of onion. "I feel very roused."
"There are … factions … in Los Angeles that concern me," Giles informed Fred and Wesley, though his gaze was fixed on Fred. "Do they concern you?"
"Bad guys are everywhere," Fred reminded him. "You either run away, or you do something about it."
"Wolfram & Hart are no joke," Spike informed her in a low, rumbling growl.
Xander glanced at Spike with a confused expression on his face. "Are we supposed to know that name?"
"Spike," Buffy said in a warning tone, "we can chat about this later." She whipped her head around to stare at Wesley and Fred. "You're not leaving like, tonight, right?"
"No," Wesley assured her. "And you're right, we should discuss this later."
"What I'd like to discuss," Faith interjected, "is the need for the band to start playing so we can dance." She raised her hands, her shirt slid up to expose her bare midriff, and she rocked back and forth while pantomiming dance moves. "I assume you gals are up for it, right?" she said as she glanced around the table.
"Absolutely," Buffy and Fred replied at once.
Tara and Willow, who were tucked into the corner of the booth so that Tara could feel more comfortable, glanced at each other and then more hesitantly agreed.
"I can't really dance," Tara admitted.
"I know the feeling," Giles replied in a droll tone as he sipped at the single malt scotch he'd ordered a double of, served neat in a tumbler.
Everyone looked at him, not sure of what to say, and then raucous laughter erupted.
Buffy did, however, notice that Jenny's mirth … though genuine … also brought with it a few tears. By the time the band had started to play, several more rounds of drinks had been ordered and consumed, and all the worries of the year had faded. Neither Xander or Spike particularly cared much for dancing, but both enjoyed the sight of their partners gyrating upon the floor. Tara and Willow clung to a booth along the wall and swayed in place, and Fred led Wesley upstairs so that they could have a private view from the catwalk.
"Go dance," Giles encouraged Jenny. "I'm not feeling up to it at the moment."
She nestled against his side and shook her head. "No way. I'm staying right here."
He curled his arm around her and let the warm, hazy glow of the scotch settle over him. "There are some things I'd like to say to you tonight," he said as the alcohol made him feel both bold and younger than he actually was. "Things maybe I should have said before now."
"Me, too," she replied while she stared up at him with beautiful, dark eyes that sparkled in the dim light eyes. They were so beautiful, in fact, he couldn't help but crane his head down so he could kiss her.
. . . . . . . . .
"Someone's going to have to fix that," Xander said with a laughing hoot as he tilted his head back and drained the bottle of beer he'd snuck out of the Bronze.
"Unless you want to learn carpentry, it won't be us," Faith replied as she stepped over splintered wood and through the front door of a house. The place still had furniture and some bric a brac, but thankfully no family photographs adorned the walls or rested on tables … that would have been creepy.
She took in the surroundings and their relatively new construction, carpet, and decided lack of miserable-basement-anti-ambiance, and a thought crossed her mind.
"You know," she said, "that money Buffy put into the stock market for us is going to take years to pay off … and that's assuming things happen here like they did in that other world. In the meantime, we could just stay here." She spread her arms wide and twirled about, a motion that made her dizzy and a bit nauseated as the excessive amounts of margaritas she'd consumed kicked in.
"Here?" Xander asked as he settled onto a couch and looked around. "I like the fireplace," he said as he gestured at the brick of the hearth, "but we'd be too far away from Buffy's place and the school."
"Or any other spot, really," Faith hurried to add. "Just pick one, settle in. Half the goddamned houses in this city seem abandoned."
Xander gazed at her with a curious eye, walked over, and put his arms around her waist. She pressed in close and his nearness along with the booze she'd drank made her feel light-headed. Light-headed and very, very eager to see if there was a bed upstairs.
"We don't bullshit each other," he said his fingers pressed her skin. "So don't bullshit me."
"I want a home," she blurted out, and the raw emotion lurking behind her words shocked her. "I want a home," she said more quietly. "I've been to Buffy and Spike's place, Ms. Calendar and Giles have invited us over, and I … I can remember, sort of, what it was like to go year after year without an actual home, and Xander, I don't …"
"Stop," he said before he bent down and silenced her with a kiss. She didn't particularly care to be silenced, but she couldn't argue with his methods, and she grabbed the lapels of his dark leather jacket and pulled him in closer. When the kiss was over she most definitely wanted to proceed upstairs, but Xander was still staring at her, and she could tell that he had something he wanted to say.
"What?" she finally asked.
"I think it's a great idea," he said with a grin as his dark hair fell over his brow. "I didn't want to push, but I'm as sick of that basement as you are."
She nodded and pulled him back towards the stairs. "But we find a place together?"
"Together," he confirmed with a nod.
Faith pulled him down for another kiss, then they rushed up the stairs and were mutually delighted to discover that the prior occupants had, indeed, left behind beds and mattresses. Pillows, blankets, and sheets would have been nice, but they figured they'd make do.
. . . . . . . . .
"Fancy," Tara said as Willow backed into the hotel room and pulled her along by the hands. "Can you … I mean, we … afford this?" She glanced about and took in the enormous king sized bed with freshly cleaned, fluffy sheets and pillows, the plantation shutter windows, the marble of the bathroom and the ivory-colored tub, and the likely hideously expensive mini-bar set in the corner.
"Remember that guy at the front desk whose eyes were bulging out of his head?" Willow asked with an impish grin on her face.
Tara nodded in reply.
Willow blithely continued, "In exchange for letting us have the room for the night, I let him install a camera so he could watch."
Tara suppressed a laugh, assumed a serious expression, and with a nod replied, "Oh, that's fair.
"Seriously though," Willow said after she'd sniggered in the cutest possible way, "after every dusted vamp nest I've been saving up my share, and we have to live a little every once in a while, right?"
Tara took in her surroundings. "This is definitely living."
Willow glanced upwards and made a show of squinting her eyes. "It's bright in here, don't you think?" She scampered over to the complicated looking light switch panel, fiddled with the dials and buttons for a few moments, and eventually managed to dim the lights in the room to a low glow.
"Willow Rosenberg," Tara said as she folded her hands and raised an eyebrow in Willow's direction. "I've had a quite a bit to drink tonight, and if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to take advantage of me."
Willow laughed, held a mouth to her hand as she hiccuped, and then rushed over to throw her arms around Tara's shoulders and plant a long, lingering kiss on her lips. They both tasted of margaritas … Willow's strawberries, Tara's traditional … and neither wanted the kiss to end.
"There's a Jacuzzi tub," Willow finally whispered when they separated for air, "but since it's already getting late, I thought we might … you know … now?"
"No foreplay?" Tara said with a gasp. "What kind of girl do you think I am?"
Willow stepped back, winked, then Tara's jaw dropped open as Willow kicked off her flats, pulled her sensible sundress over her shoulders, and then sat down on the bed to peel her stockings down. The entire time, Willow fixed Tara with what she likely thought was a sultry look, but in fact leaned more towards preciously cute. Once the stockings were off, Willow stood, swiveled back and forth with a hesitant smile on her face, and gave Tara a good look at the dark blue, strapless bustier and matching thong that she had been wearing beneath her dress. The silk of the garments hugged her body and left little to the imagination.
"I feel really self-conscious in this, so try to say something soon," Willow urged the tongue-tied Tara as she set her hands on her hips and waited expectantly.
Tara squeaked something unintelligible for a few seconds and then cleared her throat and replied, "Wow." She could feel heat blooming on her face, along with other parts of her body, and when Willow neared she couldn't help but hungrily gaze over her form. "Wow," she repeated.
"Wow will do," Willow said in a husky whisper as she leaned forward, ran her tongue up Tara's neck, and gave a neighboring ear the lightest of licks.
Tara shuddered, pressed her thighs together, and let out the faintest of moans. She was just about to return the favor when she felt it. She never had any warning when the sensation of awful, alien power would wash over her, nor was there anything she could do to lessen it once it had arrived. She simply had to wait for it to pass with fear-locked muscles and a dread-filled heart. Sometimes the sensation of dark magic rippling through her body lasted less than a second, other times near a minute, but when it arrived it would monopolize her senses, drench her in terror, and then dissipate as suddenly and thoroughly as it had arrived.
She had no idea what the source of it was, other than that it was bad, it was connected to shadowy, inhuman entities, and that it made her skin crawl. Sometimes it brought visions, flashes of other places and time. Of late, on occasion, she'd had glimpses of a vast, tentacled monster armored as if for battle and crowned by purple lightning.
Thankfully this time wasn't that bad, and within seconds she'd felt normal except for her clammy, goose-bumped skin and chattering teeth.
She and Willow had no secrets, and once she'd felt the felt the prickling of evil forces on her skin, Willow had recognized the signs and immediately guided her to the bed.
"Hey, I'm here," Willow said as she laid a hand on Tara's cheek. "It's fine."
Tara looked at Willow and reached up to press her hand against her cheek. "These flashes, or hallucinations, or whatever they are, they aren't going away."
"We knew that might happen," Willow said after she'd given her a soft kiss on the cheek. "And Ms. Calendar and Giles are sure that if you stay away from all that bad stuff, it won't get any worse."
"You're right, and besides, whatever it was, it's gone now," Tara said in what she hoped was a reassuring voice as she sat up straighter and forced a smile to her lips. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss this topic any more, so with a calm stillness to her voice she said, "Should we get back to what we were doing?"
Willow put her hands on Tara's shoulders and with firm movements forced her back down on the bed. "Absolutely," she replied. With nimble, sure fingers she undid the buttons on Tara's blouse and then pulled it open She leaned forward, pressed her mouth against Tara's neck, and then kissed and licked her way downwards first to Tara's belly button, and then lower still, all the while tracing little patterns upon quivering skin with her lips and tongue.
"Don't stop," Tara gasped when Willow peaked her head up for a moment to look at her.
"Whatever happens, you and me, we'll get through it together, okay," Willow whispered.
Tara responded with a fervent nod before she reached down, ran her hands through the red tresses of Willow's hair, and with gentle nudges encouraged her to continue with what she had been doing.
. . . . . . . . .
"I mean it, Spike," Buffy complained in a heated, somewhat slurred fashion while they stumbled arm in arm back to their house. "I consider the topic off limits for jokes from now on!" She held out a hand and made a dramatic slashing gesture. "It's disgusting, it's wrong, and it isn't funny."
Spike chuckled for a moment, then replied, "Faith always laughs."
My face better not be turning red.
Buffy turned away from Spike so that he couldn't see her cheeks bloom a rosy hue beneath the streetlights. "You two can tease me all you want and yuk it up like a couple of possessed hyenas, but it's not going to happen." She let out a frustrated sigh, shook her head, and added, "I have no idea why Faith encourages you."
"I think she'd be interested," Spike said with a shrug, "we'd have to get rid of Xander though. Four's a crowd."
Buffy held out her hands and made a retching noise. "Enough! Really!" She put enough bite in the second word that she assumed Spike would get the message.
I should have kissed Angel when I had the chance.
Spike thankfully took the hint and dropped the subject.
Her slayer strength wasn't weaning off the alcohol fast enough, and from time to time she grasped Spike's leather clad arm for balance as one high heel boot or the other snagged on a crack in the concrete or caught in the grass she'd stumbled onto.
Spike had fared somewhat better in the evening's festivities, but his steps staggered a bit, too. The two vamps they'd spotted lurking in an abandoned storefront they'd dusted in between fits of giggling would have killed them if they were just regular old people.
But we're not … we're not regular people, and while that's fun, and exciting, it can't be everything. Not for me, not anymore.
She had just spotted the overgrown, weed-infested grass of their front lawn when she pulled to a stop, yanked at Spike, and refused to move until he was standing in front of her.
"Hey," she said as she looked up at him and smiled.
"Hey," he replied back as he glanced at the house, and then at her. "Might be more comfortable inside, though the concrete is fine if that's what you prefer." He bent down to kiss her and she extended an arm, put her fingers on his chest, and pushed him back. She had trouble focusing, and her hands didn't work quite right, but Spike respected the gesture and stood back up anyway. "What gives?" he asked.
"I want to talk about the other Buffy for a moment," she said, and she tried very hard to keep her face serious, but Spike looked so cute with the irritated blue eyes and the clenched jaw that she couldn't help but grin.
Focus, Buffy!
He tried to start her moving again and she stayed put. Finally he muttered an epithet under his breath, folded his arms, and said, "You're the only woman I want to talk about."
"That's sweet," she said as she wondered whether it was her imagination that the ground was moving beneath her feet. "And this is the last time, I promise. I just want to remind you, Spike, that whatever she wanted for life, that's not me." She stumbled closer to Spike and put the side of her face against the cool, black leather of jacket. "It isn't me, do you get what I'm saying?"
"I know that she isn't you," he whispered to her, and the irritation had been replaced by affection. "The fact that we're here together is proof enough of that."
He's not getting it.
"Do you know what I'm talking about?" she said as she leaned harder against him. "Do you understand what I'm saying?" He looked down at her, she stared up at him, and she could only hope that he got it, because words were incredibly difficult to speak at the moment.
"What are you saying, slayer?" Spike asked. "Picket fence? Marriage? Little ones?"
She laughed and nearly fell over when her heel slipped out from under her. Spike caught her and she replied, "I'm nineteen for a while yet, so maybe we start small … like, you could mow the lawn?" With a pointed stare she eyed the ankle high grass growing wild between the unkempt row of bushes.
"Now I know you're bloody pulling my leg," Spike said as he put his arm around her shoulders and succeeded in getting her walking again towards the front door.
She shook her head and the wave of spinning it provoked almost keeled her over. "Okay, okay," she spluttered, "what if I told you I did want the picket fence and all the rest? Or I want those things somewhere else besides Sunnydale, or maybe the embarrassment of being a high school drop-out leads me to get a GED and apply to colleges?" Her voice turned strident and defiant. "Does any of that scare you Spike? I mean, what do you want, besides me?"
"You're what I want," he said, and his voice was serious for once. "That's it."
"There's more to life than me," she reminded him. "I mean, the killing and the sex and the danger is great, it's fucking great Spike, but this can't be all there is to our lives." They climbed the steps to their front door, Spike helping her up as she walked, and with a final rush of words, she said, "I saw what that kind of life did to me … did to her … and I don't want that."
"Whatever you want, love," Spike said as he helped her through the front door, smoothed down the welcome mat that she'd kicked over, and then closed and locked the door behind them.
"Good answer," she replied as she squinted her eyes and tried to avoid the harsh glare of the overhead lighting. "Safe and sound," she said as she kicked away her shoes, let her pale, lambskin coat fall to the ground, and pressed herself against Spike. He kissed her, and it was warm and wonderful, and Spike was absolutely going to need to carry her up the stairs. "Other than this little black dress," she said when the kiss had ended, "you want to know what else I've got on?"
Spike bent over so that he could let the warmth of his breath caress her ear and neck as he spoke, "As hot and heavy as you wanted to dance, I already know that little slip of cotton is all you have protecting you from me."
Part of her heart fluttered, and another part of her flared with warmth.
"Take me to bed already," she said as she stood up straight and held her arms out. Spike obediently scooped her up, and she wiggled her feet and laid her head against his chest as they walked. "Have your way with me," she mumbled with half-slurred words. "Whatever depraved notion crosses your mind, I can't stop you." She yawned and smiled happily. "If I'm not begging for mercy within five minutes, you're, you're …" Words escaped her and she yawned again.
Spike climbed the last few steps and stepped onto the carpet of the upstairs. Carefully, so as not to jostle Buffy against the wall, he moved sideways towards the master bedroom. "Not tonight, love," he said quietly. "Tonight is just cuddles and maybe holding your hair while you hang your head over the toilet, but if the invitation is still open in the morning, I'll take you up on it."
Buffy kicked her feet in anger, wrinkled her nose, and scowled at him. "Not fair!" she whined. "I thought I was getting laid." She reached up, stroked his chin, and ran her fingers down his neck in a way that always made him shiver. "Bet I can change your mind."
He'll change his mind.
Spike maneuvered through the doorway, laid her in the bed, then hastily turned off the hallway lights and turned the bedroom lights to a soft, dim glow. He stripped down to his skivvies, laid next to Buffy, and pulled the blanket over them.
"Really?" she asked with closed eyes and a drawl to her words as she tapped her fingers on his chest. "You just want to sleep?"
He coaxed her to roll over so that he could nestle her back along the curves of his body, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed the back of her head.
"I love you," Buffy whispered to him, and he could tell that she was only seconds away from falling asleep.
"I love you, too," he replied.
That was nice … I'll just take a quick nap, and then Spike and I can get down to …
A soft cooing sound reassured Spike that Buffy had heard him, and then, as he had predicted, her body went limp and she proceeded to snore.