"Your C.O. told me I might find you here," sounded a deep, velvety voice behind her, now distinctly familiar to her -since she'd never heard it's equal. Spinning around, a mini flashlight clamped between her teeth, Buffy surveyed the hulking form taking up the doorway of the precinct's file room.
"Hi," she said, somewhat lamely, feeling a blush crawl up her neck and stain her cheeks, stashing her flashlight back in her pocket.
"Burning the break time oil?" Angel asked, walking into the room that was little bigger than a broom closet, since it contained case files the department had a tendency to forget about due to their...unnatural nature. Basically, anything weird. And who's name kept popping up? Not surprisingly, his.
"Break time is for kids with too much sugar and too few toys in the sandbox," Buffy quipped, hastily covering the files she'd been perusing, lest he realize she was checking up on him. If these files were any indication, the LAPD had had numerous dealings with the City of Angels most mysterious private investigator over the last two years, but before that there hadn't been anything, not a jot. But apart from that, she hadn't learnt much. Angel was a tough cookie to crumble, but Buffy wasn't deterred in the least. No, that was not in her nature, to give up, to let things go.
"What are you doing here?" Buffy questioned, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly.
"What's with the pastry shop?" Angel deflected with a smirk, brow raised in amusement as he took in the three donuts she'd left by one of the boxes.
"I needed an excuse to be in here," Buffy replied honestly, although she was unsure why. "I'm not exactly allowed to be in here, since I'm not one any actual active cases. But who knows, maybe by my birthday I'll have my first B&E or something equally exciting; a girl can dream," she babbled with a shrug, feeling like there was too little air in the already cramped room. Then again, the guy did take up a lot of space: her G.I Joe remark hadn't been for nothing, because he sure looked like he could handle himself, or so her gut told her. "And I do get a kick out of stealing all the jellies, don't ask me why."
Something in his eyes flickered, although she couldn't have said what it was.
"I came to apologize," Angel told her, the sputtering lightbulb overhead only just illuminating the planes of his face, and the room didn't have any windows -hence her flashlight.
"For?" Buffy pressed.
"For being uncooperative; I know you were only doing your job. Or what you want to be your job. I take it you don't like sitting at a desk, filing other people's paperwork and watching everyone else crack cases?" he remarked, probably very aware that he'd hit the nail on the head, and proud of it.
Buffy swirled her fingers through the dust on a lower box, desperate for something to occupy her hands with so that she didn't have to bear the scrutiny of his penetrating gaze full on. "No, I don't like it," she said, voice barely above a murmur. "People...wait, let me rephrase that, men, still tell me to go get them coffee, tell me I'm not cut out for the cutthroat streets of L.A. And I can't do anything about it, about feeling helpless, about knowing I have to fight for their respect twice as hard just because I haven't got a bag of y-chromosomes. But I can help the people out there, and that's what matters. Even if I'm only just another officer in the uniform, I want to make that uniform mean something."
She fought for breath for a minute. God, what was wrong with her? She'd known this guy for all of five minutes and she was spilling her life out to him as if she'd known him for years. Get a grip, Buffy, she mentally chastised herself.
Squaring her shoulders, she met his gaze.
And found raw honesty and understanding, a deep-seated compassion she had not expected. Was she really that pathetic, that after two seconds she was making this guy feel sorry for her? Well, he shouldn't: he should feel sorry for the woman who would never again see her daughter, the one who's murder she wanted to solve.
"Guys like that? They aren't worth your respect. Don't give them the satisfaction of getting into your head."
"Talking from personal experience?" Buffy teased, although she suspected she'd hit the nail on the head this time around.
Angel quirked a grin. "Something like that. Once upon a time, I might have been, mildly put, an 'insufferable idiot bastard' in my youth."
"And I can see you've changed so much," she drawled, saccharine sweet.
"Fine, I deserved that. But I'd like to take you up on your offer, if it still stands."
Buffy squinted at him in annoyance. "No, you cannot have the last doughnut."
Angel glared, but it appeared half-hearted, even to her.
"Yes, my offer still stands. Pride should never get in the way of the truth."
The man cocked his head. "You know, you're awfully wise for someone your age," he commented dryly.
She tried not to be insulted. Tried, being the operative word. "And just how old do you think I am?" Buffy huffed indignantly.
"Old enough to know that no one ever pases up a free doughnut," he practically purred at her, reaching around her with lightening speed and grabbing one from the box. With a triumphant smirk and a dip of the head in her direction, Angel slipped out of the file room, leaving the young officer to puzzle over this strange man and just what, exactly, she had gotten herself into.
Sequestered in his car, hidden in the shade of the LAPD parking lot, Angel rested his head against the stealing wheel of his 1967 Plymouth, feeling the useless expansion and contraction of his chest as his ribs nudged into the wheel rhythmically.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, what had he just done?
He'd flirted with her, that's what he'd just done. Or been very close to. He hadn't been able to help it; it had been instinctual, to see her down-turned face and comfort her, to hear the fire in her words and hit back with his own.
This was worse. Much, much worse than when she'd come to L.A that first time, when she'd been so close and yet so far out of his reach and the realm of his possibilities. Now, she didn't know why he was dangerous. She didn't even know he was a vampire, for Christ's sake! And he'd been five seconds away from kissing her.
Buffy might not have been able to tell, but he had. He most certainly had. Around her, control was a thing he had very little of.
If he had kissed her though, he knew it wouldn't have been the same. Yes, she'd feel the same, her mouth would taste the same on his, but it wouldn't be her kissing him. It would be a copy of her kissing what she thought was just some P.I with a penchant for black shirts and long coats. And it would kill him, would feel like he was cheating on the real Buffy, his Buffy.
His mouth was suddenly dry, the remnants of his stolen doughnut thick and claggy in his mouth. That was why he didn't eat human food. And this was why he'd stayed away from her.
The two of them were like magnets, constantly being pulled together yet inevitably separating when the power of the force between them became too much. It was over now, though. There would be no him and her. No, he'd figure out what Glory had done to Buffy, put a stop to it or reverse it or whatever he had to do, then Buffy would go back to Sunnydale and kick this goddess bitch's ass, plain and simple.
Buffy had never been plain, or simple, though. There was a reason she always stole the jelly doughnuts, and not just because she did it to annoy Giles: It was because she was full of surprises, and never did what you expected.
Angel banged his head against the steering wheel. What had he just signed himself up for?
As the sun set that afternoon, he found out.
"Let's get to it, then," Buffy demanded, pushing herself off if the wall she'd been leaning against as Angel made his way down from the balcony. She was out of her uniform, dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a light pink sweater, hair up in a ponytail for once -since members of the police force were usually required to keep their hair down or in a bun, lest they give an attacker something to grab and pull you into a difficult situation more easily, literally.
"You're eager," Angel said, eyes quickly darting around the room to make sure there weren't any weapons or books that might raise suspicions. Nothing says 'I've got secrets I don't want you to know about,' than a fifty pound battle axe rusty with demon blood.
"So they tell me," she said with a sly smile, hopping up onto the reception desk and absently playing with the cord of the phone. "My shift ended early, and I'm sure you want this done quickly before the streets catch wind of you helping out a member of the brass and it ruin your whole 'lone avenger of the night' thing you've got going."
"You checked up on me." So he'd been right: that was why she'd been in the file room. Nice to know some things didn't change.
Buffy gave him an irreverent shrug, not in the least bit cowered. "What can I say?" I'm a cop, it's kinda in my nature to be curious."
"But look what happened to the cat," he pointed out with a smile.
"I'm more of a dog person," she countered with, folding her arms across her chest. "Are we doing this or what?"
It seemed this new version of her hadn't been upgraded with a sense of patience.
"We are," said Angel, raising a manilla folder. "But sharing is caring: you go first, then I tell you about my case."
Buffy pouted, "That seems unfair somehow."
Angel threw her a grin. "I never claimed to be fair, only to be the best at what I do."
"Yeah, well I think it's best if you go first, that way it'll be easier to establish a timeline of events and how everything connects."
Angel shook his head. "I can't argue with that logic," he conceded ruefully.
"I didn't think you could."
The blonde took the folder from him, her fingers brushing his. Angel tried not to shiver at the contact, at the feeling of that familiar electricity, the scent of her shampoo -still the same from high school- settled all around him. Her eyes scanned the pages expertly, taking in all the details with a ferocity and intensity he had never seen her give any book in the Sunnydale Library before.
Not even lifting her eyes from the pages, she asked him, "What do you know about the boyfriend?"
"Not much. Names Joseph Wilcox, 29, from Chicago, moved here three years ago, or so his record states. Him and Samantha had been going out for two years, met at a coffee shop, he seemed nice, the usual story. Then, one day, it's like he a switch went off, and he became an entirely different person. Secretive, erratic, prone to violent outbursts," he told her. And all of it was true; he just left out the demon parts.
"Was he on any drugs that might have resulted in that kind of behaviour?" Buffy questioned, taking out a couple of surveillance pictures Angel had taken of Samantha's building.
"Not that I know of. Then again, it's not like I could exactly submit I'm for samples for a tox screen: even I'm not smart enough to do that kind of science, especially without the proper equipment."
The officer threw him an unimpressed glare. "Were all these pictures taken on the same night?"
Angel frowned. "They were."
Buffy picked up two of the photos, eyes squinted. "Yep, that's weird," she murmured to herself.
"What are you thinking?" Angel asked her.
She waved the photos in his face. "See this guy? Look at the shirt he's wearing: it's pristine," she remarked, pointing out the garment, and guy, in question, who Angel had spotted coming out of the doors of Wilcox's apartment building.
The vampire raised a brow. "And this man's choice of clothing is important why?"
"God, when was the last time you opened a fashion magazine?" Buffy rolled her eyes. "A shirt like that, it looks tailored, expensive-looking."
"And what does all that tell you?" Angel drawled.
"That he's someone who cares about his appearance, obviously." Her green eyes scanned the second photo, squinting, as she tried to read the sign of the shop he was coming out of. "He goes from our guys apartment building to 'Kyle's Laundry' So, a laundromat. But look at the garment bag over his arm: you can see that shirt is stained, even through the plastic. It's practically sticking to it," Buffy exclaimed. "You're telling me that a guy who went to the effort of wearing a tailored shirt to pick up laundry would be satisfied with service like that?" she sarcastically remarked.
Angel had to marvel at her brilliance. Now that she'd pointed it out, everything she'd said was painfully obvious.
"I'm surprised your 'non-secretary' didn't see that; she seems like the kind of person who's awfully fashion conscious," Buffy challenged as he took the photos from her, voice holding a gloating note.
Angel couldn't help but quirk a brow. "Says the woman who just figured out said fashion clue. Besides, she helps more in the research and case acceptance capacities." He couldn't exactly tell her that Cordelia was a mystical conduit for The Powers That Be and that her visions provided the foundation for most of his cases.
"I'm sure she does," Buffy merely said, hopping down off the reception desk, her boots hitting the floor with a resounding click. "What's the plan, partner?"
Angel set the file down gingerly by the phone. "First off, we are not partners, merely two groups of people sharing information to achieve a mutual goal. Second of all, you still haven't told me your case details. I've shown you mine, now it's your turn, Summers," he said dryly, unable to even use her first name.
"Jee, you really hurt my feelings, Angel," she purred but nonetheless strode over to behind the desk, crouching down and pulling a messenger bag from the floor. He hadn't even noticed it's presence there, too busy wrapped up in her. Figures. She shoved it into his chest with perhaps a little more force than was exactly necessary, but Angel decided not to comment on it. He withdrew the LAPD case file from it's depths, eyes instantly roving over the content. It was his turn to be quiet as he absorbed the new information and sorted it into what he already knew.
Miranda Blackwell, age 46, found at 12:52 am by a local diner owner coming off their shift. Coroner had estimated T.O.D to be between 22:00 and 24:00 from the minimal signs of lividity. Multiple stab wounds, lacerations, torn clothing, all of which indicated that she'd tried put up a fight against her attacker.
"She was brave."
Angel looked up at the sound of her voice.
"Miranda," she elaborated. "The defensive wounds, the stab to her side. She must have been in agony, but she wasn't going to go down easy. Where she was found...it's not that far from here. Do you think she could have been coming to see you? Warn you about something? Whatever's going on with this boyfriend, it's not a stretch of the imagination to assume it's not anything good." Buffy began tapping her fingers against the desk, anxious drumming that he picked up on right away.
Angel acknowledged with, "She could have been. Or it could have been a trap."
The tapping stopped. Buffy tossed her head. "I don't follow."
"How long have you been out of the academy?" he asked her.
"Six months," she informed him with a curious tilt of her head. "And you're asking me this why?"
A) Because it helped him with figuring out what Glory had done to her, giving him a better indication of how long Glory's hold on her memories went back. And b) he was curious, since she was better than most fresh-faced officers he'd encountered in his time, fake memories or not.
"You're smart," Angel stated, "but you've got a lot to learn about the levels of evil and depravity in the world, I'm sorry to say. The boyfriend could have had the mother killed to draw out Samantha, or draw me out if he knows I'm involved."
Which he probably did, given the fact that Angel may or may not have broken into his place with Gunn the other week, looking for clues about this ritual. Sam's mother was dead, and it could be all his fault. He should have been more careful, should have got someone to watch the mother. He should have...
"If you're standing there blaming yourself, don't be." Buffy's eyes met him, their green hue full of compassion and fiery determination. "You did all you could for her daughter, and that is what matters, what I'm sure mattered to her. The file said she was a single parent, had Samantha when she was barely in her twenties. Her daughter was the most important thing in her life, and now she's all that's left of this brave, strong woman, and we'll make sure that nothing happens to her. But we won't be able to do that if you blame yourself every five seconds," Buffy told him, her bright smile belying the wisdom of her words.
"What did I say about using the 'we' pronoun?" he managed to say to her, for on the inside, Angel was torn to shreds.
He'd forgotten. Despite being a vampire, despite being nearly two hundred and forty five years old and having a flawless memory, he'd forgotten what it felt like to be comforted, especially by her, how with a few words and a heart full of unbridled optimism and purest faith, Buffy could make him feel like everything wasn't so lost, that he himself wasn't lost.
Angel knew this wasn't the woman he loved standing before him, and yet...and yet it was the closest he would ever get.
"Thank you," he murmured, and gave her what felt like his first genuinely happy smile in a long time.
Author's Note: Hello, everyone! Chapter 3, as promised. The next update will be on Tuesday. Get ready for Willow, Tara, Spike and Dawn, who may or may not be playing Monopoly...with real money? You'll find out on Tuesday.
By the way, C.O. stands for Commanding Officer, and T.O.D. is Time Of Death. A 'tox' screen is a toxicology screen where samples -usually either blood or urine- are analyzed to see if a suspect has drugs or alcohol in their system, and what kinds. That's not me being insulting, explaining that, I just wanted to be respectful to you guys, the readers, and not automatically assume you'd know that, cause not everyone might. I've grown up watching shows like Castle and Bones and The Mentalist, so it's second nature to me, but it might not be to you guys!
If you've got time, please leave a review: I'd love to get your thoughts, feelings and opinions about this story so far!
Until we meet again.
Happy Sunday!
All my love, Temperance Cain