Stairs, stairs, stairs. Why did she have to pick an apartment building with so many stairs? She couldn't have picked one with a fancy elevator that played cheery music and had bellhops that carried your bags and got your morning paper for you, could she? Sticking her stubborn key in her even more stubborn lock, Buffy felt her thoughts being torn back to Angel and the long hours they'd just spent together, working on this case.
She didn't know what to make of him. He seemed a whirlwind of contradictions to her: funny yet quiet, dark and secretive yet also charming, and very intelligent, almost too intelligent for someone who wasn't even thirty, or certainly didn't look like he was. He seemed to be carrying around this cloud of guilt, something that Buffy was all too familiar with.
Celia. The alley. The knife. The blood, so much blood, seeping into the white of her costume, tears falling in the dark...
Buffy forcefully snapped herself out of her haze by slamming her hand into the wood of her door. Palm tingling, she quickly made her way inside her little haven of space -being an LAPD Officer, and a newbie at that didn't exactly pay out the big bucks- smiling at the sight of the little potted willow tree on her windowsill by the radiator. She'd had a weird obsession with willow trees lately, they always seemed to cheer her up, so she'd put one in her locker at the precinct, too. Checking that her service piece was still in it's safe -a nervous habit that she knew she'd never likely kick- Buffy picked up the remote and turned on the TV, the incessant background noise welcome in the otherwise too-quiet apartment.
On the one hand, Buffy knew that what she was doing was wrong, or at least in violation of her promise to adhere to the rules of the police department. She'd taken files out of the precinct, files that she'd stolen from the detective working the Blackwell murder case (luckily he wouldn't notice until tomorrow, and she planned to get to the bullpen early to put them back) and this wasn't even her case to begin with! Her job was to write out parking tickets and collect evidence and get witness statements, not go gallivanting off all vigilante cop and start snooping around herself. So she knew it was wrong, and yet like sneaking up past your bedtime on Christmas Eve to see what presents your parents have put out for you when you're a kid, even though you know you'll find out tomorrow anyway, she couldn't seem to help herself.
Besides, Stevens (the detective working the case) was a misogynistic jerkweed who couldn't tie his own shoes and would eat literally anything -she thought she'd actually seen him eating a urinal cake when they ran out of food in the break room one time, but she couldn't be sure- and called her 'Sugar,' whenever she passed his desk. This case was hers, official or not, and she'd see it through to the end, no matter the costs.
Buffy hadn't been able to save Celia, but she could save Samantha and get the justice for her mother that she deserved.
If someone went up to one of the Scoobies and asked, 'Is Willow Rosenberg a worrier?' said woman in question knew what they'd say. They'd laugh nervously, likely going red in the face, then exclaim with a raised brow, "Have you met her?" -Willow pictured Xander in this particular scenario. Willow was known for her high worry capacity, of this she knew. That, and her profound love of reading and learning new things, and maybe comfy sweaters if they were trying to broaden out the list a bit. The point was, she was worried about Buffy. There was at least two of the gang at the house at any one time, if not all of them. In the week since she'd been gone, they'd all battened down the hatches, preparing for evil. Evil, it seemed, had not wanted to come out. Either that or they'd seen how many weapons Giles had carried in here the other day and been understandably intimidated, but Willow guessed that was only wishful thinking on her part.
She'd tried to make stuff as normal as possible for Dawn's sake, tried to keep some sort of routine so that the days didn't all blur together into one meaningless blob -since school was out for summer. Anya had even offered to take her shopping, saying they could go to the Pet Store, so long as they stayed away from it's bunny denizens. That had been met with a 'No, thanks, I'm good.' Spike seemed to be the only one who could cheer up the teen at the minute, and a part of Willow had felt jealous and threatened by that. She was Buffy's best friend: she should be able to take care of her best friend's little sister!
Yet staring in the direction of the couch as Spike and Dawn played another game of Monopoly -was he using real money?- she wasn't so sure she could.
"You're thinking too hard," Tara declared, threading her arms around her waist from behind and resting her chin on her shoulder. "I can feel it all the way from over there."
"I'm sorry," Willow said, giving her girlfriend's arm a gentle squeeze in apology. "I just-"
"Feel helpless, mildly threatened, trapped by this magical bubble/forcefield thing. And now that we know Buffy's in L.A, it feels even worse?" she supplied with a knowing smile.
Willow turned in the circle of her arms. "You got it in one, missy. Gold star to you."
"I can always tell with you," Tara said easily. "You don't like Spike spending all this time with Dawn, do you?"
The witch shook her head. "It's not like I mind exactly..." she trailed off.
"You just wish you were the one cheering her up, because then you'd feel like you were actually doing something to contribute. But hey, what use have I had this week other than sorting out the laundry and making spaghetti?" she asked dryly.
"You do make really good spaghetti," Willow mused absently. "But yeah, it's weird I guess. He's a vampire, and not always the nicest fella. She's got all these memories of me and her and growing up, but she still picks him to spend her time with. Makes the jealousy monster rear it's head a smidge."
Tara sat down on one of the kitchen stools, taking her hands in hers and pulling her closer. Willow didn't object. "Maybe that's why she does spend so much time with him," Tara began. "She doesn't have any conflicting memories when it comes to him. All her memories of him are of now, in the present. With you and Xander and Giles it's...tangled. Confusing. Overwhelming. With everything that's happened lately, everything going on now...I think she needs that easiness. In any case, he seems to genuinely like her," she said with the faintest of smiles.
"Oh, that's an easy one: he's in love with Buffy, and he promised to look out for her because of it. He wants to look good for her when she gets back. If she gets back."
Tara tugged on their entwined hands, forcing her to meet her gaze. "Hey, hey, don't think like that. Positive thoughts only," she chided. "We'll get her back, and everything will work itself out. You'll be back to playing Monopoly together and eating ice cream in no time."
"Promise?" Willow asked.
Tara replied firmly, "Promise promise."
"I love you."
At that, she blushed."Oh, Willow, I love you, too."
They'd been playing for barely half an hour, and already Spike was firmly kicking her butt. Thoughts half on the game and half on the sight of Willow and Tara murmuring quietly in the kitchen, Dawn moved her little dog two squares. Spike, of course, was the racecar. And yes, they were playing with real money, not that she minded: it was likely a more honest way than how Spike usually came into money, anyway.
Suddenly, he looked up at her, gaze wavering from the board for the first time in a while. "Something's buggin' you," he observed deftly.
Dawn tossed her hair over her shoulder, trying to look innocent, although she hadn't done anything wrong. "No, it's not," she said, although she could have sworn her voice wasn't usually that high, or squeaky. Maybe her new nickname should be 'Dawn the Mouse, Who Obviously Can't Lie.'
"Nibblet, there's no use lying with me: I'm older than you, remember? By a lot, so I know when people aren't being exactly truthful," he said with a wry grin.
Dawn couldn't help grinning back. "Yeah, that's because you were probably the one doing the lying."
Spike moved his racecar three squares. "Touché." He soon turned serious, brows bunched, but not in the vampire way, just the concerned way. "Is this about Buffy?" he asked, with enough gentleness it almost made her cry. Here she was, random teenager number five, and she was making a vampire older than the invention of the radio act all parental. God, she felt so pathetic.
"Is it really that obvious?" Dawn asked him, fighting to keep her voice steady. If it was the other way around, Buffy wouldn't cry, so she wouldn't, either. If she was missing, Buffy would be fine, would be out slaying vampires rather than playing boardgames with them, and losing.
"Don't you think that, not for a second." Dawn looked up at his harsh tone. How had he...
"You think I don't recognize that kinda anger when I see it?" Spike patted the space beside him on the couch. "Come here, sweetheart." Hesitantly, Dawn complied, sitting next to him. Spike put his arm around her shoulders and after a brief pause of decision, the girl buried her head in his black tee, not even minding the absence of warmth, or a heartbeat. He ran his hand up and down her back, trying to soothe her the best he could.
"Your sister has always been a complicated lass for me," Spike told her. "When I first met her, I hated her guts, you know? Couldn't stand the sight of her. Her and Angel and their do-gooder nonsense. I thought it was a load of crap," he admitted casually. "But even then, I could see how tough she was, how brave. I think a part of me, after seein' what Angelus did to her, actually felt sorry for her. I couldn't imagine being in her shoes, if that had been Dru and I'd had to endure that kind of torment from someone I loved so much, let alone killin' them to save the world. Your sister is all the best parts of humanity, and so are you, Dawnie. And sometimes, that means sacrifice. Other times, it means missing parties and shaking vamp dust outta your hair. But no matter what, your sister has come back from every battle she's faced, and she'll come back from this one, I'm sure of it. Besides, who wouldn't want to come back to an amazin' Monopoly player like you, eh?" he asked, rubbing her hair affectionately.
She giggled, feeling better at his words. A thought struck her. "You're in love with her, aren't you?"
Spike turned to stone beside her. "Good at Monopoly, and observant," he muttered. "Is it that obvious?" the vampire asked, throwing her previous words back at her.
"Yep," she replied, flicking him in the nose.
"Rascal." He was quiet for a minute, but eventually he asked, "Ya don't mind, do you?"
Dawn quirked a brow. "Why would I mind?" she questioned, genuinely confused.
Spike gave a derisive snort of laughter. "Cause, last time I checked, Nibblet, I'm still a vampire. Creature of the Night, Minion of Darkness, Sucker of Blood and Terrorizer of Virgins and all that."
"True," acknowledged the teen. "But you're forgetting one thing?"
"What's that?"
"I like you. You're funny, and you don't treat me like a kid. Plus, I think you're pretty decent, probably more decent than most humans."
"You take that back!" he demanded in half-hearted outrage. Yet Dawn could still tell under all that he was secretly pleased.
As a general rule -you know, of continued survival- Cordelia didn't make it a habit of walking into a vampire's room, especially without knocking, and double especially when said vampire was asleep. This couldn't wait, though: the two needed to have a serious pow-wow.
"Wake up."
Angel didn't stir.
"Wake up," she tried again.
Nothing.
"Wesley's spray-painting your car pink."
Angel sat bolt upright. "Don't touch her, I just got her cleaned!" At the sight of Cordelia standing at the foot of his bed, hands on her hips, he frowned. "Oh, it's just you."
"Yeah, it's just me. We need to talk. Now."
"Couldn't this have waited? Possibly til when I was awake?" he asked her, looking up at her with bleary eyes, clearly annoyed at being woken up. It was either that, or the bright purple flowers on her white dress, but who could say?
Well, tough. He'd just have to deal.
"No," was all she said.
Angel didn't move.
"Come on, choppity chop. Times a wastin'." She clapped her hands for emphasis.
"Cordelia?"
"What?"
"I'm waiting for you to go so I can get dressed."
Cordelia nodded, feeling slightly stupid. "Right. Sorry. I'll see you downstairs."
She shut the door, letting out a sigh as she made her way to the lobby and put the coffeemaker on. Not five minutes later, Angel was drinking said coffee, face troubled; i.e, a familiar expression.
"Say what you need to say."
The Seer crossed her arms. "Let me just start with this: I'm still not happy with you. What you did is almost unforgivable."
Angel put down his cup. "Cordelia," he tried.
She wagged a finger at him. "No interruptions," she ordered. "As I was saying, what you did is almost unforgivable. Emphasis on the almost. As in, given some time, we'll get past it. I'll get past it. But we won't be able to do that if you're all evil vampire, Scourge of Europe, Terrorizer of Helpless Damsels or whatever."
"Not gonna happen," he told her.
Cordy raised a brow. "Isn't it? Can you really guarantee that you aren't gonna get happy with this new Buffy?"
"She is not the new Buffy," Angel bit out darkly, voice nearly a growl. "She is not."
"But you still love her." Not a question.
"I don't even know her," he defended, crossing his arms over his broad chest in what she refered to as his 'Deeply Brooding Pose,' shirt straining with the motion. She wondered distractedly if he'd ever popped off any shirt buttons when doing that.
"You don't need to, Angel. It's Buffy," Cordelia insisted. "You're acting as if I didn't have a front-row seat to your epic romance for three years, mister. You don't know what it was like when Angelus was prowling around Sunnydale, obviously, yet it was clear for anyone with a pair of eyes to see that Buffy still loved you. Love like that means something, Angel. It doesn't go away overnight or poof into dust like a staked vampire when you don't think about it. Yeah, she might not remember you know, but that doesn't mean she won't eventually, or that she'd even need her memories to fall in love with you, knowing her," she commented drily, not even aware to herself how bitter she sounded. "Those feelings are probably still there, somewhere, which is why she's been hanging around here so much."
Angel played with the handle of the cup, uncharacteristically nervous. "How could you tell she'd been here?"
Cordelia gave an offended snort. "Oh, please, as if I didn't notice her perfume killing all the plants, the extra mug in the sink, or the note pinned to your computer saying, 'Thanks for sharing' in her handwriting. And you tidied up all the weapons: typical masculine behaviour when a girl comes over," she noted, satisfied.
His mouth quirked, just the tiniest bit. "And here I thought I was the investigator: perhaps we should name the business after you," Angel suggested, although she half suspected his attempts at comedic banter were just to avoid all she'd laid out before him.
Cordelia took the cup from his hands. "But then we'd have to change our business card, and I'm sure as hell not paying for that. Besides, I like getting my artistic skill insulted, it keeps me on my toes." Tossing her hair over a shoulder, she made her way to the hotel's kitchen and it's sink that could double as a swimming pool: she was sick of finding crusty mugs full of cold coffee.
Angel followed on her heels, although he took up a spot just inside the doorway, a dark sentinel of an abandoned...cheese grater?
Angel mused, "You've put a lot of thought into this," but he didn't sound all that surprised.
"Wesley may have joined in the conversation at some point," she admitted weakly, feeling a little guilty about roping him into this. She was Angle's friend, and so was Wesley, and part of that meant being able to weather Storm Cloud Angel with a head held high, no umbrella in sight, and a damn good pair of galoshes to match your water-proof poncho.
"Is there anything else about my life bothering you?" he remarked dryly. She couldn't tell if he was serious. "Have you got an alphabetized list I could like at, maybe star your favourites in different colours so I know who's got a problem with what?"
Now she could tell he was pissed. She grabbed a spoon -a metal one- and pointed it at him. "Oi, don't you take that tone with me. We care, that's not a crime! Yes, you may be driving the car, Angel, but we are the ones who are looking out for the potholes at the minute."
His face was etched in exasperation. "You're acting like as if in the what, three days, since I've known she was here I've been following her around, waxing poetic about her hair and writing ballads about her bright green eyes. Cordelia, she doesn't even know who I am," and the ragged, crushing pain behind his words was enough to make her cry.
"I know that," she murmured, looking down at her hands braced on the rim of the sink. "But what if she did? What if she did get to know you, found out about the forehead bumps and the pointy teeth, and she didn't care? What would you do then?"
Angel pushed up off the wall, coming to stand beside her. "It wouldn't change anything," he replied, equally soft.
"Really? After this, are you really saying you wouldn't up and leave again, for her?" She finally met his gaze, noting the pain and guilt at her mention of his abandoning them. "That you could fall in love with her all over again and carry on in L.A like nothing had ever happened? After that day the Oracles erased...Angel, you were a wreck. Don't say you weren't," she put up a hand to halt any protest he'd been forming. "You were."
"I was."
"Points for admitting it. So, after everything that's gone on with Darla this year, then having Buffy in your life again, you're saying you'd really just let that go?"
"You guys are my family," Angle insisted, brown eyes warm as they hadn't been for their entire conversation.
Cordelia nodded. "We are. And we always will be. But soon, there could come a day where that isn't enough for you, where you want more, want her. And I wouldn't blame you. If I'd ever had the kind of love you two had shared, I'd probably leave too, no offence. But I haven't, so I won't. Blood may be thicker than water, but true love is the stickiest thing of all."
Angel reached for her hand, and she let him take it in her own, his so much larger, dwarfing hers; she thought there was probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but chose to ignore it.
"Say you're right. Say all of that happens as you think it will. She'd still be the Slayer, I'd still be a vampire, and our destinies will always be on different tracks, running parallel but never meeting. Like you said, you've seen us, so you understand more than anyone why it wouldn't work. It's not meant to be."
"Not if one of you jumps off," she merely said, and left him by himself in the darkness of the kitchen.
Author's Note: Hello, everyone! Chapter four, as promised. I love writing Spike and Dawn, they're such great parallels and their banter is always a treat. What did you think? Leave a review and let me know! I hope you're all doing okay.
Until we meet again!
All my love, Temperance Cain