Best Souvenir, chapter 12
A/N: Thanks, as always, to a2zmom. Can't say enough good stuff about her, really.
Chapter 12
Thirty minutes later Buffy and Angel walked slowly up Nassau, four blocks from Wall Street and five minutes from the meeting with EEK. They hadn’t spoken a word since Angel had fed, lost in their own thoughts. At last, Angel broke the silence between them. “I’m going to have to, you know,” he said.
“What?” Buffy said.
“Touch you. When I’m like that. So it looks real,” he added hurriedly. “So we . . . look real.”
She looked at him for a moment, then looked blankly at the dark street spreading out in front of her. Discarded newspapers and a floating plastic bag edged the grime between the feet of the buildings and the slick pavement, the sidewalk and the sewer. The streets were silent, and the tall buildings blocked out the moonlight. “So?” she said finally.
“I just . . . wanted to warn you,” Angel explained. “You-you told me not to touch you.”
Vaguely, she remembered his hand on her hair, her knocking him away, a stake clattering to the floor. It was true; he hadn’t tried to do the hair touching thing since then. Buffy stopped walking, turning to him thoughtfully. “You really listen to me, don’t you.”
He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked away from hers, as if seeking an escape. “I want to help you,” he said at last.
“Touch me.”
His eyes were instantly riveted to her lips, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. “I . . .”
“Do it.” His hand lifted, and when she did not shy away, he touched her face with a suppressed sigh. “I’m not stupid, you know,” she huffed, expecting his hand to shy away when she spoke. It didn’t. His thumb was there, caressing the spot between her lower lip and chin. Her voice was less certain when she went on. “I know vampires don’t help people. I know you have your own agenda-but if you get in the way of mine, I’ll kick your ass. If you give me up to them, I’ll beat my way out, burn them all down, and kick your ass. If I die . . .” She shrugged. “I’ll come back to life, find you-and kick your ass.”
“I know you’re not stupid,” he breathed, his thumb brushing over her lip and circling the corner of her mouth. Then his hand rose into her hair, stroking for a moment, then cupping the back of her delicate skull. His other hand rose and lightly brushed her shoulder. “Am I . . . ?” he began. “Is this okay?”
“Yes.” She was trying to follow through, to sound harsh and in control, but she wasn’t quite managing it. She hadn’t been touched like this in a long time-in fact, she wasn’t sure she’d ever been touched like this. His hands on her were somehow more intimate than the touch of a friend, but gentler, more exploratory than the desperate hands of any of her lovers.
“Buffy, there’s something I need to tell-”
The fingers at her shoulder lightly traced her collar bone. With a little triple patter of her heart, Buffy realized it wasn’t going to work after all. “No,” she said suddenly, and pulled away.
His hands fell from her immediately, and for the first time, she saw fear in his face. Fear, and a shrill, screaming pain. “We’re supposed to be lovers, remember?” Buffy rushed to explain, hating that look in his eyes. “Or play-mates. Whatever,” she added hurriedly. “We can’t act uncertain.”
“Oh,” he said, relief washing over his features. “Right.” He tentatively reached for her again, and when she did not protest, he pulled her closer, fitting her to him. They began walking down the street again, now with one of his arms around her waist and the other resting possessively just under her scarf and above her cleavage, her body leaning into him a little as their legs moved in tandem.
But for all that it was her idea, he was better at it than she was. She was trying, but her body was stiff against his. She could hold onto him, but she couldn’t be comfortable with it. He was, after all, a vampire. The hand at her waist moved soothingly, stroking both her ribs and the inside of her upper arm. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”
“Can’t get out of it now, huh?” She gave a nervous laugh. “Did I mention I suck at undercover?”
“You’ll do fine.”
“Yeah, I just gotta be submissive and obedient,” she pointed out sarcastically.
“Yes,” he murmured into her hair.
“Basically, your little slave,” she pressed.
“Vampires are sick,” he agreed.
She moved her head a little, her view of the world confined to the white triangle of skin the collar of his shirt bared to her. “Maybe I should’ve staked you, after all,” she told the triangle unhappily.
He looked down at her, a little smile tugging at the side of his mouth that tugged at her heart as well. “Hey, I’ll try to prove you wrong,” he said, squeezing her a little.
“Don’t have fun doing it,” she snapped irritably.
“I can’t promise anything.” He had stopped smiling, and Buffy couldn’t decide whether he was teasing or not. He loosened his arm around her, settling her casually against him so that they merely looked like lovers walking arm in arm.
They stopped and he looked up. “We’re here.”
Above them loomed an old-fashioned skyscraper with an ornate peak. In front of them were sleek glass doors with the words “The Trump Building” emblazoned in gold on the white bricks above them. Buffy wasn’t surprised. Who was more evil than Donald? “Well, it’s now or never,” she announced. She paused, and looked up at Angel. “What were you going to say? Earlier?”
His mouth tightened as he looked up at the building. Finally he looked down at her, as if memorizing her in case he never saw her again. “Only that if something goes wrong, you shouldn’t worry about me.”
She frowned, and swallowed down the sudden fear that she wouldn’t be able to follow his advice. She felt as though the lines of his back, the image of his shoulders shaking as he drank down human blood-starving, vulnerable-would be imprinted on her forever. She’d known from the moment she met him he was more than he seemed, but she’d foolishly allowed herself to get wrapped up in the thick of it without knowing what she was dealing with. “Of course I’ll worry about you if something goes wrong,” she replied. “I’ll worry long enough to stake you first, ask questions later. And don’t think I won’t hunt you down.”
He kissed her lightly on the brow. “I’d never think any such thing.”
“Just so that’s clear,” she muttered, as he morphed into his true face. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Most of the first story of the building was a vaulted, open area, so that Angel’s new shoes and Buffy’s high heels made echoing, clattering sounds against the smooth marble of the floor. It felt strange to be in such a building alone, with only the faint glow of the gibbous moon dusting through the windows between the sides of the heavy colonnades and down to the floor.
But the building was empty at this time of night, and Buffy’s heels click-click-clicking over the marble was the only sound. Angel’s arm, casually intimate around her waist, was oddly reassuring. It felt strange to have someone beside her to boost her confidence who was not also worrisomely mortal.
They found the elevator, and Angel pressed the button for the thirty-fifth floor. Buffy frowned and allowed herself to feel piqued she hadn’t thought to ask Angel more about the setting of this meeting. Then the doors opened, and her frown deepened.
“Angelus.” A man, half cast in gray light, strode toward them out of the shadows down the hall.
Angel didn’t stop moving forward until the-short-man’s nose was inches from his chest. Buffy tried not to be surprised by the aggressive move. Angel was walking differently-standing differently-smiling differently. Had she even seen him smile all the way before? she wondered. She glanced up at the toothy grin, and tried not to shudder. He looked like a demon very aware of his size, who was using it to stare with menacing amusement down at the little man in front of them. “That’s me,” Angel told the man, voice easy, relaxed, falsely bright. “Are we done yet?”
“Oh, ho,” the man tittered. “I don’t think so. I’m afraid I’m going to take up some of your time . . . sorry for the inconvenience; it’s necessary, you see . . .” The short man chuckled. “But why stand here in the dark? Come, come let’s . . .” He led them down the hall to a corner office, and opened the door, holding it for them as they entered. “The chairman’s permitted us use of his office,” he said, and giggled again.
The office looked very chairman-y to Buffy, complete with comfy-looking leather chairs and a view of the Manhattan skyline. The man they had followed placed a leather satchel on the big, official looking desk and turned on the lamp resting on it. Soft, yellow light illuminated him. He did not stop talking. “My name is Ubel Knopf. It’s my pleasure to meet you, my pleasure indeed . . . Do sit . . . .”
Angel was still near the doorway. He rolled his eyes, face humanizing again. “Now I remember why I hate business,” he complained. He sounded moody, temperamental, like a teenager-only, like a teenager with a shotgun who was about to kill a lot of people if he didn’t get his way. He jerked on Buffy’s arm, dragging her toward the chairs in front of the desk, and they seated themselves. He dropped her arm, hand settling territorially on her knee. It was necessary, Buffy told herself. She slouched there, looking at Ubel from underneath hooded lids.
Instead of going around to sit behind the desk as she expected, Ubel Knopf adjusted his pudgy buttocks against the desk so that he half-sat on it, a mere foot from where she and Angel sat. He had a womanly figure, corpulent and soft, his clean-shaven face smooth and undefined. His skin was sallow and vaguely pliant, but his gray eyes were swift and intense. He wasn’t at all what Buffy had expected out of what was supposed to be such an evil corporation do-hickey. He looked . . . well, like an accountant.
“Business, yes,” Ubel rejoined, cheerfully. His voice was high and slightly accented. “How has it been for you? You have not done business with us in so long . . . . Some of us are wondering where you have been . . . . Not I, of course; I am generally free of all curiosity . . . . Only, where have you been? Please excuse my question. Some of us have been wondering.”
“I’ve been keeping myself occupied,” Angel said cockily. The diabolical grin was back, and somehow, it was more frightening on his human face. It was wide and hostile and it didn’t seem like Angel, or at least the Angel she had come to know in the past twenty-four hours or so. He looked from Ubel to Buffy, his gaze raking over her in a way that was nothing like the gazes he had given her before. His hand moved a couple inches up from her knee, squeezing her thigh.
Buffy scowled. He certainly was feeling free to take liberties with his role. He had told her he would have to act a little more . . . violent if he was really going to convince the representative that there was nothing wrong with him, but a thread of doubt laced through her. With a slight change in posture, a few simple words, a choice expression or two, he seemed like a whole different person. More . . . vampire-y, somehow. Maybe this what he was really like.
“Of course you’ve been busy, brother,” Ubel breathed. His gaze was glued to the movement of Angel’s hand on her thigh, his eyes a little glassy. He licked his lips and went on, as if distracted, “I would expect not a bit less. And busy can fill up a century. Yes indeed, I’m certain of it, and that’s what I will tell them.”
“Good,” Angel said amicably, almost absently. His gaze remained focussed on Buffy’s thigh. He squeezed it again, as though testing. Ubel’s sharp eyes practically shone, and he shifted on the desk, watching attentively. Then Angel turned back to Ubel and seemed to forget about Buffy completely, though his hand still rested on her-as if on a possession. “Now how much do I have? They wouldn’t tell me over the phone.”
Ubel blinked rapidly and shifted his attention from Angel’s hand to his face, giving a chubby cheeked smile. “They suspect you, eh? A century of being busy . . . . That’s a long time. A very long time,” he went on. “Suspiciously long, wouldn’t you say? I wouldn’t, myself. I am, as a rule, never suspicious. Only . . . it’s been a suspiciously long time.”
Angel offered a fluid shrug. “Had places to go.” He looked at Buffy slyly. “People to drink.”
“Of course you did,” Ubel said warmly, his voice seeming to sweat with understanding. His eyes roamed admiringly over Angel’s body. “And look at what you’ve done with your hair,” Ubel added, suddenly. If Angel was thrown off, he didn’t look it-but nor did he respond. “It’s different from all of our pictures and smells like . . .” Ubel leaned in. He was now very close to Angel, obviously feeling no fear. He lifted his large, soft nose and gave a delicate little sniff.
And then he abruptly retreated and settled back into his position on the desk. “Well, well,” he murmured pleasantly. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you, suspiciously, and why should I question . . . . What does that scent remind me of?” He glanced apologetically at Angel. “You’ll excuse me, mein Lieber, I’m having a most intriguing memory resurface. Smells can often do that, you see . . . . Oh, yes, I do remember, and my, what serendipity! . . . My recollection relates to you after all . . . .”
Angel, looking vexed, a little bored, said, “What are you talking abou-”
“Gypsies.”
Go to: chapter 13
Chapter 12
Thirty minutes later Buffy and Angel walked slowly up Nassau, four blocks from Wall Street and five minutes from the meeting with EEK. They hadn’t spoken a word since Angel had fed, lost in their own thoughts. At last, Angel broke the silence between them. “I’m going to have to, you know,” he said.
“What?” Buffy said.
“Touch you. When I’m like that. So it looks real,” he added hurriedly. “So we . . . look real.”
She looked at him for a moment, then looked blankly at the dark street spreading out in front of her. Discarded newspapers and a floating plastic bag edged the grime between the feet of the buildings and the slick pavement, the sidewalk and the sewer. The streets were silent, and the tall buildings blocked out the moonlight. “So?” she said finally.
“I just . . . wanted to warn you,” Angel explained. “You-you told me not to touch you.”
Vaguely, she remembered his hand on her hair, her knocking him away, a stake clattering to the floor. It was true; he hadn’t tried to do the hair touching thing since then. Buffy stopped walking, turning to him thoughtfully. “You really listen to me, don’t you.”
He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked away from hers, as if seeking an escape. “I want to help you,” he said at last.
“Touch me.”
His eyes were instantly riveted to her lips, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. “I . . .”
“Do it.” His hand lifted, and when she did not shy away, he touched her face with a suppressed sigh. “I’m not stupid, you know,” she huffed, expecting his hand to shy away when she spoke. It didn’t. His thumb was there, caressing the spot between her lower lip and chin. Her voice was less certain when she went on. “I know vampires don’t help people. I know you have your own agenda-but if you get in the way of mine, I’ll kick your ass. If you give me up to them, I’ll beat my way out, burn them all down, and kick your ass. If I die . . .” She shrugged. “I’ll come back to life, find you-and kick your ass.”
“I know you’re not stupid,” he breathed, his thumb brushing over her lip and circling the corner of her mouth. Then his hand rose into her hair, stroking for a moment, then cupping the back of her delicate skull. His other hand rose and lightly brushed her shoulder. “Am I . . . ?” he began. “Is this okay?”
“Yes.” She was trying to follow through, to sound harsh and in control, but she wasn’t quite managing it. She hadn’t been touched like this in a long time-in fact, she wasn’t sure she’d ever been touched like this. His hands on her were somehow more intimate than the touch of a friend, but gentler, more exploratory than the desperate hands of any of her lovers.
“Buffy, there’s something I need to tell-”
The fingers at her shoulder lightly traced her collar bone. With a little triple patter of her heart, Buffy realized it wasn’t going to work after all. “No,” she said suddenly, and pulled away.
His hands fell from her immediately, and for the first time, she saw fear in his face. Fear, and a shrill, screaming pain. “We’re supposed to be lovers, remember?” Buffy rushed to explain, hating that look in his eyes. “Or play-mates. Whatever,” she added hurriedly. “We can’t act uncertain.”
“Oh,” he said, relief washing over his features. “Right.” He tentatively reached for her again, and when she did not protest, he pulled her closer, fitting her to him. They began walking down the street again, now with one of his arms around her waist and the other resting possessively just under her scarf and above her cleavage, her body leaning into him a little as their legs moved in tandem.
But for all that it was her idea, he was better at it than she was. She was trying, but her body was stiff against his. She could hold onto him, but she couldn’t be comfortable with it. He was, after all, a vampire. The hand at her waist moved soothingly, stroking both her ribs and the inside of her upper arm. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”
“Can’t get out of it now, huh?” She gave a nervous laugh. “Did I mention I suck at undercover?”
“You’ll do fine.”
“Yeah, I just gotta be submissive and obedient,” she pointed out sarcastically.
“Yes,” he murmured into her hair.
“Basically, your little slave,” she pressed.
“Vampires are sick,” he agreed.
She moved her head a little, her view of the world confined to the white triangle of skin the collar of his shirt bared to her. “Maybe I should’ve staked you, after all,” she told the triangle unhappily.
He looked down at her, a little smile tugging at the side of his mouth that tugged at her heart as well. “Hey, I’ll try to prove you wrong,” he said, squeezing her a little.
“Don’t have fun doing it,” she snapped irritably.
“I can’t promise anything.” He had stopped smiling, and Buffy couldn’t decide whether he was teasing or not. He loosened his arm around her, settling her casually against him so that they merely looked like lovers walking arm in arm.
They stopped and he looked up. “We’re here.”
Above them loomed an old-fashioned skyscraper with an ornate peak. In front of them were sleek glass doors with the words “The Trump Building” emblazoned in gold on the white bricks above them. Buffy wasn’t surprised. Who was more evil than Donald? “Well, it’s now or never,” she announced. She paused, and looked up at Angel. “What were you going to say? Earlier?”
His mouth tightened as he looked up at the building. Finally he looked down at her, as if memorizing her in case he never saw her again. “Only that if something goes wrong, you shouldn’t worry about me.”
She frowned, and swallowed down the sudden fear that she wouldn’t be able to follow his advice. She felt as though the lines of his back, the image of his shoulders shaking as he drank down human blood-starving, vulnerable-would be imprinted on her forever. She’d known from the moment she met him he was more than he seemed, but she’d foolishly allowed herself to get wrapped up in the thick of it without knowing what she was dealing with. “Of course I’ll worry about you if something goes wrong,” she replied. “I’ll worry long enough to stake you first, ask questions later. And don’t think I won’t hunt you down.”
He kissed her lightly on the brow. “I’d never think any such thing.”
“Just so that’s clear,” she muttered, as he morphed into his true face. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Most of the first story of the building was a vaulted, open area, so that Angel’s new shoes and Buffy’s high heels made echoing, clattering sounds against the smooth marble of the floor. It felt strange to be in such a building alone, with only the faint glow of the gibbous moon dusting through the windows between the sides of the heavy colonnades and down to the floor.
But the building was empty at this time of night, and Buffy’s heels click-click-clicking over the marble was the only sound. Angel’s arm, casually intimate around her waist, was oddly reassuring. It felt strange to have someone beside her to boost her confidence who was not also worrisomely mortal.
They found the elevator, and Angel pressed the button for the thirty-fifth floor. Buffy frowned and allowed herself to feel piqued she hadn’t thought to ask Angel more about the setting of this meeting. Then the doors opened, and her frown deepened.
“Angelus.” A man, half cast in gray light, strode toward them out of the shadows down the hall.
Angel didn’t stop moving forward until the-short-man’s nose was inches from his chest. Buffy tried not to be surprised by the aggressive move. Angel was walking differently-standing differently-smiling differently. Had she even seen him smile all the way before? she wondered. She glanced up at the toothy grin, and tried not to shudder. He looked like a demon very aware of his size, who was using it to stare with menacing amusement down at the little man in front of them. “That’s me,” Angel told the man, voice easy, relaxed, falsely bright. “Are we done yet?”
“Oh, ho,” the man tittered. “I don’t think so. I’m afraid I’m going to take up some of your time . . . sorry for the inconvenience; it’s necessary, you see . . .” The short man chuckled. “But why stand here in the dark? Come, come let’s . . .” He led them down the hall to a corner office, and opened the door, holding it for them as they entered. “The chairman’s permitted us use of his office,” he said, and giggled again.
The office looked very chairman-y to Buffy, complete with comfy-looking leather chairs and a view of the Manhattan skyline. The man they had followed placed a leather satchel on the big, official looking desk and turned on the lamp resting on it. Soft, yellow light illuminated him. He did not stop talking. “My name is Ubel Knopf. It’s my pleasure to meet you, my pleasure indeed . . . Do sit . . . .”
Angel was still near the doorway. He rolled his eyes, face humanizing again. “Now I remember why I hate business,” he complained. He sounded moody, temperamental, like a teenager-only, like a teenager with a shotgun who was about to kill a lot of people if he didn’t get his way. He jerked on Buffy’s arm, dragging her toward the chairs in front of the desk, and they seated themselves. He dropped her arm, hand settling territorially on her knee. It was necessary, Buffy told herself. She slouched there, looking at Ubel from underneath hooded lids.
Instead of going around to sit behind the desk as she expected, Ubel Knopf adjusted his pudgy buttocks against the desk so that he half-sat on it, a mere foot from where she and Angel sat. He had a womanly figure, corpulent and soft, his clean-shaven face smooth and undefined. His skin was sallow and vaguely pliant, but his gray eyes were swift and intense. He wasn’t at all what Buffy had expected out of what was supposed to be such an evil corporation do-hickey. He looked . . . well, like an accountant.
“Business, yes,” Ubel rejoined, cheerfully. His voice was high and slightly accented. “How has it been for you? You have not done business with us in so long . . . . Some of us are wondering where you have been . . . . Not I, of course; I am generally free of all curiosity . . . . Only, where have you been? Please excuse my question. Some of us have been wondering.”
“I’ve been keeping myself occupied,” Angel said cockily. The diabolical grin was back, and somehow, it was more frightening on his human face. It was wide and hostile and it didn’t seem like Angel, or at least the Angel she had come to know in the past twenty-four hours or so. He looked from Ubel to Buffy, his gaze raking over her in a way that was nothing like the gazes he had given her before. His hand moved a couple inches up from her knee, squeezing her thigh.
Buffy scowled. He certainly was feeling free to take liberties with his role. He had told her he would have to act a little more . . . violent if he was really going to convince the representative that there was nothing wrong with him, but a thread of doubt laced through her. With a slight change in posture, a few simple words, a choice expression or two, he seemed like a whole different person. More . . . vampire-y, somehow. Maybe this what he was really like.
“Of course you’ve been busy, brother,” Ubel breathed. His gaze was glued to the movement of Angel’s hand on her thigh, his eyes a little glassy. He licked his lips and went on, as if distracted, “I would expect not a bit less. And busy can fill up a century. Yes indeed, I’m certain of it, and that’s what I will tell them.”
“Good,” Angel said amicably, almost absently. His gaze remained focussed on Buffy’s thigh. He squeezed it again, as though testing. Ubel’s sharp eyes practically shone, and he shifted on the desk, watching attentively. Then Angel turned back to Ubel and seemed to forget about Buffy completely, though his hand still rested on her-as if on a possession. “Now how much do I have? They wouldn’t tell me over the phone.”
Ubel blinked rapidly and shifted his attention from Angel’s hand to his face, giving a chubby cheeked smile. “They suspect you, eh? A century of being busy . . . . That’s a long time. A very long time,” he went on. “Suspiciously long, wouldn’t you say? I wouldn’t, myself. I am, as a rule, never suspicious. Only . . . it’s been a suspiciously long time.”
Angel offered a fluid shrug. “Had places to go.” He looked at Buffy slyly. “People to drink.”
“Of course you did,” Ubel said warmly, his voice seeming to sweat with understanding. His eyes roamed admiringly over Angel’s body. “And look at what you’ve done with your hair,” Ubel added, suddenly. If Angel was thrown off, he didn’t look it-but nor did he respond. “It’s different from all of our pictures and smells like . . .” Ubel leaned in. He was now very close to Angel, obviously feeling no fear. He lifted his large, soft nose and gave a delicate little sniff.
And then he abruptly retreated and settled back into his position on the desk. “Well, well,” he murmured pleasantly. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you, suspiciously, and why should I question . . . . What does that scent remind me of?” He glanced apologetically at Angel. “You’ll excuse me, mein Lieber, I’m having a most intriguing memory resurface. Smells can often do that, you see . . . . Oh, yes, I do remember, and my, what serendipity! . . . My recollection relates to you after all . . . .”
Angel, looking vexed, a little bored, said, “What are you talking abou-”
“Gypsies.”
Go to: chapter 13