All the Things That Are Lost, Ch.4
Title: All the Things That Are Lost
Chapter: 4
Pairing: S/B
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Post-NFA. When Buffy discovers that Spike survived the destruction of Sunnydale, she heads to LA looking for answers; however, her search will eventually lead her to a strange place that is more than a world away.
Previous chapters here
Disclaimer: The characters of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “Angel” belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won’t make you any money either (haha! see my puny bank account!), so let’s just not.
All the Things That Are Lost
Chapter 4 : Advice for the Lovelorn
Seen one demon bar, seen them all, Buffy decided. And at the rate she was going, maybe she would see them all.
This place was distinguishable from the other five she’d already blown through only by the level of decay. Dimly lit, with only the barest strands of murky sunlight filtering in through windows placed high upon the wall, it was quite the dive, even by demon standards.
And then gave her head a shake. She’d definitely stopped in at a few too many of these places if she was now starting to rate them. Heading straight for the bar, she brandished her business card. “I’m looking for this guy. Is he here?”
The human-looking bartender took the card, his eyes flicking back and forth from it to her, to elsewhere in the room, and back at her in quick succession. “What do you want here?” he rumbled in a very deep voice that didn’t sound quite human. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Buffy perked up. That was actually a much more promising non-answer than she’d received so far. “Then tell me where he is, and I won’t give you any trouble,” she replied smoothly. “No smashing of furniture; no breaking of bones,” she said, making it plain that she could do precisely that if she were so inclined. “I just want to talk.”
Still wary, he handed the card back to her, then finally nodded his head toward one of the dingy corners of the room. Buffy turned to follow his gaze.
A few of the creatures frequenting the bar had taken note of her when she came in - some of them were now discreetly picking up their drinks and moving to the safely shadowed alcoves where Buffy suspected another exit must be. The occult grapevine must have been working overtime today, because by now most of the bad little boys and girls of demonland seemed to know that something was up and were actively trying to stay out of her way. That suited her just fine.
Paying no heed to the rest of the uglies, Buffy headed purposefully towards one of the few who’d shown no interest at all.
“You knew Angel?”
A dull, disinterested glance from the demon. “Who’s asking?”
“I am.”
A rude snort was the only reply she received.
“He told me,” she pointed toward the bartender, who abruptly ducked his head and began scrubbing intently at an imaginary spot of one of the tables, “that this was you.” She slapped the business card squarely down on the table in front of him. “That you were a friend of Angel’s.”
“Friend?” the green-skinned creature echoed speculatively, as if tasting the word. He picked up the card, giving it a bleary-eyed squint, then tore it in half and set the pieces aside. “Maybe I was once. But not any more.”
“Why not?”
“Because, sweet-tart, at the end, Angel decided he didn’t need friends. He needed good little soldiers with strong right arms. I’m not a soldier. And my right arm is not particularly strong. And so, here I sit, armed with my own unique brand of courage.” He lifted his glass to her in mock salute. “Cheers.”
“They told me,” she persisted, “that you could tell me what happened.”
“Weren’t you listening, honey? I just did. Angel’s gone. They’re all gone. That’s the end of it. And that’s all I know.”
“But you were there, weren’t you?” she pressed. “They told me that you worked with him, with Angel.”
“Yes.” Such a tiny, bitter little syllable. “God help me, but, yes I was. I was there. I saw and I did. I passed ‘go’ and collected my $200. Or $200,000, as the case may be. But who’s counting?” His sharp-featured face twisted into a grimace, and he glared at his drinking glass. “Anyway, doesn’t matter. I told Angel I was done. Finished. I’d walked far enough down that path - further than I should have. And I told him so, I told him that I wouldn’t be there, and I told him not to come after me. So whatever happened to them, wherever they went, I’m not following.”
“I’m not asking you to. All I want is to know where they are. So that I can find them and-”
“There’s nothing to find,” he chuckled painfully, echoing the sentiments she’d heard in the last few demon bars she’d waded her way through, “and there’s no one left alive who knows.”
“But, they told me- There must be someone,” she insisted, her voice hardening into a resolve that lay just short of menace. “And so far, you’re the only one I’ve found who actually worked there-” A sudden inspiration lit within her mind. “Wait, do you know Cordelia?” she asked, the question little more than a shot in the dark, because from what she remembered from her earlier discussions with Giles, Cordelia had dropped off the radar before Angel switched sides. Which meant that anything she knew would probably be past its best-before date, but even that would be better than nothing. “She used to work with Angel too. She’ll know - I want to talk to her.”
“Cordy?!” Brief emotion flared in him, then went out. “Cordy’s dead.”
“Dead.” Buffy echoed the word as if it had no meaning, shaking her head. “Cordelia? She can’t be dead.”
“Oh, believe me - she can be, and she is.” He threw back another glass, giving a fierce shudder as if the flavour were particularly appalling. “Poor thing. But maybe it was for the best. She was lucky. Knew when to make her exit. Even after all that, everything she’d been through, she was still pure… never forgot who she was. What was important. Went out, fighting the good fight. Before it all went to hell… before we-” He looked up at her with red red eyes, his rambling speech shuddering to a halt. “You still here, butternut? I can’t tell you anything. I’ve got nothing left to give.”
There was a plaintive truth to his words that she couldn’t help but believe. His eyes were haunted, and weariness hung upon him like a shroud. And yet, a glimmer of knowledge burned darkly behind his eyes, and she knew without a doubt that he knew. That he’d been there, and that he had all the answers that she’d come looking for.
“Cordelia Chase,” she repeated, because she had to be certain, and because it couldn’t be true.
But the demon nodded.
“How did it happen? Cordelia, I mean.” It wasn’t one of the questions she’d come here intending to ask, but somehow she couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea that Cordelia could be dead. That she could die, and none of them know about it. True, they hadn’t made much of an effort to keep in touch, but still…
Sunnydale, it seemed, had been the last string holding them all together. When they’d left it behind, they’d all begun to go their separate ways.
“When did she die?”
“A hundred years ago, it feels like. Weeks. Months. I don’t know, sweetie. I can’t really say. This,” he said, hefting the bottle before him, “is how I measure time now. And time’s a-wasting.” He turned away from her, pouring another glass. “Been lovely chatting with you.”
“Listen to me,” she growled, taking him by the garishly-coloured shirt cloth to shove him back against the wall and pin him there - his glass tumbling sideways, and blood-red liquor spilling out over the tabletop and onto the floor, and she felt like crap for treating him this way, but it was the only way she ever knew to get through to someone - “I don’t have time for this. I need answers. Now.”
The demon winced at the iron-clad hold she was using against him. “Need? ‘Need’ is a strong word… but then you’re a strong little thing, aren’t you. What are you going to do - throttle it out of me?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Makes two of us, Warrior Princess. So, while you’re busy making up your mind, let’s say you start by letting go of the windpipe.”
He wasn’t making any threatening moves, wasn’t even fighting back, and if she wanted to make her point, she’d probably already done it. Easing up her grip, Buffy let him loose, taking a step back and standing ready in case he tried anything.
But he only stretched his neck and shoulders as if settling everything back into its proper place, then looked back upon her with an air of resignation. “Why don’t you and I sit down, and let’s try to work this out all nice and civilized. I know you don’t want to - you’re one of those Type A bash-and-smash warrior types - but that level of drama always gives me a headache. So do me a favour and humour me for a moment.”
He sounded so reasonable about it that Buffy couldn’t help feeling as if she were being the unreasonable one. Warily, she seated herself next to him.
“Bartender,” he called, refilling his own overturned glass, “bring something for my fine, ferocious little friend here.”
“Diet Coke,” Buffy prompted.
The green-skinned demon snorted with a sad shake of his head. But when the glass was placed in front of her, he clinked it with his own. “Cheers,” he said glumly. “To absent friends. For auld langsyne and whatnot…”
“Um… yeah,” she agreed, even though she was mentally flashing back to silly party hats, midnight and Times Square. After a few moments of sipping at her drink in more or less companionable silence, Buffy glanced surreptitiously at her watch. Late afternoon - it would be getting dark soon. And yet here she was, sitting in a demon bar and drinking diet cola. It was turning out to be a very long, very strange day.
“So,” she said at last, speaking when she became convinced that he’d never break the silence otherwise. Deciding to circle around the issue, she asked, “Can you at least tell me what happened to Cordelia?”
He answered with a tentative swirl of his drink, and a cagey question of his own. “Were you a friend of hers, cupcake?”
Her lips quirked a little bit at the casual endearment, so out of place when only a few moments ago she’d been halfway to strangling him. “Cordelia? Yeah, sure. I mean… sort of,” she explained with an unexpected self-consciousness. “We went to high school together in Sunnydale… but after that, we mostly lost touch. Last time I saw her, she was here in LA, working for Angel. But that was… years ago.”
“Yes, Cordy was working for Angel. Got sucked into the big guy’s crusade against evil. There’s something about him,” he mused, “that just makes people want to drop whatever they’re doing and join his cause. There’s the mission, the prophecies, inspiring speeches, secret decoder rings… makes you think that you’re a part of something worthwhile, something special. Who knows, maybe we were. But I’m boring you with back-story, aren’t I? Cordy received visions from ‘the Powers that Be.’ ” His hands mimed an exaggerated quotation around the words, contempt glimmering in his eyes. “Supposed to help guide Angelkins down the one true path to his destiny. Seemed like a good idea at the time… and then it all went pear-shaped with the Beast, and Jasmine…” He paused, peering at her. “…but, no, that’s too long a story, and from the looks of you, your patience is finite. Long story short: the second-last batch of ‘PTB’ intervention left Cordy in a coma. The very last vision ended up killing her.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” he replied dryly, “ ‘oh.’ After that, it all went to hell in a very swift handbasket. Of course, it was a short trip, since we were more than halfway there already, but too blind to see it at the time.” He paused, casting a caustic look in her direction. “But you don’t really care about any of that, do you?”
Taken aback, she started, “I do care,” but even she could hear the weakness of her protest. “It’s just…” Too much, too sudden, too different from what she’d been expecting? She wasn’t sure. Though she believed he was telling her the truth, still it didn’t feel real. As if it were only an echo of other losses. Her mother, and Tara, and Anya, and all the others who had died in Sunnydale… Never enough time for grieving - always something else to be done.
“Right now, what I really need is to know what happened to the others,” she pressed, unapologetically trying to get him to pick up on that one thread that she really wanted to follow. “I can’t think about anything else until I get that worked out.”
“I’m beginning to realize that,” he sighed.
“So what happened?” she asked, impatiently trying to get past the weird back-and-forth conversational negotiation and down to business. She was much better with the punching-you-in-your-face-until-you-talk discussion style, but not only did that not feel right in this case, something also told her it wouldn’t work with this guy. “And where did they all go? At the other bar, one of the demons told me that there was some big showdown with that law firm, Wolfman-”
“Wolfram,” he corrected.
“-whatever, and Hart. And something about a portal that took them all away. And after that, nobody else knows what happened next, or if they do, they aren’t saying, but they said that you would know.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained look on his face, as if the sound of her voice were a particularly nasty headache that he couldn’t quite get rid of. “All right, all right; let’s just back up a smidgen here, sunshine. You keep saying ‘they.’ Who is ‘they?’ ”
“I didn’t get a whole lot of names,” she replied, with an exasperated wave of her hand. “I got your business card from some carny-lowlife-look-alike who said his name was Garish, or something like that.”
“Garosh,” he echoed hollowly, then shook his head. “You know something, sweetpea? Of all the things you could have said to try to work your way into my good graces, ‘Garosh sent me’ is not one of them. It’s not in the top twenty - it didn’t even make it onto the list of alternates. Now, I don’t know what game you’re playing at, or what you really want from me-”
“Hey! Nobody sent me here. And this isn’t about you. I didn’t come to LA for you; I came for-” Hauling herself up short before she once again said too much, Buffy tried to calm down and stay on topic. “I’ve got my own reasons, which have nothing to do with you. I’m just trying to find my friends, okay? So when I got here, I started hitting up the demon bars for information-”
“You mean, hitting up the clientele in the demon bars for information. There’s a subtle distinction.”
She glared at him. “It’s not like anyone ever answers my questions when I just ask nicely,” she pointed out. “…Anyway, this Garosh guy just barges in, tells me that no one really knows what and where and why, except you. And then he gave me your business card, which was way too convenient, but still… I don’t actually have a lot of contacts left in LA. I thought it was worth a try.”
“Hmm.” He was peering at his drinking glass so intently that she wasn’t sure if he were more intent on measuring her words or the quantity of alcohol remaining. “Assuming you’re telling the truth - and yes, I do know what happens when you assume - it’s still not a good crowd for you to be running with. Or running from, either, for that matter.”
“I’m not doing either,” she retorted defensively, feeling a hint of uneasiness. Not yet, at least. “And I can take care of myself. And besides, who is this Garosh, anyway?”
He threw her an odd look. “You really do rush in where angels fear to tread, don’t you? Garosh… he’s the next big thing in the demon world - in some circles, anyway. Thinks he’s a seer, or a prophet. I think he’s yet another apocalyptic nutbar waiting for the end of this world and the beginning of the next. Don’t know if he’s the real thing or not - and, well, when it comes right down to it, I don’t actually care - but if I were you, munchkin, I’d stay out of his way.” He shrugged. “For what it’s worth.”
Buffy considered that for a moment, then brushed it aside. She didn’t need to know about this - not right now - it wasn’t important - and anyway, she hadn’t come to LA to find out who was who in demon high society, and she wasn’t necessarily planning on sticking around long enough to need to worry about it. Maybe she’d tell Andrew to send a memo off to Giles later, but that was all she was prepared to do at the moment. “I appreciate the advice-” she began carefully.
“Oh, wait for it,” he muttered sourly, not quite under his breath, “here comes the big ‘but.’ ”
“-but it’s not my problem. I don’t want to get mixed up in any of that. I just want to know about what happened to Angel,” she reiterated. “Angel, and - and the others with him.”
A muffled groan. “Do we have to go through this again-?”
“Yes, again, and I’m not going to quit asking until you tell me what you know. I need to find out what happened, if there were any survivors…” Her voice stumbled only slightly on that word. “…and where they went.”
“You’ve got a one-track mind, Sister Golden-Hair; you keep asking the same thing and getting the same answer. You ever stop to consider that maybe you aren’t asking the right questions?”
“All right, then. What’s the right question?”
“Do I look like I know? Would I be sitting here, drinking the days away, if I knew?”
Buffy clenched her teeth. “Listen,” she barked, “I don’t know what your deal is. And right now, I don’t really care. You can sit here and drown yourself in your sorrows for all I care - as long as you tell me how to find them.”
His eyes flicked warily toward her. “Who says they want to be found? Who says there’s anything left to find?”
“One way or another,” she gritted, meeting his piercing red-eyed gaze without flinching, “I need to know.”
“Sing something for me.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” His demeanor had been shifting periodically between tattered affability and outright self-loathing - this was the first moment she’d heard a note of unyielding resolve in his voice. “It’s a one-time offer. I don’t do this any more. Everything I hear now, it’s like a dirge. Everything tainted. But you - you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you? A bright perfect little thing like you.”
She squirmed uncomfortably under his flatly dismissive gaze. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“And I don’t want to, goldilocks, so don’t even think of boring me with your life’s story. Let’s just finish playing out this scene, so that we can both go back to what we’d rather be doing. Sing. Something. Anything. And then I’ll tell you what you want to know. Whether or not you want to hear it.”
“You’re serious.”
He said nothing at all, only watched her as he waited expectantly. The silence between them stretched on and on.
“ ‘Did you ever know that you’re my hero,’ ” she finally sang, in a self-conscious voice just barely above a whisper - and she was embarrassed at her voice, at the schmaltzy sentimentality of the song she was singing, but it was the only thing that had come to mind, and somehow, when he stared at her so intently, crimson eyes peering into her own, she couldn’t help but continue to sing - “ ‘you’re everything I wish I could be, and I can fly higher than’ - okay, this is stupid, I can’t believe I’m even doing this. Why-?”
“Yes,” he stated, in abrupt answer to a question she hadn’t spoken aloud. “He’s alive. Or was alive as vampires get, anyway. I believe the polite term is ‘undead.’ He spoke of you, several times. Never sang for me, though, so I’m afraid I can’t put your mind at rest. You’ll have to ask him yourself - if you can find him. Although, I see that you’re ready to move heaven and earth to do just that - that’s good, because that’s about what it’s going to take.”
No words would come to her lips. She stared at him, frozen, her mind trying to process the words he was speaking. Did he know-? How could he possibly-? She’d been so careful, had never said - hadn’t even spoken his name - not even once-
His lips quirked briefly upward in a smirk. “Don’t bottle it up; love shouldn’t ever be kept a secret. Makes you bitter.” And he laughed softly, as if that were some kind of joke.
“I… don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice very high and thin.
“Maybe you do; maybe you don’t. Never mind, darling; it’s not like there’s anyone left for me to tell. The answer to your other question,” he added, “because there were two very distinct questions there, is no. Angel may have lost his way, but he hasn’t lost himself. Though he’s sometimes been evil’s pawn, he’s not evil himself. But you have to understand - he’s wedded to that fight. He set himself on that path with no intention of turning back. Said his goodbyes, took care of his loved ones, fully expected to die. I don’t know,” he sighed, “I don’t know if they actually did die. I just knew - the same way all of us did - that it was the end. And so I made my own decisions, said my goodbyes, and chose my own ending, the way everyone eventually does.
“So, there. That’s enough. That’s what you needed to know… and maybe a little bit more, besides.” Reaching out, he patted her hands absently in an oddly comfortingly gesture, even as his eyes still burned intently into her own. “Go on. Do what you have to. After all, the good guys always win in the end, don’t they?”
With a start, she realized that he’d finally decided to give her the information she’d come for. Mentally shifting gears, Buffy tried to get back in control of the situation. If she’d ever actually been in control of any of it. “Where… where do I go?”
“As you’ve probably already figured out, it was all kinds of mayhem that night, with a whole kit and caboodle of carnage scattered everywhere - makes the trail that much harder to follow. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” He took a deep breath and seemed to hold it for a long moment, giving her one last measuring look before finally answering.
“But if I were coming, I was supposed to meet them,” he said, the words slowly sighing out in tired resignation, “in the alley behind the old Hyperion Hotel. From what I know, I’d say that’s where the last big smackdown took place. There’s not much left now, but if there are any answers, you’ll find them there. Don’t know where that is?” he queried, correctly interpreting the blank look on her face, and he began scrawling directions on a napkin in front of him. “You start at the end, and work your way backwards. Ironic, that. Spent our lives, going in circles - better off not to have started,” he murmured, and then seemed to shake off his distraction. He handed the flimsy piece of paper to her. “Here. Don’t make me regret this - I’ve already got more than enough of those as it is.”
“I won’t.” She glanced down at the mini-map he’d drawn for her. This was the point that she usually whirled on her heel and left, having got what she needed, but this time she lingered a moment longer. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, and then added, “I’m sorry.”
“No more than I.” He sank back in upon himself, lounging brokenly over the table, contemplating the bottle as if plotting his next move.
Buffy had had more than enough of the atmosphere and the woe. She made her way to the door, pausing only as he called out after her, “Good luck, Buffy Summers.” Glancing questioningly back at him, she was very much aware that she had not once given him her name, nor told him what she was. His gaze glittered upon hers with an odd acceptance. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Chapter: 4
Pairing: S/B
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Post-NFA. When Buffy discovers that Spike survived the destruction of Sunnydale, she heads to LA looking for answers; however, her search will eventually lead her to a strange place that is more than a world away.
Previous chapters here
Disclaimer: The characters of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “Angel” belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won’t make you any money either (haha! see my puny bank account!), so let’s just not.
All the Things That Are Lost
Chapter 4 : Advice for the Lovelorn
Seen one demon bar, seen them all, Buffy decided. And at the rate she was going, maybe she would see them all.
This place was distinguishable from the other five she’d already blown through only by the level of decay. Dimly lit, with only the barest strands of murky sunlight filtering in through windows placed high upon the wall, it was quite the dive, even by demon standards.
And then gave her head a shake. She’d definitely stopped in at a few too many of these places if she was now starting to rate them. Heading straight for the bar, she brandished her business card. “I’m looking for this guy. Is he here?”
The human-looking bartender took the card, his eyes flicking back and forth from it to her, to elsewhere in the room, and back at her in quick succession. “What do you want here?” he rumbled in a very deep voice that didn’t sound quite human. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Buffy perked up. That was actually a much more promising non-answer than she’d received so far. “Then tell me where he is, and I won’t give you any trouble,” she replied smoothly. “No smashing of furniture; no breaking of bones,” she said, making it plain that she could do precisely that if she were so inclined. “I just want to talk.”
Still wary, he handed the card back to her, then finally nodded his head toward one of the dingy corners of the room. Buffy turned to follow his gaze.
A few of the creatures frequenting the bar had taken note of her when she came in - some of them were now discreetly picking up their drinks and moving to the safely shadowed alcoves where Buffy suspected another exit must be. The occult grapevine must have been working overtime today, because by now most of the bad little boys and girls of demonland seemed to know that something was up and were actively trying to stay out of her way. That suited her just fine.
Paying no heed to the rest of the uglies, Buffy headed purposefully towards one of the few who’d shown no interest at all.
“You knew Angel?”
A dull, disinterested glance from the demon. “Who’s asking?”
“I am.”
A rude snort was the only reply she received.
“He told me,” she pointed toward the bartender, who abruptly ducked his head and began scrubbing intently at an imaginary spot of one of the tables, “that this was you.” She slapped the business card squarely down on the table in front of him. “That you were a friend of Angel’s.”
“Friend?” the green-skinned creature echoed speculatively, as if tasting the word. He picked up the card, giving it a bleary-eyed squint, then tore it in half and set the pieces aside. “Maybe I was once. But not any more.”
“Why not?”
“Because, sweet-tart, at the end, Angel decided he didn’t need friends. He needed good little soldiers with strong right arms. I’m not a soldier. And my right arm is not particularly strong. And so, here I sit, armed with my own unique brand of courage.” He lifted his glass to her in mock salute. “Cheers.”
“They told me,” she persisted, “that you could tell me what happened.”
“Weren’t you listening, honey? I just did. Angel’s gone. They’re all gone. That’s the end of it. And that’s all I know.”
“But you were there, weren’t you?” she pressed. “They told me that you worked with him, with Angel.”
“Yes.” Such a tiny, bitter little syllable. “God help me, but, yes I was. I was there. I saw and I did. I passed ‘go’ and collected my $200. Or $200,000, as the case may be. But who’s counting?” His sharp-featured face twisted into a grimace, and he glared at his drinking glass. “Anyway, doesn’t matter. I told Angel I was done. Finished. I’d walked far enough down that path - further than I should have. And I told him so, I told him that I wouldn’t be there, and I told him not to come after me. So whatever happened to them, wherever they went, I’m not following.”
“I’m not asking you to. All I want is to know where they are. So that I can find them and-”
“There’s nothing to find,” he chuckled painfully, echoing the sentiments she’d heard in the last few demon bars she’d waded her way through, “and there’s no one left alive who knows.”
“But, they told me- There must be someone,” she insisted, her voice hardening into a resolve that lay just short of menace. “And so far, you’re the only one I’ve found who actually worked there-” A sudden inspiration lit within her mind. “Wait, do you know Cordelia?” she asked, the question little more than a shot in the dark, because from what she remembered from her earlier discussions with Giles, Cordelia had dropped off the radar before Angel switched sides. Which meant that anything she knew would probably be past its best-before date, but even that would be better than nothing. “She used to work with Angel too. She’ll know - I want to talk to her.”
“Cordy?!” Brief emotion flared in him, then went out. “Cordy’s dead.”
“Dead.” Buffy echoed the word as if it had no meaning, shaking her head. “Cordelia? She can’t be dead.”
“Oh, believe me - she can be, and she is.” He threw back another glass, giving a fierce shudder as if the flavour were particularly appalling. “Poor thing. But maybe it was for the best. She was lucky. Knew when to make her exit. Even after all that, everything she’d been through, she was still pure… never forgot who she was. What was important. Went out, fighting the good fight. Before it all went to hell… before we-” He looked up at her with red red eyes, his rambling speech shuddering to a halt. “You still here, butternut? I can’t tell you anything. I’ve got nothing left to give.”
There was a plaintive truth to his words that she couldn’t help but believe. His eyes were haunted, and weariness hung upon him like a shroud. And yet, a glimmer of knowledge burned darkly behind his eyes, and she knew without a doubt that he knew. That he’d been there, and that he had all the answers that she’d come looking for.
“Cordelia Chase,” she repeated, because she had to be certain, and because it couldn’t be true.
But the demon nodded.
“How did it happen? Cordelia, I mean.” It wasn’t one of the questions she’d come here intending to ask, but somehow she couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea that Cordelia could be dead. That she could die, and none of them know about it. True, they hadn’t made much of an effort to keep in touch, but still…
Sunnydale, it seemed, had been the last string holding them all together. When they’d left it behind, they’d all begun to go their separate ways.
“When did she die?”
“A hundred years ago, it feels like. Weeks. Months. I don’t know, sweetie. I can’t really say. This,” he said, hefting the bottle before him, “is how I measure time now. And time’s a-wasting.” He turned away from her, pouring another glass. “Been lovely chatting with you.”
“Listen to me,” she growled, taking him by the garishly-coloured shirt cloth to shove him back against the wall and pin him there - his glass tumbling sideways, and blood-red liquor spilling out over the tabletop and onto the floor, and she felt like crap for treating him this way, but it was the only way she ever knew to get through to someone - “I don’t have time for this. I need answers. Now.”
The demon winced at the iron-clad hold she was using against him. “Need? ‘Need’ is a strong word… but then you’re a strong little thing, aren’t you. What are you going to do - throttle it out of me?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Makes two of us, Warrior Princess. So, while you’re busy making up your mind, let’s say you start by letting go of the windpipe.”
He wasn’t making any threatening moves, wasn’t even fighting back, and if she wanted to make her point, she’d probably already done it. Easing up her grip, Buffy let him loose, taking a step back and standing ready in case he tried anything.
But he only stretched his neck and shoulders as if settling everything back into its proper place, then looked back upon her with an air of resignation. “Why don’t you and I sit down, and let’s try to work this out all nice and civilized. I know you don’t want to - you’re one of those Type A bash-and-smash warrior types - but that level of drama always gives me a headache. So do me a favour and humour me for a moment.”
He sounded so reasonable about it that Buffy couldn’t help feeling as if she were being the unreasonable one. Warily, she seated herself next to him.
“Bartender,” he called, refilling his own overturned glass, “bring something for my fine, ferocious little friend here.”
“Diet Coke,” Buffy prompted.
The green-skinned demon snorted with a sad shake of his head. But when the glass was placed in front of her, he clinked it with his own. “Cheers,” he said glumly. “To absent friends. For auld langsyne and whatnot…”
“Um… yeah,” she agreed, even though she was mentally flashing back to silly party hats, midnight and Times Square. After a few moments of sipping at her drink in more or less companionable silence, Buffy glanced surreptitiously at her watch. Late afternoon - it would be getting dark soon. And yet here she was, sitting in a demon bar and drinking diet cola. It was turning out to be a very long, very strange day.
“So,” she said at last, speaking when she became convinced that he’d never break the silence otherwise. Deciding to circle around the issue, she asked, “Can you at least tell me what happened to Cordelia?”
He answered with a tentative swirl of his drink, and a cagey question of his own. “Were you a friend of hers, cupcake?”
Her lips quirked a little bit at the casual endearment, so out of place when only a few moments ago she’d been halfway to strangling him. “Cordelia? Yeah, sure. I mean… sort of,” she explained with an unexpected self-consciousness. “We went to high school together in Sunnydale… but after that, we mostly lost touch. Last time I saw her, she was here in LA, working for Angel. But that was… years ago.”
“Yes, Cordy was working for Angel. Got sucked into the big guy’s crusade against evil. There’s something about him,” he mused, “that just makes people want to drop whatever they’re doing and join his cause. There’s the mission, the prophecies, inspiring speeches, secret decoder rings… makes you think that you’re a part of something worthwhile, something special. Who knows, maybe we were. But I’m boring you with back-story, aren’t I? Cordy received visions from ‘the Powers that Be.’ ” His hands mimed an exaggerated quotation around the words, contempt glimmering in his eyes. “Supposed to help guide Angelkins down the one true path to his destiny. Seemed like a good idea at the time… and then it all went pear-shaped with the Beast, and Jasmine…” He paused, peering at her. “…but, no, that’s too long a story, and from the looks of you, your patience is finite. Long story short: the second-last batch of ‘PTB’ intervention left Cordy in a coma. The very last vision ended up killing her.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” he replied dryly, “ ‘oh.’ After that, it all went to hell in a very swift handbasket. Of course, it was a short trip, since we were more than halfway there already, but too blind to see it at the time.” He paused, casting a caustic look in her direction. “But you don’t really care about any of that, do you?”
Taken aback, she started, “I do care,” but even she could hear the weakness of her protest. “It’s just…” Too much, too sudden, too different from what she’d been expecting? She wasn’t sure. Though she believed he was telling her the truth, still it didn’t feel real. As if it were only an echo of other losses. Her mother, and Tara, and Anya, and all the others who had died in Sunnydale… Never enough time for grieving - always something else to be done.
“Right now, what I really need is to know what happened to the others,” she pressed, unapologetically trying to get him to pick up on that one thread that she really wanted to follow. “I can’t think about anything else until I get that worked out.”
“I’m beginning to realize that,” he sighed.
“So what happened?” she asked, impatiently trying to get past the weird back-and-forth conversational negotiation and down to business. She was much better with the punching-you-in-your-face-until-you-talk discussion style, but not only did that not feel right in this case, something also told her it wouldn’t work with this guy. “And where did they all go? At the other bar, one of the demons told me that there was some big showdown with that law firm, Wolfman-”
“Wolfram,” he corrected.
“-whatever, and Hart. And something about a portal that took them all away. And after that, nobody else knows what happened next, or if they do, they aren’t saying, but they said that you would know.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained look on his face, as if the sound of her voice were a particularly nasty headache that he couldn’t quite get rid of. “All right, all right; let’s just back up a smidgen here, sunshine. You keep saying ‘they.’ Who is ‘they?’ ”
“I didn’t get a whole lot of names,” she replied, with an exasperated wave of her hand. “I got your business card from some carny-lowlife-look-alike who said his name was Garish, or something like that.”
“Garosh,” he echoed hollowly, then shook his head. “You know something, sweetpea? Of all the things you could have said to try to work your way into my good graces, ‘Garosh sent me’ is not one of them. It’s not in the top twenty - it didn’t even make it onto the list of alternates. Now, I don’t know what game you’re playing at, or what you really want from me-”
“Hey! Nobody sent me here. And this isn’t about you. I didn’t come to LA for you; I came for-” Hauling herself up short before she once again said too much, Buffy tried to calm down and stay on topic. “I’ve got my own reasons, which have nothing to do with you. I’m just trying to find my friends, okay? So when I got here, I started hitting up the demon bars for information-”
“You mean, hitting up the clientele in the demon bars for information. There’s a subtle distinction.”
She glared at him. “It’s not like anyone ever answers my questions when I just ask nicely,” she pointed out. “…Anyway, this Garosh guy just barges in, tells me that no one really knows what and where and why, except you. And then he gave me your business card, which was way too convenient, but still… I don’t actually have a lot of contacts left in LA. I thought it was worth a try.”
“Hmm.” He was peering at his drinking glass so intently that she wasn’t sure if he were more intent on measuring her words or the quantity of alcohol remaining. “Assuming you’re telling the truth - and yes, I do know what happens when you assume - it’s still not a good crowd for you to be running with. Or running from, either, for that matter.”
“I’m not doing either,” she retorted defensively, feeling a hint of uneasiness. Not yet, at least. “And I can take care of myself. And besides, who is this Garosh, anyway?”
He threw her an odd look. “You really do rush in where angels fear to tread, don’t you? Garosh… he’s the next big thing in the demon world - in some circles, anyway. Thinks he’s a seer, or a prophet. I think he’s yet another apocalyptic nutbar waiting for the end of this world and the beginning of the next. Don’t know if he’s the real thing or not - and, well, when it comes right down to it, I don’t actually care - but if I were you, munchkin, I’d stay out of his way.” He shrugged. “For what it’s worth.”
Buffy considered that for a moment, then brushed it aside. She didn’t need to know about this - not right now - it wasn’t important - and anyway, she hadn’t come to LA to find out who was who in demon high society, and she wasn’t necessarily planning on sticking around long enough to need to worry about it. Maybe she’d tell Andrew to send a memo off to Giles later, but that was all she was prepared to do at the moment. “I appreciate the advice-” she began carefully.
“Oh, wait for it,” he muttered sourly, not quite under his breath, “here comes the big ‘but.’ ”
“-but it’s not my problem. I don’t want to get mixed up in any of that. I just want to know about what happened to Angel,” she reiterated. “Angel, and - and the others with him.”
A muffled groan. “Do we have to go through this again-?”
“Yes, again, and I’m not going to quit asking until you tell me what you know. I need to find out what happened, if there were any survivors…” Her voice stumbled only slightly on that word. “…and where they went.”
“You’ve got a one-track mind, Sister Golden-Hair; you keep asking the same thing and getting the same answer. You ever stop to consider that maybe you aren’t asking the right questions?”
“All right, then. What’s the right question?”
“Do I look like I know? Would I be sitting here, drinking the days away, if I knew?”
Buffy clenched her teeth. “Listen,” she barked, “I don’t know what your deal is. And right now, I don’t really care. You can sit here and drown yourself in your sorrows for all I care - as long as you tell me how to find them.”
His eyes flicked warily toward her. “Who says they want to be found? Who says there’s anything left to find?”
“One way or another,” she gritted, meeting his piercing red-eyed gaze without flinching, “I need to know.”
“Sing something for me.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” His demeanor had been shifting periodically between tattered affability and outright self-loathing - this was the first moment she’d heard a note of unyielding resolve in his voice. “It’s a one-time offer. I don’t do this any more. Everything I hear now, it’s like a dirge. Everything tainted. But you - you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you? A bright perfect little thing like you.”
She squirmed uncomfortably under his flatly dismissive gaze. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“And I don’t want to, goldilocks, so don’t even think of boring me with your life’s story. Let’s just finish playing out this scene, so that we can both go back to what we’d rather be doing. Sing. Something. Anything. And then I’ll tell you what you want to know. Whether or not you want to hear it.”
“You’re serious.”
He said nothing at all, only watched her as he waited expectantly. The silence between them stretched on and on.
“ ‘Did you ever know that you’re my hero,’ ” she finally sang, in a self-conscious voice just barely above a whisper - and she was embarrassed at her voice, at the schmaltzy sentimentality of the song she was singing, but it was the only thing that had come to mind, and somehow, when he stared at her so intently, crimson eyes peering into her own, she couldn’t help but continue to sing - “ ‘you’re everything I wish I could be, and I can fly higher than’ - okay, this is stupid, I can’t believe I’m even doing this. Why-?”
“Yes,” he stated, in abrupt answer to a question she hadn’t spoken aloud. “He’s alive. Or was alive as vampires get, anyway. I believe the polite term is ‘undead.’ He spoke of you, several times. Never sang for me, though, so I’m afraid I can’t put your mind at rest. You’ll have to ask him yourself - if you can find him. Although, I see that you’re ready to move heaven and earth to do just that - that’s good, because that’s about what it’s going to take.”
No words would come to her lips. She stared at him, frozen, her mind trying to process the words he was speaking. Did he know-? How could he possibly-? She’d been so careful, had never said - hadn’t even spoken his name - not even once-
His lips quirked briefly upward in a smirk. “Don’t bottle it up; love shouldn’t ever be kept a secret. Makes you bitter.” And he laughed softly, as if that were some kind of joke.
“I… don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice very high and thin.
“Maybe you do; maybe you don’t. Never mind, darling; it’s not like there’s anyone left for me to tell. The answer to your other question,” he added, “because there were two very distinct questions there, is no. Angel may have lost his way, but he hasn’t lost himself. Though he’s sometimes been evil’s pawn, he’s not evil himself. But you have to understand - he’s wedded to that fight. He set himself on that path with no intention of turning back. Said his goodbyes, took care of his loved ones, fully expected to die. I don’t know,” he sighed, “I don’t know if they actually did die. I just knew - the same way all of us did - that it was the end. And so I made my own decisions, said my goodbyes, and chose my own ending, the way everyone eventually does.
“So, there. That’s enough. That’s what you needed to know… and maybe a little bit more, besides.” Reaching out, he patted her hands absently in an oddly comfortingly gesture, even as his eyes still burned intently into her own. “Go on. Do what you have to. After all, the good guys always win in the end, don’t they?”
With a start, she realized that he’d finally decided to give her the information she’d come for. Mentally shifting gears, Buffy tried to get back in control of the situation. If she’d ever actually been in control of any of it. “Where… where do I go?”
“As you’ve probably already figured out, it was all kinds of mayhem that night, with a whole kit and caboodle of carnage scattered everywhere - makes the trail that much harder to follow. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” He took a deep breath and seemed to hold it for a long moment, giving her one last measuring look before finally answering.
“But if I were coming, I was supposed to meet them,” he said, the words slowly sighing out in tired resignation, “in the alley behind the old Hyperion Hotel. From what I know, I’d say that’s where the last big smackdown took place. There’s not much left now, but if there are any answers, you’ll find them there. Don’t know where that is?” he queried, correctly interpreting the blank look on her face, and he began scrawling directions on a napkin in front of him. “You start at the end, and work your way backwards. Ironic, that. Spent our lives, going in circles - better off not to have started,” he murmured, and then seemed to shake off his distraction. He handed the flimsy piece of paper to her. “Here. Don’t make me regret this - I’ve already got more than enough of those as it is.”
“I won’t.” She glanced down at the mini-map he’d drawn for her. This was the point that she usually whirled on her heel and left, having got what she needed, but this time she lingered a moment longer. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, and then added, “I’m sorry.”
“No more than I.” He sank back in upon himself, lounging brokenly over the table, contemplating the bottle as if plotting his next move.
Buffy had had more than enough of the atmosphere and the woe. She made her way to the door, pausing only as he called out after her, “Good luck, Buffy Summers.” Glancing questioningly back at him, she was very much aware that she had not once given him her name, nor told him what she was. His gaze glittered upon hers with an odd acceptance. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”