New Fic - Happy (Baby Won't You Keep Me)
I'm starting the new year off with a bang with a new fic. Then again, I started it close to a year ago.
Notes: This is a sequel to Guilt Trembling Spoke My doom. It is the second story in a projected trilogy. You do not have to read the first story in order to understand this one, but I certainly wouldn't mind if you read and commented on it.
The third and final story is Fairytale of New York"
Betas do it with good grammar (and better comma placement than I possess). In addition, the ever lovely tkp improved my Willow babblage (and wrote the best part of it) and kept yelling (albeit softly) until I realized I had turned my head and thus missed a crucial part of the conversation at the end.
I do, in fact, own Angel and he is currently chained up and naked in my basement. I charge on a sliding scale depending on what you want to do to him. (I figure I'll pay off all of Aaron's upcoming college costs in two months.)
rated pg-13
Comments and criticisms lovingly read and treasured.
Happy (Baby Won't You Keep Me)
The air was so heavy with moisture that his shirt stuck to his back, sodden with dampness. He took out the paper and rechecked the address, even though he had memorized it long before he got off the plane. This was definitely the door, but he hesitated anyway. He rolled his shoulders, unsuccessfully trying to relieve the tension, but finally there were no more excuses and he rapped sharply. When the door was finally opened, his first thought was that Giles had aged. It had been almost nine years and his hairline was decidedly higher, the lines in his face more pronounced. But what Angel noticed most were his eyes; they seemed both harder and more grief-stricken, all at once.
“Hello, Giles” and reached out to shake the other man’s hand. The gesture wasn’t returned as the older man narrowed his eyes.
Finally he spoke. “Angel.”
There was no inflection, nothing welcoming in the tone, but Angel didn’t hear out and out hostility either. “I go by Cian nowadays.”
“Yes, Buffy did mention that.” Giles flattened himself against the wall a bit as Angel grabbed his carry-on and stepped inside the flat.
His first impression was that every bit of floor space was either occupied by a young girl or by a stack of books. He wasn't able to see much more than that when he was nearly bowled over a vigorous hug and a pair of arms around him
"Angel," she whispered into his neck. "I'm so happy you're here. We all thought you had died. Well, gone pooft." She smelled like herbal tea and lilacs.
He pulled back a little, surprised as always by her unabashed pleasure in seeing him "Willow, it's wonderful to see you also."
"How was the plane ride? Are you hungry? Because airplane food is not of the edible. Oh, did they give you those little peanut bags? Wait, no, because peanuts can cause rashes and death. What's New York like this time of year? It was coincidence-y, wasn’t it, the way you and Buffy just ran into each other in Central Park? Like a of all the gin joints in all the world thing, except without gin? Not that people wouldn’t drink gin in-”
"Willow, " Giles gently interrupted. "I'm sure Cian is tired after his long flight. Upstairs, second door on the left."
"Oh, yeah. Excuse the babble. I'll talk to you later, ok?"
He nodded, a bit amused by her Joycean stream of consciousness. At the same time, he was tremendously gratified. He had been convinced that no one would be all that eager to see him. Certainly, he had been surprised when Buffy had told him that he would be staying in Giles' guest bedroom. After the horrible events that had occurred - that he had caused - Giles had never trusted him again. It turned out that Giles had been correct never to do so; five years ago he had caused the deaths of hundreds. He suspected that Buffy had demanded that Giles put him up. In this, he and Giles were alike. They could refuse her nothing.
The bedroom was appointed in deep, warm tones; the bedspread was a rich brown, with a hunter green and gold paisley design. The walls were painted in the same brown, lightened several tones, and the trim the same rich green. Every available inch of wall space was filled with books. He examined the shelves and was surprised to find a few books purely for reading pleasure. Then again, he and Giles were likely the only two people on earth who considered reading Thomas Mann in the original German pleasurable. The vast majority of books were council related. Encyclopedias of demons, titles in unpronounceable languages, books relating to specific prophesies. He saw Wesley before him, pushing up his glasses, utterly engrossed in ferreting out some obscure rite so they could vanquish the latest threat. His chest tightened painfully in remembrance.
He was almost through putting away his clothes when there was a knock at his door. "Dawn!" The name died in his throat when he saw the hatred in her eyes. The last time he had seen Dawn (I've never actually met her, his mind unhelpfully insisted), she was a pigtail wearing child, all long-loosed limbs and coltish energy. The young woman before him had matured into a stunning beauty; she possessed a self-assuredness that he suspected intrigued as many men as it frightened. At the moment, her arms were crossed on her chest and there was not a drop of friendliness to be found in her expression.
"Why are you here?" The question seemed rhetorical, so Angel decided it was best not to answer.
"Do you have any idea what Buffy was like when we thought you were dead?" Dawn stepped into the room, using her foot to loudly close the door behind her. "She was in L.A. for almost five months searching for you. When she finally came home, it was almost as bad as when Willow pulled her out of heaven. She barely ate, she didn't sleep. And you, you bastard, were alive the entire time. Really alive, in fact. Having a grand old time making up for missed opportunities, I bet."
Angel looked at the floor, unable to meet the look in Dawn's eyes. It didn't occur to him to dispute Dawn's interpretation of events. All he could think of was that once again, he had caused Buffy pain.
"And now you have the balls to show up here. I don't want you near her. Buffy invited you here because she has the biggest heart of anyone I know. She's finally happy again. Damien makes her happy. Don't try to ruin that."
Almost three hundred years of keeping his true emotions at bay suddenly proved a blessing. He looked at Dawn and in an even tone of voice said, "We've been exes a lot longer than we were ever together. Buffy hasn't been on my radar for a long time."
Dawn studied him for a long moment and finally turned and left, slamming the door behind her.
Angel sat on the bed for a long time and twisted his fingers into the bedclothes beneath him, barely able to keep from trembling. When he had first been made human, his guilt over the apocalypse that he had brought forth in L.A. and his belief that Buffy wanted nothing more to do with him had prevented him from seeking her out. He had made a new life for himself - changed his name, moved to New York, gotten a job, but for all that, he had been sleepwalking through his existence at best, attempting to quell his endless depression and remorse with booze and anonymous sex. And then, as usual with his life, fate had stepped in and twisted things around.
Buffy had run into him and he had agreed to have dinner with her. They had talked of superficial things. There was a lot in his life that he was too ashamed to bring up, and he could tell that there were things she was holding back on also. It hadn't mattered. By the end of the evening, he was in love with her all over again. The way she wrinkled her nose while thinking, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about Dawn, the way her strength lay just under the surface. He had readily agreed when she asked him to come to England for a visit; there was going to be some huge slayer powwow and everyone would be there.
At the end of the evening she had leaned over and kissed his cheek, burning him and blessing him in the same instant. And now Dawn was telling him that Buffy had moved on. He had no claim on her; if she hadn't found him again, he wouldn't have sought her out. But still, he knew in the deepest recesses of his heart that he would never stop loving her. No one else would ever be to him what she had been, what she still was.
Most of his nights were spent in an alcohol-induced haze in order to block out the nightmares. When that didn't work, he spent the night tossing and turning, remembering blood soaked days, his victims' pleas the only thing he heard. But once in a great, great while sleep brought him memories of his early days with Buffy. One time he dreamed about an entire conversation that they had had in which she patiently tried to explain the X-Files to him. When he had laughed, asking who could possibly watch such nonsense, she raised one eyebrow and retorted, "So says the vampire." He had woken up, happier than he'd been in years.
The front door opened and the rhythm of her voice called to him. He understood that by taking the bait, he was likely to find himself gasping for breath and gutted, but he started down the steps anyway. He stopped halfway down and marveled at the scene before him. There were at least fifty girls (slayers, he thought) swarming around her, and with each word or smile or gesture from her, he could see them puff up a bit.
"I knew it!" A crow of delight split the air. Willow, he realized. The crush of girls surrounded Buffy so that she was no longer visible, but he could hear the delighted squeals of the other girls.
"Was it romantic?" "Did he get down on one knee?" "It is so beautiful."
A glint on her left hand was visible and he finally noticed the man who had been standing at her side the entire time. She turned and looked up at the man. Angel remembered all too well the look she was bestowing on her partner. In that instant, he died once again, hope he had barely admitted to still carrying withering within him. She lifted her head at that moment and looked at him. He couldn't tell if he actually saw regret in her eyes or whether he was just imagining it. She held his gaze a beat too long and then turned to talk to someone else. He trudged back up the steps to his room. The flight had been long and he was tired.
The growling of his own stomach woke him up in the middle of the night. He hadn't eaten in well over 15 hours. Throwing a robe on over his t-shirt and boxers, he carefully made his way downstairs in the dark and silently crept into the kitchen. He was fumbling for the light switch when the voice behind him made him leap into the air.
"I believe there's still chicken in the fridge."
"Rupert." Angel didn't bother trying to hide the fact that Giles had likely shaved a few years off his now mortal life span.
"So, is this the result of the Shanshu prophecy?" Giles waved a hand in Angel's general direction.
"You knew about that?" Angel's eyebrows lifted high in surprise.
Giles sat down at one of the kitchen chairs. "As a watcher and head of the Council, it's my business to know about such things." Off of Angel's look, he added, "When Buffy found you, I explained about the prophecy, but no one else has any idea as to how you became human or the deeper meaning of it." He waited until Angel had retrieved some chicken and a beer and then added, "So, you're redeemed now. Crimes all forgiven?"
Angel thought about the faces of the dead that still haunted his waking moments. "It doesn't particularly feel that way," he answered softly.
"Good." Giles casually rested his right hand on the table. Few people got to see it; Giles was careful about keeping it out of sight. But Angel was all too familiar with the twisted, mangled appendage; he still remembered the sound each bone had made as he had snapped them, could still remember the sweet taste of Giles' blood as he had sensuously wrapped his tongue around every broken, bleeding finger.
"You are here at Buffy's behest. There is to be an engagement party tomorrow. Make sure that you attend in a proper celebratory mood." Giles stood up to leave and something finally broke within Angel.
"You knew what was happening in L.A. You're the head of the council, as you just reminded me. Why didn't you send help?"
Giles took off his glasses and carefully cleaned them. He then put them on and looked at Angel with a mixture of pity and disdain. "Your attack was a suicide mission. I didn't see any point in consigning a group of young girls to certain death." He voice softened a bit. "You do know that things did improve in that area? Demonic activity in Southern California is at an all time low." Giles nodded and left the room.
Angel closed his eyes and again saw the endless parade of all who had died during that final battle against Wolfram and Hart. Had it been worth it? He grimaced as he bit back sudden nausea and a minute later he rose to toss out the chicken.
He almost didn't go to the party. He hardly knew anyone attending and he didn't exactly think he'd be missed if he didn't show. At the last minute he went, not because of Giles' thinly veiled threat, but because he didn't want Buffy to think he wasn't thrilled for her. In the end, her happiness was the only important thing. It always had been.
When he finally arrived at the restaurant, the party was in full swing. He saw Giles at the bar, surrounded by a bunch of other people, mostly middle aged men. All of them looked rather discomfited by the loud dance pop and seemed to be huddled together for protection. The tables in the middle of the floor had been cleared away and a large group of young girls, along with some young men, were enthusiastically bopping to the beat. He thought he saw Willow's red hair waving in the air while she danced with another young woman.
He carefully edged around the wall of the restaurant. He still knew how to melt into the shadows and used it to find a table as far away from everything as possible. He was just about to go to the far corner when a voice at his elbow stopped him.
"Grab a seat."
The man was a light caramel color, the muscles visible under his shirt attesting to the fact that the tan was the result of hard manual labor and not a tanning bed. His hair was extremely close cropped and the set of his mouth revealed him as someone who took life seriously. However, it was his eye patch that was his most arresting feature, it seemed to speak of someone who had survived unspeakable events and come out stronger for it.
"Xander?" It was half question and half statement. The changes in Xander were as dramatic as his own.
"Having fun?" Angel wasn't sure if Xander's question was mean spirited or not. He couldn't read him at all. He was about to ask him something innocuous and try to gauge the situation, when Xander's arm shot up.
"My friend here would like --" and he glanced over at Angel.
Angel was about to order a beer and then decided the hell with it. He had nothing to prove to anybody, least of all Harris. "Whiskey, neat."
Xander nodded appreciatively, "So I guess you're now an undead man." Frowning, Xander ran his hand through his mostly nonexistent hair. "More accurately, un-undead man. Sort of like Prince formally known as the artist formally known as Prince." Off of Angel's blank stare, Xander sighed. "The newly humanized are not receptive to pop culture jokes, it seems.
"I hear you're a big deal ad exec nowadays."
"Art director. Not the same thing."
"But still a big cheese. Someone told me you were profiled in Business Week.
"That wasn't that big a thing." Angel was feeling more and more uncomfortable. "What have you been up to? Still fighting the good fight?"
"Yup. Once you get a taste for near death, nothing else comes close." Angel had absolutely no idea whether Xander was being serious or not. Then again, most of Xander's quips had been unintelligible to him. "I've been in Africa for almost six years. A lot of slayers have turned up there. Mostly I track them down. Try to train them a bit. If they're still living in a village, I do my best to hook them up with the village medicine man and turn things over to him. It seems to work out. Otherwise I send them back here." He looked out into the crowd, but his eyes were unfocused. "The last girl I found died in my arms. First, she took out the thing that was terrorizing her village. I don't think she was more than thirteen." His voice was flat and uninflected. He turned to Angel and noted the second whiskey he was already drinking. "Trying to drown your sorrows?"
Angel gave Xander the fish eye, but it had no outward effect. "I'm Irish. I like to drink."
Xander tipped his chair back a little and gave a little snort of disbelief. He crossed his arms over his chest and gazed out into the crowd. It was obvious to Angel who he was looking at. "It's the first time I've ever seen her this happy. He's good for her."
Angel couldn't decide whether that was a subtle dig or not. It didn't matter. He stared at his hands splayed on the table and wondered if, in fact, he ever had made Buffy happy.
"He's a researcher with the council. Demon language specialist. They're a good match; he grounds her." Xander's tone wasn't completely unsympathetic. Angel couldn't decide if it was because his vampire past really was the past now or because he was permanently out of the running where Buffy was concerned.
He was about to signal the serving girl for yet another drink, when a voice chirped next to him. "So this is where you guys have been hiding."
Xander smiled and for a moment, Angel saw the boy from so long ago instead of the hardened man he'd become. "Where's Lily?"
"I left her by the bar. I told her I had to do some dancing with my best bud. And you're next, mister," Willow said, giving Angel a pointed look.
Angel held out his hands and shook his head. "I don't dance, Willow. Ever." He looked out at the dance floor, lost in thought, and suddenly it was one hundred and fifty years ago. The room swam before his eyes and changed; the wood floor became highly polished white marble, the cheap fixtures, crystal chandeliers, and all the men were in frock coats and the women, ball gowns. Darla stood before him, in a gown of sky blue silk and navy accents, but when he held his hand out, it was Buffy who accepted his invitation. He could feel the whalebone corset beneath his hand as the chamber orchestra started playing. They were in perfect harmony as they waltzed together, swirling and holding each other close. He could feel her heartbeat moving inside of him. She wanted to tell him something; he could see that, and he bent down close to her lips. He was holding her tightly; he was never going to let her go and it felt like nothing could be more perfect than this.
"Sir, can I get you another?"
He had to blink a few times because the world was suddenly very blurry.
MWMWMW
He woke up to the sun streaming through the window, a moderate headache in the middle of his skull and a brief sense of complete disorientation until he remembered where he was. Peering at the time, he was shocked to see it was already 9:30. He was normally up at 5:30 in order to fit in jogging, showering, shaving and personal grooming, and a quick read through of the newspaper. He decided that it was a combination of jet lag finally kicking in plus way too much booze the night before.
The house was completely silent, which was extremely odd, until Angel remembered that today was some sort of outing for all the slayers and watchers. There were going to be training exercises, weapons demonstrations and various meetings. It sounded way too similar to those horrible rah-rah yearly corporate meetings he was forced to attend (well, except for the actual weapons demos) and he was just as glad to be here, alone. He decided that he would stroll around town for a bit, maybe eat lunch at a pub and have a pint (or three). Then he would call up the airline and have his flight switched to tomorrow. There wasn’t any point in staying here.
He quickly rummaged through the closet, throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Half way down the stairs, he stopped. She sat in the middle of the couch, bent over, looking lost and forlorn.
Quickly and quietly, he sprinted down the steps and crossed over until he was standing in front of her. “Are you ok? Why aren’t you with the others?”
She picked her head up and he could see she’d been crying. She couldn’t have been more than 14, all spindly arms and legs, braces and acne. But she also had red-gold shoulder length hair, skin the color of cream and denim blue eyes. In a few years, she would break the hearts of every male in her school. Angel squatted directly in front of her, not close enough to touch her, and patiently waited. After a few sniffs, he was rewarded. “I stayed behind. Nobody noticed. My watcher hates me because I can’t do anything. He’s got Laurie and Tanya also and they’re so good at this and I’m just useless.” She burst into tears again.
He almost smiled, but managed to hide his amusement. He hadn’t forgotten the long ago roller coaster of emotions that Buffy used to exhibit. He had loved her more than he had thought possible, but there were times that teenage dramatics had proven wearying to an old guy. ”When did you get called?” he asked gently.
“I found out I was a slayer two weeks ago. Another slayer, Faith, told me all about it.”
For a moment, he let his thoughts drift. Faith wasn’t here at this little gathering, ostensibly because she was needed to guard the Cleveland hell mouth. He wondered if it was more because she and Buffy still didn’t get along. He missed her. She would have been the only other person besides Willow genuinely happy to see him. He shifted his thoughts back to the girl in front of him and now he did smile. “Well, that explains it. They’ve probably been doing this a lot longer than you. In fact, I would guess you’re the newest slayer here.”
“Do you think?”
“Yes. What’s your name?”
“Arianna.”
“Cian,” he said, holding out his hand for a formal handshake. "I tell you what. We could go out back and do some crossbow training. And I’ll be happy to show you some hand to hand combat moves. Absolutely no need for tears.”
"That's what Mr. Winston said also," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Who?"
"My watcher," she clarified. "He said that slayers shouldn't cry. That we need to be strong."
Angel frowned. "There's nothing wrong with crying. I've cried on a few occasions. I'm just saying that this time, you don't need to cry because I'll bet you're better than Laura and what's-her-name."
"Tanya. And why did you cry?"
"Because I lost people I loved."
"They died?"
"Some of them. Some of them I left because their lives were better without me there."
She sat up, brow furrowed, contemplating his words. "How do you know they were better off if you left?"
He had a vision of Connor enjoying college life, Buffy gazing up at Damien with love in her eyes. "Because when I was there, all I ever did was make them unhappy."
She looked at him a little suspiciously. “Why are you here? How come you’re not with your slayer?”
“I’m not a watcher.” He shrugged, grateful for the abrupt change in topic. “I knew Buffy and Willow and Xander back in Sunnydale. For a little while I helped them fight.” Little while was pretty much an understatement. Two years tops, and yet aside from his years in L.A., the only time in his long, undistinguished existence that mattered to him. “I still remember the moves.” He gave her a full on grin. “Although I’m a lot more breakable nowadays, so go a little easy on me.” At that moment, her stomach growled and she ducked her head in embarrassment. “Have you eaten?” She shook her head. “Well, neither have I. French toast, eggs or pancakes?”
“You can cook?” The tears had stopped and only curiosity was in her expression now.
“I am a man of many talents.” He stood and mock bowed, gratified to hear her giggle.
“Pancakes?”
“Pancakes it is,” he stated as he strode to the kitchen
MWMWMW
Right before the sun set, he left the confines of the flat. Now that everyone had returned from the day’s activities, the place had felt claustrophobic to him, and so he had slipped out without anyone noticing he was gone.
He walked aimlessly, not particularly worried about finding his way back. He had always possessed a good sense of direction. The cool night air felt good against his overheated skin. Depending on what Giles told him in the morning, he would likely be leaving later tomorrow. He should have left the past in the past.
He looked up and found himself in front of a small Anglican church that had obviously been built over a century before. He easily swung his long legs over the iron fence and sat down among the cracked and leaning gravestones. He wondered if he would always be more comfortable among the dead than the living.
He wasn’t particularly surprised when Buffy tracked him down less than ten minutes later. If the two of them were randomly tossed into the crowd at Times Square on New Year’s Eve he could have unerringly found her; he suspected the same was true of her. She stood before him, arms crossed over her chest, towering over him for once.
“I spoke to Giles. Why are you doing this?”
Had he expected her to be this angry? Perhaps, although he wasn’t sure about it. “Because it needs to be done.” He wanted to tell her that this wasn’t any of her business, but that wasn’t true.
“Is it because she’s going to be gorgeous in a year or two?”
He wondered if he should be offended at the implication, but instead he stated the bald truth. “She’s going to be dead in a year or two unless something changes.”
“She’s already got a highly capable watcher.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t capable. He’s just not the right watcher for her.”
“And you are?”
“I know more about the monsters that hide in the dark than all your watchers and slayers combined. Or did you forget I was a demon for a quarter of a millennium?”
“Some of the others told me who Cian Brennan is. You’re highly respected in your field. You’ve won awards. You probably make a lot of money. I don’t understand.”
“Because helping to save people is a lot more important than selling toilet paper and cars.”
“It’s dangerous.”
For a moment, he flashed back to his final visit to Sunnydale and how she asked him to leave because she couldn’t bear his death due to her battles. Now, it was simply a rote warning she gave to all who considered this life. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Yes, it is.”
When he opened his eyes again, she was sitting close enough that he could smell the citrusy scent of her perfume, but all it did was serve to remind him of the way she used to smell to him, the earthy scent of air after it rained, the sugary sweet scent of cotton candy, a hint of almonds. If he moved his hand just a little he could sift his hand through her hair and let it gently fall back onto her shoulder. He used to run two fingers up the soft skin of her neck and she would arch her head back slightly, making a soft sighing noise as he traced up to her jaw. He would continue upward and rest a finger in the corner of her mouth, just pushing in ever so slightly, until finally her tongue would flick out and lick just the tip of his index finger. Then it would be his turn to moan softly.
He could easily reach out and touch her; he remembered every dip of her skin, every jut of bone, every tiny freckle. But he wasn't sure what would happen, if he would see her eyes drift closed in desire or her mouth twist in revulsion. He wasn't even sure which he'd prefer.
He remembered a time when they had been comfortable together in the silence, but now only awkwardness loomed between them. “Are you happy?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back. He had no right to ask her things like that. Not anymore.
She was sitting with her knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Protecting herself, against what or whom he couldn’t say. She was staring out into space, lost in memory, when finally she began to speak. “I used to have this dream where I was in bed. It wasn’t my bed, because it wasn’t a twin. Maybe a queen? And the sheets were greenish with some kind of design. You were holding me.” A smile stole across her features. “We were holding each other, all tangled together and I could feel your heart beating.” The smile gradually disappeared and she turned and looked at him, straight in the eyes. “But that never happened, did it?”
Her eyes were a blue and brown and green pointillist painting. He always felt that they could see deep inside him, see all the bad he'd done but good things also. As long as she believed in him, he could go on believing also. But that didn't matter much now. He remembered a long ago promise that he would never hurt her, never lie to her, never leave her. Time makes liars of us all, he thought.
“No, it never did.”
Silence loomed again, even louder than before.
"How come you never came for me?"
An old movie clip unspooled in his mind, Dustin Hoffman rattling a church window, a man possessed, screaming, "Elaine." A desperate chuckle almost escaped from his lips at the utter ridiculousness of his subconscious.
But then the image morphed and they were standing in a tiny kitchen, their kitchen, and his arms barely reached around her gravid belly, her head pushed back again his shoulder and he was laughing. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed. All he had to do was take her hand and they could leave together. Find someplace far away from monsters and death and just live a life. They could be happy, together.
He turned toward her in order to reach for her? Kiss her deeply? He tried to read her expression but her face was totally obscured by shadows.
As he stared, he could see her cheeks still had the final bit of childhood chubbiness clinging to them, tears streaming down her face as he mocked her for giving him the gift of herself. Her face kept getting slimmer and the tears dried up as he told her he was ending their relationship, that he was going to turn back time, that he couldn't stay even though her mother had died, that crawling out of her own grave wasn't enough to make him go back to Sunnydale with her. Her eyes kept getting deader as he watched.
"Angel?" A question and an entreaty, a prayer and a hope, he memorized the cadence of her voice so that he could have something for later.
She blinked and looked away. “I’m happy, Angel.”
After a few minutes, she stood up and started to walk away. When she was almost at the fence, she turned back toward him. “What happened during the final battle with Wolfram and Hart?”
“We all died.” He watched her walk down the street until he could no longer see her at all.
Notes: This is a sequel to Guilt Trembling Spoke My doom. It is the second story in a projected trilogy. You do not have to read the first story in order to understand this one, but I certainly wouldn't mind if you read and commented on it.
The third and final story is Fairytale of New York"
Betas do it with good grammar (and better comma placement than I possess). In addition, the ever lovely tkp improved my Willow babblage (and wrote the best part of it) and kept yelling (albeit softly) until I realized I had turned my head and thus missed a crucial part of the conversation at the end.
I do, in fact, own Angel and he is currently chained up and naked in my basement. I charge on a sliding scale depending on what you want to do to him. (I figure I'll pay off all of Aaron's upcoming college costs in two months.)
rated pg-13
Comments and criticisms lovingly read and treasured.
Happy (Baby Won't You Keep Me)
The air was so heavy with moisture that his shirt stuck to his back, sodden with dampness. He took out the paper and rechecked the address, even though he had memorized it long before he got off the plane. This was definitely the door, but he hesitated anyway. He rolled his shoulders, unsuccessfully trying to relieve the tension, but finally there were no more excuses and he rapped sharply. When the door was finally opened, his first thought was that Giles had aged. It had been almost nine years and his hairline was decidedly higher, the lines in his face more pronounced. But what Angel noticed most were his eyes; they seemed both harder and more grief-stricken, all at once.
“Hello, Giles” and reached out to shake the other man’s hand. The gesture wasn’t returned as the older man narrowed his eyes.
Finally he spoke. “Angel.”
There was no inflection, nothing welcoming in the tone, but Angel didn’t hear out and out hostility either. “I go by Cian nowadays.”
“Yes, Buffy did mention that.” Giles flattened himself against the wall a bit as Angel grabbed his carry-on and stepped inside the flat.
His first impression was that every bit of floor space was either occupied by a young girl or by a stack of books. He wasn't able to see much more than that when he was nearly bowled over a vigorous hug and a pair of arms around him
"Angel," she whispered into his neck. "I'm so happy you're here. We all thought you had died. Well, gone pooft." She smelled like herbal tea and lilacs.
He pulled back a little, surprised as always by her unabashed pleasure in seeing him "Willow, it's wonderful to see you also."
"How was the plane ride? Are you hungry? Because airplane food is not of the edible. Oh, did they give you those little peanut bags? Wait, no, because peanuts can cause rashes and death. What's New York like this time of year? It was coincidence-y, wasn’t it, the way you and Buffy just ran into each other in Central Park? Like a of all the gin joints in all the world thing, except without gin? Not that people wouldn’t drink gin in-”
"Willow, " Giles gently interrupted. "I'm sure Cian is tired after his long flight. Upstairs, second door on the left."
"Oh, yeah. Excuse the babble. I'll talk to you later, ok?"
He nodded, a bit amused by her Joycean stream of consciousness. At the same time, he was tremendously gratified. He had been convinced that no one would be all that eager to see him. Certainly, he had been surprised when Buffy had told him that he would be staying in Giles' guest bedroom. After the horrible events that had occurred - that he had caused - Giles had never trusted him again. It turned out that Giles had been correct never to do so; five years ago he had caused the deaths of hundreds. He suspected that Buffy had demanded that Giles put him up. In this, he and Giles were alike. They could refuse her nothing.
The bedroom was appointed in deep, warm tones; the bedspread was a rich brown, with a hunter green and gold paisley design. The walls were painted in the same brown, lightened several tones, and the trim the same rich green. Every available inch of wall space was filled with books. He examined the shelves and was surprised to find a few books purely for reading pleasure. Then again, he and Giles were likely the only two people on earth who considered reading Thomas Mann in the original German pleasurable. The vast majority of books were council related. Encyclopedias of demons, titles in unpronounceable languages, books relating to specific prophesies. He saw Wesley before him, pushing up his glasses, utterly engrossed in ferreting out some obscure rite so they could vanquish the latest threat. His chest tightened painfully in remembrance.
He was almost through putting away his clothes when there was a knock at his door. "Dawn!" The name died in his throat when he saw the hatred in her eyes. The last time he had seen Dawn (I've never actually met her, his mind unhelpfully insisted), she was a pigtail wearing child, all long-loosed limbs and coltish energy. The young woman before him had matured into a stunning beauty; she possessed a self-assuredness that he suspected intrigued as many men as it frightened. At the moment, her arms were crossed on her chest and there was not a drop of friendliness to be found in her expression.
"Why are you here?" The question seemed rhetorical, so Angel decided it was best not to answer.
"Do you have any idea what Buffy was like when we thought you were dead?" Dawn stepped into the room, using her foot to loudly close the door behind her. "She was in L.A. for almost five months searching for you. When she finally came home, it was almost as bad as when Willow pulled her out of heaven. She barely ate, she didn't sleep. And you, you bastard, were alive the entire time. Really alive, in fact. Having a grand old time making up for missed opportunities, I bet."
Angel looked at the floor, unable to meet the look in Dawn's eyes. It didn't occur to him to dispute Dawn's interpretation of events. All he could think of was that once again, he had caused Buffy pain.
"And now you have the balls to show up here. I don't want you near her. Buffy invited you here because she has the biggest heart of anyone I know. She's finally happy again. Damien makes her happy. Don't try to ruin that."
Almost three hundred years of keeping his true emotions at bay suddenly proved a blessing. He looked at Dawn and in an even tone of voice said, "We've been exes a lot longer than we were ever together. Buffy hasn't been on my radar for a long time."
Dawn studied him for a long moment and finally turned and left, slamming the door behind her.
Angel sat on the bed for a long time and twisted his fingers into the bedclothes beneath him, barely able to keep from trembling. When he had first been made human, his guilt over the apocalypse that he had brought forth in L.A. and his belief that Buffy wanted nothing more to do with him had prevented him from seeking her out. He had made a new life for himself - changed his name, moved to New York, gotten a job, but for all that, he had been sleepwalking through his existence at best, attempting to quell his endless depression and remorse with booze and anonymous sex. And then, as usual with his life, fate had stepped in and twisted things around.
Buffy had run into him and he had agreed to have dinner with her. They had talked of superficial things. There was a lot in his life that he was too ashamed to bring up, and he could tell that there were things she was holding back on also. It hadn't mattered. By the end of the evening, he was in love with her all over again. The way she wrinkled her nose while thinking, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about Dawn, the way her strength lay just under the surface. He had readily agreed when she asked him to come to England for a visit; there was going to be some huge slayer powwow and everyone would be there.
At the end of the evening she had leaned over and kissed his cheek, burning him and blessing him in the same instant. And now Dawn was telling him that Buffy had moved on. He had no claim on her; if she hadn't found him again, he wouldn't have sought her out. But still, he knew in the deepest recesses of his heart that he would never stop loving her. No one else would ever be to him what she had been, what she still was.
Most of his nights were spent in an alcohol-induced haze in order to block out the nightmares. When that didn't work, he spent the night tossing and turning, remembering blood soaked days, his victims' pleas the only thing he heard. But once in a great, great while sleep brought him memories of his early days with Buffy. One time he dreamed about an entire conversation that they had had in which she patiently tried to explain the X-Files to him. When he had laughed, asking who could possibly watch such nonsense, she raised one eyebrow and retorted, "So says the vampire." He had woken up, happier than he'd been in years.
The front door opened and the rhythm of her voice called to him. He understood that by taking the bait, he was likely to find himself gasping for breath and gutted, but he started down the steps anyway. He stopped halfway down and marveled at the scene before him. There were at least fifty girls (slayers, he thought) swarming around her, and with each word or smile or gesture from her, he could see them puff up a bit.
"I knew it!" A crow of delight split the air. Willow, he realized. The crush of girls surrounded Buffy so that she was no longer visible, but he could hear the delighted squeals of the other girls.
"Was it romantic?" "Did he get down on one knee?" "It is so beautiful."
A glint on her left hand was visible and he finally noticed the man who had been standing at her side the entire time. She turned and looked up at the man. Angel remembered all too well the look she was bestowing on her partner. In that instant, he died once again, hope he had barely admitted to still carrying withering within him. She lifted her head at that moment and looked at him. He couldn't tell if he actually saw regret in her eyes or whether he was just imagining it. She held his gaze a beat too long and then turned to talk to someone else. He trudged back up the steps to his room. The flight had been long and he was tired.
The growling of his own stomach woke him up in the middle of the night. He hadn't eaten in well over 15 hours. Throwing a robe on over his t-shirt and boxers, he carefully made his way downstairs in the dark and silently crept into the kitchen. He was fumbling for the light switch when the voice behind him made him leap into the air.
"I believe there's still chicken in the fridge."
"Rupert." Angel didn't bother trying to hide the fact that Giles had likely shaved a few years off his now mortal life span.
"So, is this the result of the Shanshu prophecy?" Giles waved a hand in Angel's general direction.
"You knew about that?" Angel's eyebrows lifted high in surprise.
Giles sat down at one of the kitchen chairs. "As a watcher and head of the Council, it's my business to know about such things." Off of Angel's look, he added, "When Buffy found you, I explained about the prophecy, but no one else has any idea as to how you became human or the deeper meaning of it." He waited until Angel had retrieved some chicken and a beer and then added, "So, you're redeemed now. Crimes all forgiven?"
Angel thought about the faces of the dead that still haunted his waking moments. "It doesn't particularly feel that way," he answered softly.
"Good." Giles casually rested his right hand on the table. Few people got to see it; Giles was careful about keeping it out of sight. But Angel was all too familiar with the twisted, mangled appendage; he still remembered the sound each bone had made as he had snapped them, could still remember the sweet taste of Giles' blood as he had sensuously wrapped his tongue around every broken, bleeding finger.
"You are here at Buffy's behest. There is to be an engagement party tomorrow. Make sure that you attend in a proper celebratory mood." Giles stood up to leave and something finally broke within Angel.
"You knew what was happening in L.A. You're the head of the council, as you just reminded me. Why didn't you send help?"
Giles took off his glasses and carefully cleaned them. He then put them on and looked at Angel with a mixture of pity and disdain. "Your attack was a suicide mission. I didn't see any point in consigning a group of young girls to certain death." He voice softened a bit. "You do know that things did improve in that area? Demonic activity in Southern California is at an all time low." Giles nodded and left the room.
Angel closed his eyes and again saw the endless parade of all who had died during that final battle against Wolfram and Hart. Had it been worth it? He grimaced as he bit back sudden nausea and a minute later he rose to toss out the chicken.
He almost didn't go to the party. He hardly knew anyone attending and he didn't exactly think he'd be missed if he didn't show. At the last minute he went, not because of Giles' thinly veiled threat, but because he didn't want Buffy to think he wasn't thrilled for her. In the end, her happiness was the only important thing. It always had been.
When he finally arrived at the restaurant, the party was in full swing. He saw Giles at the bar, surrounded by a bunch of other people, mostly middle aged men. All of them looked rather discomfited by the loud dance pop and seemed to be huddled together for protection. The tables in the middle of the floor had been cleared away and a large group of young girls, along with some young men, were enthusiastically bopping to the beat. He thought he saw Willow's red hair waving in the air while she danced with another young woman.
He carefully edged around the wall of the restaurant. He still knew how to melt into the shadows and used it to find a table as far away from everything as possible. He was just about to go to the far corner when a voice at his elbow stopped him.
"Grab a seat."
The man was a light caramel color, the muscles visible under his shirt attesting to the fact that the tan was the result of hard manual labor and not a tanning bed. His hair was extremely close cropped and the set of his mouth revealed him as someone who took life seriously. However, it was his eye patch that was his most arresting feature, it seemed to speak of someone who had survived unspeakable events and come out stronger for it.
"Xander?" It was half question and half statement. The changes in Xander were as dramatic as his own.
"Having fun?" Angel wasn't sure if Xander's question was mean spirited or not. He couldn't read him at all. He was about to ask him something innocuous and try to gauge the situation, when Xander's arm shot up.
"My friend here would like --" and he glanced over at Angel.
Angel was about to order a beer and then decided the hell with it. He had nothing to prove to anybody, least of all Harris. "Whiskey, neat."
Xander nodded appreciatively, "So I guess you're now an undead man." Frowning, Xander ran his hand through his mostly nonexistent hair. "More accurately, un-undead man. Sort of like Prince formally known as the artist formally known as Prince." Off of Angel's blank stare, Xander sighed. "The newly humanized are not receptive to pop culture jokes, it seems.
"I hear you're a big deal ad exec nowadays."
"Art director. Not the same thing."
"But still a big cheese. Someone told me you were profiled in Business Week.
"That wasn't that big a thing." Angel was feeling more and more uncomfortable. "What have you been up to? Still fighting the good fight?"
"Yup. Once you get a taste for near death, nothing else comes close." Angel had absolutely no idea whether Xander was being serious or not. Then again, most of Xander's quips had been unintelligible to him. "I've been in Africa for almost six years. A lot of slayers have turned up there. Mostly I track them down. Try to train them a bit. If they're still living in a village, I do my best to hook them up with the village medicine man and turn things over to him. It seems to work out. Otherwise I send them back here." He looked out into the crowd, but his eyes were unfocused. "The last girl I found died in my arms. First, she took out the thing that was terrorizing her village. I don't think she was more than thirteen." His voice was flat and uninflected. He turned to Angel and noted the second whiskey he was already drinking. "Trying to drown your sorrows?"
Angel gave Xander the fish eye, but it had no outward effect. "I'm Irish. I like to drink."
Xander tipped his chair back a little and gave a little snort of disbelief. He crossed his arms over his chest and gazed out into the crowd. It was obvious to Angel who he was looking at. "It's the first time I've ever seen her this happy. He's good for her."
Angel couldn't decide whether that was a subtle dig or not. It didn't matter. He stared at his hands splayed on the table and wondered if, in fact, he ever had made Buffy happy.
"He's a researcher with the council. Demon language specialist. They're a good match; he grounds her." Xander's tone wasn't completely unsympathetic. Angel couldn't decide if it was because his vampire past really was the past now or because he was permanently out of the running where Buffy was concerned.
He was about to signal the serving girl for yet another drink, when a voice chirped next to him. "So this is where you guys have been hiding."
Xander smiled and for a moment, Angel saw the boy from so long ago instead of the hardened man he'd become. "Where's Lily?"
"I left her by the bar. I told her I had to do some dancing with my best bud. And you're next, mister," Willow said, giving Angel a pointed look.
Angel held out his hands and shook his head. "I don't dance, Willow. Ever." He looked out at the dance floor, lost in thought, and suddenly it was one hundred and fifty years ago. The room swam before his eyes and changed; the wood floor became highly polished white marble, the cheap fixtures, crystal chandeliers, and all the men were in frock coats and the women, ball gowns. Darla stood before him, in a gown of sky blue silk and navy accents, but when he held his hand out, it was Buffy who accepted his invitation. He could feel the whalebone corset beneath his hand as the chamber orchestra started playing. They were in perfect harmony as they waltzed together, swirling and holding each other close. He could feel her heartbeat moving inside of him. She wanted to tell him something; he could see that, and he bent down close to her lips. He was holding her tightly; he was never going to let her go and it felt like nothing could be more perfect than this.
"Sir, can I get you another?"
He had to blink a few times because the world was suddenly very blurry.
MWMWMW
He woke up to the sun streaming through the window, a moderate headache in the middle of his skull and a brief sense of complete disorientation until he remembered where he was. Peering at the time, he was shocked to see it was already 9:30. He was normally up at 5:30 in order to fit in jogging, showering, shaving and personal grooming, and a quick read through of the newspaper. He decided that it was a combination of jet lag finally kicking in plus way too much booze the night before.
The house was completely silent, which was extremely odd, until Angel remembered that today was some sort of outing for all the slayers and watchers. There were going to be training exercises, weapons demonstrations and various meetings. It sounded way too similar to those horrible rah-rah yearly corporate meetings he was forced to attend (well, except for the actual weapons demos) and he was just as glad to be here, alone. He decided that he would stroll around town for a bit, maybe eat lunch at a pub and have a pint (or three). Then he would call up the airline and have his flight switched to tomorrow. There wasn’t any point in staying here.
He quickly rummaged through the closet, throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Half way down the stairs, he stopped. She sat in the middle of the couch, bent over, looking lost and forlorn.
Quickly and quietly, he sprinted down the steps and crossed over until he was standing in front of her. “Are you ok? Why aren’t you with the others?”
She picked her head up and he could see she’d been crying. She couldn’t have been more than 14, all spindly arms and legs, braces and acne. But she also had red-gold shoulder length hair, skin the color of cream and denim blue eyes. In a few years, she would break the hearts of every male in her school. Angel squatted directly in front of her, not close enough to touch her, and patiently waited. After a few sniffs, he was rewarded. “I stayed behind. Nobody noticed. My watcher hates me because I can’t do anything. He’s got Laurie and Tanya also and they’re so good at this and I’m just useless.” She burst into tears again.
He almost smiled, but managed to hide his amusement. He hadn’t forgotten the long ago roller coaster of emotions that Buffy used to exhibit. He had loved her more than he had thought possible, but there were times that teenage dramatics had proven wearying to an old guy. ”When did you get called?” he asked gently.
“I found out I was a slayer two weeks ago. Another slayer, Faith, told me all about it.”
For a moment, he let his thoughts drift. Faith wasn’t here at this little gathering, ostensibly because she was needed to guard the Cleveland hell mouth. He wondered if it was more because she and Buffy still didn’t get along. He missed her. She would have been the only other person besides Willow genuinely happy to see him. He shifted his thoughts back to the girl in front of him and now he did smile. “Well, that explains it. They’ve probably been doing this a lot longer than you. In fact, I would guess you’re the newest slayer here.”
“Do you think?”
“Yes. What’s your name?”
“Arianna.”
“Cian,” he said, holding out his hand for a formal handshake. "I tell you what. We could go out back and do some crossbow training. And I’ll be happy to show you some hand to hand combat moves. Absolutely no need for tears.”
"That's what Mr. Winston said also," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Who?"
"My watcher," she clarified. "He said that slayers shouldn't cry. That we need to be strong."
Angel frowned. "There's nothing wrong with crying. I've cried on a few occasions. I'm just saying that this time, you don't need to cry because I'll bet you're better than Laura and what's-her-name."
"Tanya. And why did you cry?"
"Because I lost people I loved."
"They died?"
"Some of them. Some of them I left because their lives were better without me there."
She sat up, brow furrowed, contemplating his words. "How do you know they were better off if you left?"
He had a vision of Connor enjoying college life, Buffy gazing up at Damien with love in her eyes. "Because when I was there, all I ever did was make them unhappy."
She looked at him a little suspiciously. “Why are you here? How come you’re not with your slayer?”
“I’m not a watcher.” He shrugged, grateful for the abrupt change in topic. “I knew Buffy and Willow and Xander back in Sunnydale. For a little while I helped them fight.” Little while was pretty much an understatement. Two years tops, and yet aside from his years in L.A., the only time in his long, undistinguished existence that mattered to him. “I still remember the moves.” He gave her a full on grin. “Although I’m a lot more breakable nowadays, so go a little easy on me.” At that moment, her stomach growled and she ducked her head in embarrassment. “Have you eaten?” She shook her head. “Well, neither have I. French toast, eggs or pancakes?”
“You can cook?” The tears had stopped and only curiosity was in her expression now.
“I am a man of many talents.” He stood and mock bowed, gratified to hear her giggle.
“Pancakes?”
“Pancakes it is,” he stated as he strode to the kitchen
MWMWMW
Right before the sun set, he left the confines of the flat. Now that everyone had returned from the day’s activities, the place had felt claustrophobic to him, and so he had slipped out without anyone noticing he was gone.
He walked aimlessly, not particularly worried about finding his way back. He had always possessed a good sense of direction. The cool night air felt good against his overheated skin. Depending on what Giles told him in the morning, he would likely be leaving later tomorrow. He should have left the past in the past.
He looked up and found himself in front of a small Anglican church that had obviously been built over a century before. He easily swung his long legs over the iron fence and sat down among the cracked and leaning gravestones. He wondered if he would always be more comfortable among the dead than the living.
He wasn’t particularly surprised when Buffy tracked him down less than ten minutes later. If the two of them were randomly tossed into the crowd at Times Square on New Year’s Eve he could have unerringly found her; he suspected the same was true of her. She stood before him, arms crossed over her chest, towering over him for once.
“I spoke to Giles. Why are you doing this?”
Had he expected her to be this angry? Perhaps, although he wasn’t sure about it. “Because it needs to be done.” He wanted to tell her that this wasn’t any of her business, but that wasn’t true.
“Is it because she’s going to be gorgeous in a year or two?”
He wondered if he should be offended at the implication, but instead he stated the bald truth. “She’s going to be dead in a year or two unless something changes.”
“She’s already got a highly capable watcher.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t capable. He’s just not the right watcher for her.”
“And you are?”
“I know more about the monsters that hide in the dark than all your watchers and slayers combined. Or did you forget I was a demon for a quarter of a millennium?”
“Some of the others told me who Cian Brennan is. You’re highly respected in your field. You’ve won awards. You probably make a lot of money. I don’t understand.”
“Because helping to save people is a lot more important than selling toilet paper and cars.”
“It’s dangerous.”
For a moment, he flashed back to his final visit to Sunnydale and how she asked him to leave because she couldn’t bear his death due to her battles. Now, it was simply a rote warning she gave to all who considered this life. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Yes, it is.”
When he opened his eyes again, she was sitting close enough that he could smell the citrusy scent of her perfume, but all it did was serve to remind him of the way she used to smell to him, the earthy scent of air after it rained, the sugary sweet scent of cotton candy, a hint of almonds. If he moved his hand just a little he could sift his hand through her hair and let it gently fall back onto her shoulder. He used to run two fingers up the soft skin of her neck and she would arch her head back slightly, making a soft sighing noise as he traced up to her jaw. He would continue upward and rest a finger in the corner of her mouth, just pushing in ever so slightly, until finally her tongue would flick out and lick just the tip of his index finger. Then it would be his turn to moan softly.
He could easily reach out and touch her; he remembered every dip of her skin, every jut of bone, every tiny freckle. But he wasn't sure what would happen, if he would see her eyes drift closed in desire or her mouth twist in revulsion. He wasn't even sure which he'd prefer.
He remembered a time when they had been comfortable together in the silence, but now only awkwardness loomed between them. “Are you happy?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back. He had no right to ask her things like that. Not anymore.
She was sitting with her knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Protecting herself, against what or whom he couldn’t say. She was staring out into space, lost in memory, when finally she began to speak. “I used to have this dream where I was in bed. It wasn’t my bed, because it wasn’t a twin. Maybe a queen? And the sheets were greenish with some kind of design. You were holding me.” A smile stole across her features. “We were holding each other, all tangled together and I could feel your heart beating.” The smile gradually disappeared and she turned and looked at him, straight in the eyes. “But that never happened, did it?”
Her eyes were a blue and brown and green pointillist painting. He always felt that they could see deep inside him, see all the bad he'd done but good things also. As long as she believed in him, he could go on believing also. But that didn't matter much now. He remembered a long ago promise that he would never hurt her, never lie to her, never leave her. Time makes liars of us all, he thought.
“No, it never did.”
Silence loomed again, even louder than before.
"How come you never came for me?"
An old movie clip unspooled in his mind, Dustin Hoffman rattling a church window, a man possessed, screaming, "Elaine." A desperate chuckle almost escaped from his lips at the utter ridiculousness of his subconscious.
But then the image morphed and they were standing in a tiny kitchen, their kitchen, and his arms barely reached around her gravid belly, her head pushed back again his shoulder and he was laughing. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed. All he had to do was take her hand and they could leave together. Find someplace far away from monsters and death and just live a life. They could be happy, together.
He turned toward her in order to reach for her? Kiss her deeply? He tried to read her expression but her face was totally obscured by shadows.
As he stared, he could see her cheeks still had the final bit of childhood chubbiness clinging to them, tears streaming down her face as he mocked her for giving him the gift of herself. Her face kept getting slimmer and the tears dried up as he told her he was ending their relationship, that he was going to turn back time, that he couldn't stay even though her mother had died, that crawling out of her own grave wasn't enough to make him go back to Sunnydale with her. Her eyes kept getting deader as he watched.
"Angel?" A question and an entreaty, a prayer and a hope, he memorized the cadence of her voice so that he could have something for later.
She blinked and looked away. “I’m happy, Angel.”
After a few minutes, she stood up and started to walk away. When she was almost at the fence, she turned back toward him. “What happened during the final battle with Wolfram and Hart?”
“We all died.” He watched her walk down the street until he could no longer see her at all.