Chapter IV

Angel arrived at work an hour early.  Since he didn’t wear a watch, he used the clocks in his home and car to time himself.  He snorted at himself derisively, again thinking of Buffy.  In the weeks since she had been hired, their verbal exchanges consisted almost exclusively of him asking her the time.  Depending on her mood she had complied in a voice indicating either her indifference to the question or her annoyance.  As a rule she didn’t seem to mind, but now she’d probably tell him to get his own damn watch, if she spoke to him at all.  He'd never tell her the honest truth was that he didn’t like looking at his wrists.

Hours before, he almost fled his house just to get out, desperate for any distraction he could find.  He found himself wandering through the outlet of a local chain of twenty-four-hour superstores.  He wanted to do something for Buffy even knowing she hated him now.  All he had come up with was to try to find something for her, though he doubted she would want anything he had to offer.  He moved dejectedly among the rows of assorted items, slowly shuffling through the wares, showing none of his usual analytical scrutiny or natural fluid grace.  Afterwards, he had driven around aimlessly in the predawn hours and ended up, almost by rote, in front of the complex.

*****

That morning, Buffy found herself using any excuse she could find not to go to work.  Being employed at the Bureau for such a short time, she was pretty sure they’d frown on her missing a full day after leaving early the day before.  She didn’t look forward to going to her office, but she grudgingly accepted she didn’t have much choice.

*****

Angel paced – again – in front of his desk while rubbing the long, restless fingers of his large hands together.  He rubbed them so hard he felt the friction from the movement and stilled the nervous motion.  Buffy was late – late even for her.  He knew because he’d already made two trips to the break room to look at the clock on the wall, under the pretense of getting coffee. The hands on the black and white, government issued timepiece seemed to both crawl and speed ahead.  ‘Coffee,’ he thought, he couldn’t swallow it if he tried, probably choke if he did.  ‘She’s not coming. She’s sick. It’s all my fault.’  He ran shaking fingers through his hair, and again stopped the anxious habit.  His hands felt like two big hams.  Deliberately shoving them in his pants pockets he made a conscious effort not to be conscious of them.

He had made up his mind he was going to apologize to Buffy, even knowing she wouldn’t want to hear it.  The small gift he had found and wrapped looked strangely out of place, sitting forlornly on his desk.  He’d made a vain attempt to rehearse what he was going to say, but given up.  He’d already proven he wasn’t good at things like that.

By the time she finally walked through the door and to her desk he was ready to implode.

He was so close to the door she couldn’t avoid seeing his face as she passed him.  Contrary to her usual behavior, she didn’t say good morning.  She didn’t say anything at all.  Sitting down, she started working as if she was alone in the room.

The tension Buffy felt was worse than she imagined it would be.  She wasn’t sure what to do. Buffy instinctively knew that Angel was as uneasy as she was.  But try as she might, she could not figure out what happened yesterday.  She knew the storm made him edgy, but that wasn’t all of it.  She had hurt him but didn’t know why it hurt.  She was so confused she didn’t know whether to be happy he didn’t look angry anymore or mad because he had walked away.

Angel waited.  Now that she was here he felt whatever courage he’d built up evaporate.  Feeling as if his veins were filled with lead, he finally grabbed the package off the corner of his desk. Taking the few steps, he pushed the box across the scarred wooden surface of her desk, practically under her nose.

‘He bought me something?’  Buffy thought Angel's behavior yesterday had been erratic.  Picturing Angel hunting through the aisles of a store to look for something for her …  The small act resonated deeply within her.  She didn’t know Angel well, but well enough to believe that it wasn’t something he normally did for someone.  Maybe not for anyone.  That thought alone spoke volumes about his sincerity.  She felt moisture welling up around her eyes.  Angel had done this for her.  Staring at it, she took a few moments trying to keep the tears from forming.  Reaching towards the poorly wrapped box, she held it in her hands.

“Buffy…” he managed to croak miserably, then couldn’t force any more to come out of his mind or mouth.  A few more seconds passed.  Angel couldn’t see her face or he would have seen a tiny smile.

Her vision blurred looking at his offering, thinking, ‘He doesn’t wrap boxes any better than hands.’

Angel was in agony.  He didn’t know what to do.  He wondered if she would just throw the thing at him and walk out.  He knew that’s what he deserved.

Buffy could almost hear Angel holding his breath as he waited to see what she would do.  She understood what this must have been costing him, and not the price of whatever waited in the package.  Thinking he’d suffered enough she pulled the paper off the box and opened it.  It revealed a cream-colored coffee mug with a big ‘B’ painted on its side.  She felt her heart lurch painfully.  It made it that much harder to hold in the tears.

“What is this for?”  She turned her face up to him.  She spoke without thinking, furiously trying to keep her emotions in check.  She knew it was his way of asking forgiveness.

The tears standing in her eyes caused a sharp pull in his chest.  This was supposed to make her feel better, not worse.  Wildly looking from her face to the cup and back to her again he blurted out, “For coffee.”

His answer broke the tension she felt and Buffy burst into laughter, sliding the mug to a safe place, away from the edge.

Angel was stymied.  Laughing wasn’t among any of the reactions he thought she’d have, in fact anger was the only one he expected.  And she had looked as though she would cry.  He was glad she wasn’t … but he thought she knew what the mug was for.

Buffy watched the thoughts swirl around Angel’s face until it screwed up in total bewilderment.  She laughed even harder.  She caught her breath and stood up, gently touching his arm and said, “I’m sorry, Angel.”

He felt a small shock of electricity through the thin material of his shirt where her fingers rested.  He looked down at his arm where they lay and without thinking, wrapped his around them.  “I-I’m the one who’s sorry, Buffy.”

Realizing what he’d done he pulled his hand away.  Curling her warm fingers through his, she stopped him.  “I’m sorry I laughed, that was rude.”

“No,” he repeated, “I’m the one who’s sorry.  I didn’t mean to hurt you, y-you were only trying to … and I yelled at you …”

“Angel, it’s okay. I’ll be honest, I was upset, but I accept your apology.  You don’t have to explain anything.”  Her fingers tingled in his hand the same as they had on his arm.  He made a small movement and she slipped her hand free to pick up the mug.

He hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed the contact until it was gone.  Looking down at the mug, he said softly,  “I hope you like it.”

She lifted it to get a closer look and teased, “I do. I know you got it for coffee, Angel, but I can put anything in it I like.”

His face clouded.  Very slowly it cleared.  Then he smiled.

*****

A couple of days later, Angel reached for the books he had hidden in the locked drawer of his desk.  His hand knocked against the bottle of medicine beside them.  Staring at the small vial he clenched his jaw in firm resolve not to resort to using it.  He refused to be dependent on chemicals to overcome a simple force of nature.  He snorted to himself, not so simple.  Deliberately sliding the drawer shut and relaxing his muscles he turned his attention to the hefty volume in his hand.  He felt a slight frisson of guilt as he started scanning the pages, but his need to know outweighed the niggling warning.

After worrying so badly about her, he knew he wouldn’t feel at ease until he found out where Buffy lived.  Not that he ever thought he would go there, but he needed the peace of mind of knowing where she was.  Just in case – one never knew if it might not be needed.  Besides, it bothered him more than he cared to admit that not knowing where she was gave him a strangely unconnected feeling.  One that he didn’t like.  His conscience prickled that he had absolutely no right, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

He had spent most of the prior evening studying the books he had purchased on computers.  Angel didn’t own one, nor find the need for one at work, adding yet another oddity to the rumor mill about him.  Most would have probably assumed he would be proficient at using one.  He was familiar with the basic rudiments of how use a computer.  Everyone in the FBI’s employ had to know how to use one, but he’d gotten the minimum amount of instruction needed to meet the requirements.  How he’d managed to get out of using one at his desk was almost as much of a mystery to him as everyone else.  He had his suspicions, but he didn’t question it too closely.  He appreciated the small freedom of choice he’d been allowed.  There was more training his superiors had been pressuring him to take that directly involved his work.  There had also been talk of adapting his theories to some kind of program; he shuddered at the thought. So far he had been able to avoid both endeavors.

It wasn’t that he was a snob, he thought, then amended that.  Maybe he was in a way.  He’d spent more hours with books than he ever had with people.  They were friends he never had, silent yet loquacious companions, offering respite in his solitary ways.  He liked the tactile sensation of the bindings and pages, the musty smell of ink and paper that clung to them.  Most of his evenings were spent challenged and stimulated by pondering complex equations, details in history, or scientific findings.  Or before the fire in the soothing keep of lines of poetry written decades or centuries ago.  Countless times he’d fallen asleep, grasping the edges of one volume or another, his finger still holding his place.  The blinking blip on the stark screen of the cutting edge was cold and impersonal in comparison.  There was enough of that in his life already.

Angel waited until Buffy had gone to lunch, leaving her laptop behind as usual.  She took it home at night, but turned it on upon her arrival and kept it close by as needed.  It was the only computer he had access to without raising anyone’s suspicions, especially hers.  Feeling akin to a cat burglar he slid across the room and into her chair.  He kept careful track of exactly how she had left it, both its place on the desk and what was on the monitor.  His naturally sure, quick movements were slowed by his deficiency with a keyboard.  He clumsily pecked on the keys with his index fingers while keeping one eye on the door.

He planned on getting to his objective and procuring what he was searching for in a relatively short time.  It wasn’t working out that way.  He could feel his temper rising with irritation.  He was beginning to understand Buffy’s often spirited, one-sided conversations with what she simply called, ‘the Beast’.  He became totally immersed in his rather novice progress.  Just as he got to where he thought he wanted to be, a dark-haired head popped into view through the doorway.

“Oh, uh…A - Angelus,” Xander stuttered, not expecting to see Angel in the office, much less sitting at Buffy’s desk.  “I, uh … was looking for the Buffster,” he finished lamely.

Angel tried to keep his calm, in spite of his rather incriminating position.  His barely contained growl as he snapped at Xander didn’t help his rather pathetic attempt at feigned innocence.  “Buffy is at lunch,” he replied tersely.  He hated the nickname Xander had given Buffy.  He realized it was just a casual term, not meant to be derogatory, but, to him, it demeaned her somehow.  Not to mention his irritation at the closeness it implied between Buffy and the ever annoying Alexander Harris.

“Ah … fine, good … I should go … to the lunch room … where there’s ‘lunch’,” he continued to stumble.  Xander felt a fine sweat break out on the back of his neck, “I’ll go now, I can see you’re … um … busy.”

“You do that,” Angel glared at him, “I’ll finish helping Buffy with the problem we were working on.”  He couldn’t seem to keep the threatening tone out of his voice.  He just wanted Xander to buy his flimsy excuse and leave.  And not tell Buffy.  He was caught and trying to make the best of it.

“Leaving now … for the lunch,” Xander threw over his shoulder as he turned out of the door.  He thought it was odd that Angelus was even using a computer.  But he decided in mere moments it wasn’t weird enough to mention to Buffy or anyone else, remembering the dark look on Angelus’ face.  He didn’t know him well, but the guy had always given him the wiggins.  If he had a bad side, Xander wasn’t in a hurry to see it.

Angel blew out a mixed breath of relief and exasperation, falling against the back of Buffy’s chair.  He hoped the frightened look on Xander’s face meant his secret was safe.  He hadn’t meant to scare the boy with his gruffness, but wasn’t sorry if it worked.  Looking at the time in the little box at the bottom of the screen on Buffy’s laptop, he tapped a few more keys.  He was getting nervous and Xander’s visit hadn’t helped.  He made one more unsuccessful attempt, then quickly replaced everything as it was.  Barely seconds after he regained his own place Buffy breezed in the door.

“Angel,” she began, leaning on his desk, “this might sound kind of strange …” She’d thought about this for the last day or two and she couldn’t even say why it made any difference to her.

Angel knew he was busted, he didn’t dare look up at her.  “Strange?” he asked, trying to keep the strained sound out of his voice.

“Well, we have been working together for a while now,” she said slowly.  She really didn’t know him that well.  And this was kind of personal.  But for some reason she just had to ask.  She knew she wouldn’t feel comfortable until she did.  “I just think it would be better … ” she faltered.

Now he was really nervous and couldn’t have spoken even if he could think of something to say.

“But, I think we should have each other’s address.  You know, in case of an emergency or something.  You never know what could happen,” she rushed out all at once.

*****

Angel put down his pencil and reached for the phone when it rang, knowing who was on the other end of the line.  “Hello, Cordy,” he said without waiting.

“You could at least check to see who it is before you start talking,” his sister teased.  She knew his phone probably gathered nothing but dust, certainly not an overabundance of calls.

“Well, it is Wednesday night and seven o’clock,” he answered dryly.

“So, if I called during the day, say Saturday around eleven in the morning, you might let me say something first?”  She couldn’t resist trying to bring him out a bit, anything to lighten him up.

Reclining back in his leather chair, legs stretched out in front of him, he replied in the same manner.  “No, I’d probably think it was someone selling Hollywood magazines and hang up without answering,” knowing her penchant for the rags.  He was in a strangely playful mood that surprised even him.

Cordelia was caught off guard, but plunged on to take advantage of the light tone in his voice.  “So, if I call any time except Wednesday night, you’d just slam the phone down?” she asked.  Walking out on her balcony holding the cordless phone to her ear, she thought, ‘When was the last time he sounded upbeat?’ She didn’t have to think about it.  ‘Never.’

“If I did that, you’d be on my doorstep in less than an hour.  And I doubt the door would stop you.”  He heard his sister laugh.  It gave him a good feeling to think he’d managed to do that.  He knew most of the time he depressed her.

“Then you’d have to put me up … and put up with me,” she happily threatened.  She didn’t know what was causing Angel’s almost singular attempt at humor.  If she didn’t know better she’d think he had something to drink.  But she knew he never touched alcohol, except an occasional glass of wine.  He had enough problems.

“Couldn’t have that,” he rejoined, “How would all those Hollywood producers find you?”  He reached for his coffee, always ready close by.

“Well, I guess you’re safe then, for now,“ she said with a smile in her voice.  She took a deep breath and bit down nervously on her lower lip.  She had waited for hours to break her news.  “As a matter of fact, I’ve been offered a part in a movie,” she proudly declared.

Cordelia was a determined starlet.  She’d put everything she had into acting classes and auditions.  It wasn’t the money, both she and Angel, thanks to their multimillionaire father, would never have any lack.  But it had been her fondest wish since she was small to be in the movies.
Her parents, however, had been reticent to bring any publicity near their home.  Knowing a firm ‘no’ when she heard one and understanding their long-held unspoken fears, she hadn’t argued.  But she had practiced all through childhood, waiting until she was on her own to follow her dream.

“Cordy!  That’s great!" Angel exclaimed.  He knew how hard she had worked towards something like this.  “I’ve wondered why it’s taken this long for them to discover you,” he told her with pride sounding in his voice.  He asked for more details about the audition and the part, letting her do the majority of the talking.

The conversation continued longer than their usual few minutes before they hung up.  Cordy was pleased for a change after talking to her brother.  Instead of her normal urge to shake him to life, for a few moments at least, he actually sounded like he had one.  Angel's sister was a realist, she knew he needed massive amounts of happy for any real change to occur.  But it had to start somewhere, goodness knows she'd waited for years.  Tonight though she'd caught a tiny glimmer that just maybe … finally … something might be there.  Whatever it was, she was all for it.

After Angel hung up the phone, he sat for a while staring absently into the fire.  He heard a soft thump as something fell to the floor.  Reaching down, he retrieved the sketchbook that had slipped from his lap.  Buffy’s eyes gazed back at him in penciled perfection.  What was he doing sketching her?  But even as he asked himself, he picked up where he left off, shading a tiny area to help catch the smirk she wore on the page.  It was yet another of numerous drawings of her he kept safely tucked away in an ever-expanding portfolio on one of the bookshelves near his poetry.

As a child he used to draw a lot.  When everything changed overnight, it filled the hours that were once spent playing with friends or joining in games in the park nearby.  Angel’s world became smaller, safer.  It held only him.  No one else was in it to be hurt or worse because of him.  He drew characters from his books or strangers he saw when forced to go wherever his parents dragged him.  Drawing people was easier than dealing with them.

As he grew older, he spent countless hours improving his techniques, all his energy and talents focused on his unshakable determination to become an agent.  Drawing was nothing more than a tool, an instrument as everything was, to get to where he wanted to be.

Later, when everything fell apart in his carefully constructed world, he found no reason or inclination to draw anymore.  One well-meaning doctor insisted it would be good therapy and provided the necessary supplies.  Angel tried, more to keep everyone in the hospital away from him – just to leave him alone.  But every attempt, no matter what he intended to draw, turned into scenes of dark, terrifying dreamscapes or of Drusilla’s haunting, innocent visage or small, vulnerable body.  He finally ripped every sheet to shreds, smashing the box that had held everything against the wall.  After that he refused any and all attempts at therapy, once more shutting out everything and everyone around him.

He had never sketched for pleasure, always for a calculated objective.  That’s why it was so strange when he felt a strong urge to pull out his drawing implements from where he had packed them away.  And all he could draw was one face and figure over and over again, every one a different pose or expression.  It calmed and relaxed him, giving him an enjoyment for the simple act itself that he’d never possessed.  He could draw her for hours, losing himself in marrying the art to the object of his wishes and dreams.

A crooked half-smile tugged at his lips in response to the face taking shape as he once more picked up his pencil to work, gently and ardently bringing life to the portrait.  His smile deepened, the harder he concentrated.  She was his, if only here, where she flowed from his fingers.  His cares were forgotten in the soft scratching of the pencil meeting the paper.  He was surprised when he finally rose from his chair to go to bed.  It was storming out and he hadn’t even noticed when it began.

*****

“I hear you had lunch with Angelus,” Lindsey said with a mercenary grin the following Friday.

Buffy shrugged uncomfortably, remembering the way ‘lunch’ had ended. Then she grinned inwardly. It was better now than it had been, she thought, thinking of Angel’s smile.  “We sat at the same table,” she said.  “I wouldn’t really say we had lunch.”

“Why do you even bother?” Riley asked, his disgust evident.  “Psycho is exactly what his name implies.  He’s broken so bad that he’s not useful to anyone.  The brass should just put him out to pasture.”

Buffy glanced at Riley and frowned.  Xander had introduced him to her the day after she began working for the Bureau.  Buffy had more than a sneaking suspicion that the meeting had been Riley’s idea.  At first sight Riley was a good looking, well built, athletic type, the kind of guy who normally attracted her.

After their introduction, Riley seemed to be constantly underfoot.  He was in the break room when she got there, or saved a spot next to him at lunch.  If she needed help with something, he was right there.  He was … nice.  Like a great big puppy dog nice.  She liked dogs, but not as boyfriends.  She’d already decided being friends was a good place to stop.

She was certain Angel had a radically different opinion of Riley.  Several times, he had caught her in the hallway while Riley was making some lame excuse to talk to her.  It wasn't a shock that Angel made no pretense at being politic.  He would openly glare at Riley as he passed, doing nothing to mitigate the dark look.  She wasn’t sure what had transpired between the two, but she knew better than to ask either of them.

Buffy met Willow’s gaze.  Willow moved closer to tell her, “Remember I told you Liam used to be a field agent?”  Buffy nodded.  “No one would really talk about it, so I don’t have many details.  But when he was hurt, when they moved him to the desk job ... it was bad.”

“How bad?” Buffy asked.

“Bad enough that they had him locked away in some nuthouse,” Riley offered unsolicited, leaning in towards Buffy.  She pulled back slightly and was hit by the realization that Riley Finn did smell like gym socks and Old Spice.

“Lay off,” Lindsey said.  “You’re still sore that he had you busted down to a desk job.”

A black expression crossed Riley’s face, but Faith interceded, handing him a shot and making a joke.  Riley played it off, but Buffy had gotten enough of a glimpse.  Riley hated Angel with a rage she would not have thought him capable of feeling.  She turned away, suddenly wary of her puppy dog turned Pit Bull.

“Thanks,” Buffy said quietly to Lindsey.

The handsome young man smiled as he shifted his gaze back to her face.  His eyes had been fixed on Faith with a quiet intensity.  “No problem,” he said.  “I like Angelus.  I mean, I think he’s a little out there, but he used to be a real good guy.  He taught me everything I know.  It’s a shame.”

Sitting close enough by to hear what was said, Riley’s face darkened as he asked Lindsey, “Would you really trust him covering your back?”

Lindsey looked Riley squarely in the eye and took a long moment before he replied.  “I’d put my life in his hands before I’d take that chance with other agents,” Lindsey stated, emphasizing the term.  “At least he’s never been known to ditch a partner in the middle of a training exercise.”  He didn’t bother to mask the look of disgust that crossed his usually pleasant features.

Riley shot up, seething, “You weren’t there! You don’t know how things went down!”

“No, I wasn’t.  I was there when we found him, miles from anywhere.  He may as well have been left for dead,” Lindsey, replied chillingly, never taking his eyes off Riley’s face.

“I had no choice, it was the only chance there was …” Riley broke off, grabbing his shot glass as if to throw it.  Instead he glared down at Lindsey, “I don’t have to explain my actions … again.  That’s history,” he spat, then turned and stomped off towards the bar.

The rest of the group, stunned by the sudden outburst, sat in an uncomfortable silence.

Buffy knew the others probably had the backstory.  She wished she did too – a lot was missing.  In spite of it though, she found herself cheering for Lindsey, glad that he hadn’t backed down.  She thought it was unfair to talk about Angel when he wasn’t there to defend himself.  She intuitively knew, besides Riley’s telling bluster, that Angel hadn’t been to blame.

Eventually, normal conversation resumed around the table.  She did notice, however, that Riley seemed to be drinking more than usual.  That probably wasn’t so odd.  He obviously had some issues from his past he wished to forget.  Of course, such thoughts led directly back to Angel.  “What did happen?” Buffy asked, leaning in towards Lindsey.

Lindsey shook his head.  “I can’t give you all the details,” he said, “but just know that it was horrible. Riley is an asshole, but he wasn’t kidding about the nuthouse.  It wasn’t years, but Angelus was institutionalized for a little while.  He broke big time and none of us were really sure he’d ever come out of it.  He did though, came back here about two years ago.  Walsh found a place for him in Analysis.  He has to be sane to do that kind of specialized work, but he’s not like he used to be.  He’s not whole.  He might never be again.”

Buffy nodded slowly and then gave a sideways glance to Riley.  He was back to his happy frat boy routine, flirting with Faith who seemed to be humoring him.  “What happened between Liam and Riley?” she asked.

Lindsey tore his gaze away from Riley and Faith and looked at Buffy, grinning.  “You’re bound and determined to get in the middle of this, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Call me curious,” she said.

“It killed the cat,” he replied dryly.

“Come on, Linds,” she said, sticking her lip out in a pout.

He sighed and looked to the heavens.  “It must be dire,” he said, “she’s flirting to get information.”

Buffy frowned, but Lindsey laughed.  Slowly, he sobered.  “The stuff that went down with Angelus,” he said.  “Riley fucked up.  Big time.  It cost him field status and a couple of people got hurt.  He’s lucky he wasn’t brought up on charges.  I guess it’s easier for Riley to blame Angelus than himself.”

*****

Spike looked on from his ‘peanut gallery’ seat in the smoking section.  He’d been coming into Willy’s every Friday for the last couple of months under the pretext of visiting Amy.  She had her uses, he thought, but wasn’t much different than any of his other women.  Eyeing the small blonde talking to dark-haired, ‘Studley Doright’, as he had dubbed Lindsey, Spike admitted to himself that he was attracted to her.  The only thing stopping him from making a move was all the time he’d already spent hanging out in this godforsaken bar watching these boring gits.

Spike didn’t see as he had much choice.  He wanted to make Angelus pay for what happened to Dru.  But Angelus had no life.  There didn’t seem to be anyone or anything Liam Angelus cared about.  It gave Spike few opportunities to exact vengeance on him.  So Spike was left with this group of office offal and their tag along ‘James Bond’ wannabes.  He snickered under his breath at how dull these boys were at play.  Familiarity might breed contempt and that he had for them.  But it had given him invisibility.  Becoming a ‘regular’ as he had, even though a peripheral one, none of those he was watching gave him a moment’s notice.  He could walk through the midst of them to order a drink at the bar or go to the Men’s room without raising a flicker of interest.

But now he was tired of yet another night wasted.  Spike still saw nothing he could use against Angelus.  He might as well pack it in and call it a night.  Grabbing his pack of cigarettes while reaching for the final swig of his beer, he glanced over when he heard raised voices.  Spike sat back down, halting the glass where he held it midair before slowly dropping it to the table.

He’d heard the country boy mention ‘Psycho’ many times referring to Angelus. It was a moniker Spike wouldn’t dispute.  At least there was one person other than himself who saw the fuck for who he really was.  Not that sharing an enemy endeared the great lummox to Spike.  He thought Finn was a proper name for the Iowa potatohead.  He probably had a brother named ‘Huck’.

But now things had gotten interesting, if only for a moment.  They were arguing about something that Spike knew involved Angelus.  He could hear ‘Studly’ say something to Finn without breaking eye contact.  For all of Finn’s size Lindsey more than made up for it in balls, thought Spike.  He watched as the larger man turned and went to the bar.  Lindsey, obviously in control, relaxed in his chair, watching him leave.  Spike didn’t miss the dark look that the little golden girl gave Finn, or the glance of appreciation she bestowed on Lindsey.  Spike couldn’t tell if she was responding to what Lindsey had said or the man himself.

There wasn’t much else to see, he thought as he finally finished off his beer.  But the evening gave Spike hope that all of his work hadn’t been for nothing.  He wasn’t usually much on patience and his had been wearing thinner with each passing week.  Keeping an eye on the petite cutie until he could get to know her better was the only other thing holding his interest.  Enough that he’d continue to wait it out if it meant getting revenge on Angelus.

*****

He ran through the woods as fast as his legs would carry him.  His lungs burned with cold fire as he sucked in the frigid morning air, lungful after lungful.  “Fuck fuck fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he hurdled a fallen tree trunk and narrowly avoided sliding down into a shallow creek.  What the fuck had gone wrong?  It was all Angelus’ fault.  Why couldn’t he do what Riley had suggested, instead of ordering him around.  It had forced Riley to prove he knew what was best.  It was Angelus’ fault they hadn’t stayed together.

The radio clipped to his belt hissed and crackled.  He stopped running, doubling over to brace his hands on his knees as he listened to the coordinates.  His chest still heaving as he pulled out his compass and scrambled to ascertain which direction he needed to go.

He was off again, heading for the location as he heard a second call.  This one was for paramedic assistance.  He growled through clenched teeth as he put on another burst of speed.  He could almost hear his career crashing down around him.

The clearing was in chaos when he got there.  Three men were down.  Three?  Angelus had been alone.  What was going on?  Fighting to catch his breath, he jogged nearer.  Two of the men down had been on the original search party and they looked beat to hell.  One of them definitely had a broken nose, the other was having his arm splinted.  Angelus sat on the ground, his back against a tree as the paramedics carefully approached him.  He looked like he was in shock, his nearly black eyes staring blankly into space.

A hand clasped firmly on his shoulder and he spun around, coming face to face with Lindsey.  “You prick,” Lindsey spat.

He glowered, using his impressive height to tower over the man who was his superior.

“Get your ass back to base, now, Finn,” Lindsey barked, ignoring the blatant intimidation tactic.

“What happened-“

“Now!” Lindsey yelled.  “Your ass is going to be in so much hot water you’re not going to have time to worry about anything other than saving your career.  Now get moving.”

Slowly the dream faded away and Riley woke, staring at his living room floor which needed a serious vacuuming.  With a groan, he pushed himself into a sitting position.  He fought off a wave of nausea while wondering how he had gotten home last night.  He didn’t know.  It was all a blank.  He remembered doing shots with Xander around midnight and then it was all a blur.

With more than a little disgust, Riley wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth.  Whenever he got stinking drunk, he always dreamt of that day.  The day his career as a field agent ended.  And it was all Angelus’ fault.  Riley always thought the guy was a little off, but who knew he was that much of a psycho?  Of course, the brass didn’t see it that way.  Maggie Walsh had deserted him faster than a rat off a sinking ship.  He ended up taking the entire blame for Angelus’ little “incident”.  Never mind that a nutcase like him never should have been approved for field duty in the first place.

But that’s what money could get you in America.  And Angelus’ family definitely had it in spades.  Psycho was born with a silver spoon in his mouth big enough to choke a horse.  That was how he had gotten through the psychological screening that was designed to keep nutjobs like him out of field positions.

Riley, in contrast, had no spoon, silver or otherwise.  He worked for every single thing he ever got.  He carved a life out of nothing.  No one ever handed him shit.  And of course he was the one who got saddled with the blame.  With a growl of frustration, he pushed himself to his feet and headed for the shower.

*****

Angel was putting groceries in his cart, automatically checking off the items on his neat, orderly list, organized according to the store’s layout.  He had a fleeting sensation of something familiar, but as he glanced around he saw nothing to explain it.  He pushed through the aisles completely oblivious to the looks of anyone around him, keeping his cart in a precise path as he rounded a corner.  He lifted down a box of cereal for the lady next to him who had tried unsuccessfully to reach it for herself.  Choosing the item he needed, he walked on, not even seeing the woman or stopping long enough to hear her thank you.

Buffy couldn’t resist a smile at his expense as she watched him.  She saw him stop suddenly, searching around him as if looking for someone.  She hid behind a shelf, not even sure why she chose not to let him see her.  Maybe because it had only been a couple weeks since their encounter in the gazebo and she wasn’t sure what his reaction would be to seeing her outside the office.  She didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, especially in front of strangers.

He reminded her of a robot, she thought as she followed at a discreet distance behind him after he resumed his shopping.  He systematically pulled boxes and cans from the displays and shelves and lined them up neatly, fitting them perfectly in their allotted space in his cart.  Buffy was sure without even looking that all of the food choices were healthy, able to build strong bones any number of ways.  Junk food would never dare climb into the basket Liam Angelus steered through the crowd of Saturday shoppers.

Still though, she felt a surge of compassion for him, seeing him alone among the throng of people, markedly different from the rest of them.  He made his way to the checkout, setting the items in neat, regimental rows.  As he waited his turn, he automatically pulled back to allow the person behind him, holding but one loaf of bread, to cash out before him, again unmindful of the thanks or who was giving it.

Angel was still in the parking lot, stowing the bags in the trunk of his black convertible when Buffy left the store.  His choice in cars was surprising given his usual taste for the unobtrusive and mundane.  She didn’t know his sister, Cordelia, bought the car for him and refused to take it back when he resisted.  Buffy saw him lift his head and glance around once more, as if he was looking for someone or something.  She wondered what or whom he was seeking.  Just then their eyes met and she grinned in spite of herself.  If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn he returned a shy smile right before he ducked his head into the car and started it, driving away while she stood there.

*****

Angel had been restless since lunchtime, the unexpected ferocity of the storm putting his nerves on edge.  He resisted the urge to pace back and forth as he usually did.  For several hours he waged a silent battle against using the pills locked in his desk and he finally won.  He knew Buffy was aware of the struggle.  Although he was discomfited that she knew, he relished her warm smile all the same.  She glanced over several times, not disguising her concern.

Finally, he got ready to leave as he did each day exactly at five o’clock.  Checking the small window above, he saw the sky was still dark.  He couldn’t hear the thunder anymore, relieved the storm was finally moving away.  But it was still raining hard.  He reached for his leather jacket and briefcase, but hesitated when he saw Buffy clearing her desk.  As a rule she stayed later, always seeming to have one more thing to do.  He didn’t want to seem rude and rush out the door.  That and he didn’t mind lingering in her company another few minutes.  He knew it was ridiculous – after all they shared an office all day, every day.  But he could never get enough of her, even if it was simply walking her to her car.

Even though he didn’t speak, Buffy realized that Angel was waiting for her.  He was calmer now that the storm had diminished.  She was glad for him.  She’d felt him endure the conflict, the tension rolling off of him in waves.  She hurried with the last of her things, thinking it was unusual for him to wait.  She didn’t speak, not wishing to disturb the unspoken peace.  They had both survived a long afternoon.

When they got to the entryway he started to open the door for her, then suddenly pulled it shut.  She looked up at him in confusion.  “Don’t you have a coat?” he asked as he eyed the thin cotton dress she was wearing.

His look hadn’t been predatory, but she blushed just the same.  Pointing out the door she answered, “I left it in the car.”

 “You can’t go out like that,” he told her, and before she could stop him, he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her.

She started to protest, but stopped when he raised an eyebrow in warning.  She was swimming in the jacket that came almost to her knees.  Laughing, she looked up from the jacket to him, saying, “Thanks, I think I’m covered.  I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

He shook his head once as he looked down on her.  “No,” he said, not able to hide a crooked smile that warmed her more than the jacket ever could, “Keep it.  It looks better on you.”

[end chapter 4]

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