Weathering The Storm 

Chapter I

The cold had long ago ceased to register as a simple sensation.  It had taken on life, blossomed into a relentless tormentor, a cruel constant companion.  His entire being ached from the uncontrollable shivering, the endless contracting of his muscles in a vain attempt to generate body heat.

His hand, though not large, was curled around her much smaller one.  He couldn't have released it if he tried, but he did not try.  He had to hold onto her, to keep her near.  Her sightless blue eyes stared up at the threatening gray sky visible through the canopy.  The still orbs were no longer the piercing blue, but cloudy and dull, almost milky.  The stiffness had receded from her body, leaving her limp across him.  Her skin was ashen, the same pale gray as the sky.  The bruise that ran the length of her face was no longer as prominent.

He curled his fingers tighter, watching her long golden tresses flutter around him in the chilling wind.  He would protect her.  But the sky eventually darkened and the already punishing winds became even less forgiving.  Thunder rumbled in the distance again.

His teeth chattered so loudly he could hear nothing else.  He tried to huddle deeper into his thin t-shirt, still damp from last night’s pounding deluge.  It was no use ...  The storms would find them again.

Angel woke with the tortured, silent scream of an eight-year-old boy caught in his throat.  Sitting bolt upright in bed, he panted harshly, dragging in deep, ragged gulps of air.  He held himself stock still, trying to absorb all of his surroundings, orient himself despite the adrenaline racing through his veins.  Slowly, he began to calm.  He knew where he was.  He knew he was safe.  But still, he had trouble shaking off the clinging terror.

Uneven flashes of light illuminated his bedroom and the house shuddered with the distant, low rumble of thunder.  With badly shaking hands, it took him three tries to flip on the light next to his bed.  He was tangled in the covers, burrowed into them though his body was soaked with sweat.  Slowly, he freed himself, throwing his feet over the edge of the bed.  Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands.  "Not again," he whispered hoarsely, "not again."  As if to mock him, thunder rumbled.

Raising his head, he pushed himself to his feet and walked stiffly down the hall to the bathroom.  He blinked against the glare of the light.  His reflection was that of a haunted man, his eyes standing out harshly against his pale skin.  He ran a shaky hand over his stubble sprinkled jaw.

Reluctantly, he opened the medicine cabinet.  He stared at the rows of little orangey-brown bottles.  So much for man being powerless over nature.  He was helpless against the storms, but he had the assistance of the pharmaceutical industry to mitigate his reaction to them.  With a deep breath, he picked up the bottle on the far right.  Leaning a hip against the counter, he braced himself as he read the label.  He unscrewed the lid and reaching in, extracted one small pill.  He held it up and looked at it.

"It's only the storms," he said to himself.  "As soon as they stop, I can quit taking the meds again.  I won't need them to keep the dreams away."  Even as he said the words, he was filled with self-loathing.  He had gotten through twenty years without needing these pills to keep the dreams at bay, twenty years where he seemed to be as normal as anyone else, twenty years where a simple thunderstorm wouldn’t turn him into a nervous wreck.

"But that was before," he said wryly, his voice echoing harshly in the small space.  One night changed everything.  In the wake of that stormy February night, he needed enough tranquilizers to bring down a horse just so he could get through the day.  He stopped being a highly trained professional and was now a pitiable company joke.  His past caught up with him and overtook his life.

"Fuck!" Angel bellowed.  He dropped the pill, pulling his hand back even as he curled it into a fist.  With the fluidity of a trained athlete he twisted his upper body forward, punching the glass with all of his considerable strength.  The glass cracked, shattering outward like ripples across a pond.  He stood there, his arm still outstretched, panting hard.  Several shards of glass fell, tinkling into the sink.  His reflection was obliterated by the network of fissures.  Slowly, Angel pulled his hand back.  Looking down at his bloodied knuckles, he felt oddly more sane, more in control.  Grabbing a nearby washcloth, he wrapped it around his bleeding fist and absently flicked the medicine cabinet closed.  The storm wasn’t going to win this time.

Taking a deep breath, he released it slowly and headed for his kitchen.  Coffee would be good.  It was hard to have nightmares if you didn’t sleep.

******

“You’re being funny, right?  Ha, ha,” Buffy said, desperately trying to elicit some sort of response from the overly serious clerk.  He couldn’t honestly mean that this was her office.  Surely this had to be some joke they played on the newbies.

He stared back at her blankly.  “This is your desk, Ms. Summers,” he said dryly.  “All complaints must be taken up with Dr. Walsh.  Good day.”

Buffy watched as the clerk walked out the door and down the institutional green hallway.  She slumped back against her heavy, old, wooden desk, frowning.  “He’s a lot of laughs,” she said to her officemate.

Once again she received no response.  Crossing her arms over her chest, Buffy glared at the back of the man’s head.  He had short, nondescript brown hair kept in place with painful precision, as if ordered to stay there.  He sat ramrod straight, his back to her and acted like she wasn’t even there.  Buffy guessed he would probably be on the tall side, once standing.  Her glaring got her nowhere.

“So ... “ she peeked out into the hallway and read the nameplate on the door, “Liam,” she said.  “Looks like we’re going to be working pretty close together.”

Nothing.

“What is it with this place?” Buffy muttered under her breath.  “That’s fine,” she continued, talking to herself because no one else would, “it doesn’t matter that no one seems to need the human comforts like talking or light.”  She glared at the tiny basement windows placed high in the walls.  No light shone through them and heavy iron bars that covered them.  Of course, it was still raining outside.  This place had the ambience of a turn of the century sanatorium – only quieter and without all the drool.

When she agreed to take the government job, Buffy envisioned something glamorous.  She imagined huddling in a trench coat under the glow of a streetlight, or crouched inside a van, listening to a wiretap, waiting for the moment to rush in and rescue the damsel in distress.  Or guy in distress.  Guys got distressed too, right?  And in need of rescuing?  She glanced once more at the back of the large, uncommunicative form across the room and sighed deeply.  Not a lot of rescuing needed around here.  Who knew the FBI was so freakin’ boring?

With a college degree and her experience, Buffy could have gotten a job with any number of private companies, but no, she settled for cause over cash.  With a sigh, she pulled her chair out and sat down at her desk.  At least the job did pay reasonably well, not the six figures she would be making in the private industry, but definitely more than what the average college grad brought home.  At the moment it made her feel better to put everything on Willow’s head than blame herself for where she’d landed.

In spite of trying to make all this her fault, Buffy was comforted thinking about her best friend.  She could see Willow’s perky face surrounded by a wealth of red hair.  When they had first met, after Buffy arrived new in the town and at the school, she felt an instant kinship to the brainiac.  Willow was like a breath of fresh air in Buffy’s life, something she sorely needed after the one she left behind.  She could use a little visit from Willow right now, Buffy thought, at least she would talk to her, which is more than she could extract from the man behind her.

 “Nice to meet you Liam Angelus,” she said, fairly sure he wouldn’t bother responding.  “My name is Buffy Summers and I will be your officemate for the duration of my stay.”

She waited for him to say something, but once again he remained silent.  With a sigh of defeat, she pulled open her satchel and started arranging things on her desk.  She shot a quick glance at Liam’s desk and noticed it was achingly ordered.  Everything seemed to be arranged on a grid and nothing was the tiniest bit out of place.  Paper, pens, calculator.  With a start, she realized he didn’t have a computer.  Who didn’t have a computer in this day and age?  She shuddered.  Wonderful, her officemate was a Luddite who had taken a vow of silence.  Years spent with overly intelligent males who had little or no contact with women had given Buffy an appreciation for how truly strange some men could be.  Most of her male colleagues settled for treating her like the secretary while they openly ogled her chest.  As far as it went, being ignored wasn’t the most awful experience she’d ever had.

Buffy sighed and looked at the things she brought to decorate her workspace.  She wasn’t much on order.  She got things done in her own way in her own time and with her own style.  She pulled several picture frames out of the satchel and arranged them on her desk.  Familiar faces soon stared back at her.  Dawn laughing with the remnants of a food fight dripping off her face, her mother and Giles on their wedding day, her high school graduation picture with Willow.

She smiled back at Willow’s jubilant face thinking, ‘This is all thanks to you.’ She wondered at the moment about her gratitude.

Willow had been so proud to tell Buffy about officially joining the ranks of the FBI. ‘Miss Supergenius’ not only finished her college credits needed for her degree, by the time she was twenty, but had been actively sought by the FBI upon her graduation.  She had already been working for them for almost two years in forensics, her field of choice, when she saw a job opening she thought would be perfect for Buffy.

When she’d gotten the job in the same building as Willow, Buffy couldn’t believe it. She knew Willow had put in a good word for her, but she had thought the chances of actually getting the job where her best friend worked were slim.  She would enjoy it while it lasted.  She didn’t plan on staying long, but it was somewhere to start.

Eventually, she pulled out her new laptop, a graduation present from Giles and Dawn and her beloved collection of pencils also from her sister.  The pencils wrote in every color imaginable and most of them were topped with some sort of cartoon character.  Buffy wasn’t a Cartoon Network
junkie like her sister, but since they were from Dawn, she loved them.  Glancing over her shoulder, Buffy looked at Liam’s desk.  He had a neat cup of perfectly sharpened pencils.  She rolled her eyes.  Most days she would have been a little more forgiving, but the excitement of being shown to her dank basement quarters had made her somewhat irritable.

With her desk decorated, Buffy slumped back in her chair and studied the room.  It was a good size, much larger than the tiny places she’d been shoved into in her former jobs.  Still, it wasn’t much on character.  The walls were the same institutional green as the hallway and looked like they hadn’t been painted in decades.  There were tape marks and sticky tack goo stuck in what looked like the outline of an old frame or maybe a calendar.  Buffy was betting that it had been hung there when smoking was still allowed in the building because the surface that had been under the frame was much brighter than the rest of the wall.  Buffy shuddered.  She wasn’t a clean freak, but she did have her limits.

Idly, Buffy drummed her fingers on her desktop.  Her meeting with Dr. Walsh was still hours away and until she met with her boss, she really didn’t have anything to do.  Before long, the silence was more than she could take.  Turning, Buffy looked at her co-worker who was still staring intently at the papers in front of him.  Apparently small talk was not in the cards on this job.

With a yawn, Buffy stood up, stretching like a cat.  She needed to do something or she was going to fall asleep.  As she started towards the doorway, Liam swiveled his chair absently towards the motion, having forgotten she was in the room.  Suddenly, they were face to face for the first time.

Buffy's gaze glanced quickly across his pleasant facial features, drawn inexorably to the haphazard dressing on his right hand.  His knuckles were bandaged, giving the unmistakable impression that he injured himself by punching something.  She stared at the untidy gauze wrapping.  He had dressed the wound himself, she knew that simply by looking at it.  The FBI hadn’t hired her for her sparkling personality.  Buffy knew with bone deep certainty that he was right-handed.  He bandaged the injury by himself, resulting in the cumbersome mess that encompassed his hand.

She felt, rather than saw, him start as he pulled his injured hand protectively against his chest.  She immediately dropped her gaze to the floor, blushing in embarrassment.  She opened her mouth and snapped it shut deciding that discretion was the better part of valor.  Mutely, she turned and headed into the hallway without a backward glance.

Buffy locked the door to the ladies' room and leaned back against it, giving herself a moment to regain her composure.  What had possessed her to stare at her officemate like he was some sort of circus freak?  She couldn't have been much less suave if she had actually been trying.  Her face still burned with shame.

But despite the shame, there was a nagging curiosity.  What had happened to Liam Angelus' hand?  It wasn't like her to get involved in situations like this.  She didn't pry into other people's business, especially co-workers'.  But there was something so vulnerable about the way he had looked, the clumsy mess of gauze and tape.  It pulled at something inside of her.  She had this absurd desire to get out a bottle of Bactine and a bunch of Dawn's favorite Scooby Doo band aids.

Shaking her head, Buffy walked to the sink where she ran water and splashed some on her face.  Using an overly rough paper towel, she dried her face, looking at herself in the mirror.  "This job might be a little more interesting than I had anticipated," she said dryly.

Minutes later, Buffy was in the break room, avoiding her office and by definition, her officemate.  She had just removed the Diet Coke from the vending machine when a young man entered the room.  His tie was loosened around his neck and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone.  Buffy smiled.  This guy looked like he had some potential.

“Hey,” Buffy said.

He waggled his eyebrows at her.  “Hey,” he replied.  “You must be new.  I’m Xander, Xander Harris.”

Buffy gladly took his hand, relieved that someone in the building was capable of conversing normally.  “Buffy Summers,” she said.  “I was beginning to worry that everyone in this department must be a librarian in training.”

He frowned at her.  “You’re in Analysis?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “just started today.”

His eyes went wide.  “Oh, you’re Kendra’s replacement,” he said and then added, “I’m sorry.”

Buffy frowned uneasily.  “Why are you sorry?  Is there something I need to know?  Am I breaking the code of silence?”

Xander smiled and shook his head.  “No code of silence, honest,” he said.  “There’s no policy against making noise it’s just that most of us tend to get lost in our work.  Not quite as lost as Angelus.  You’re officemate is just a little ... “

“Yes?” Buffy prompted, hoping she didn’t sound nervous.  Of course she was nervous.  She had just experienced one of the oddest exchanges of her life and was curious to find out more about her officemate.

Xander shrugged,  “Angelus is ... different.  Quiet.  Strange.  He doesn’t really joke around.  Okay, he doesn’t really even talk most of the time.  To my knowledge, he’s not exactly disrespectful ... he just tends to make people really nervous.  He goes through officemates faster than Spinal Tap went through drummers.”

Buffy laughed and then groaned.  “Wonderful,” she said.  “I feel so lucky.  Hopefully I won’t be another spontaneous combustion.”

“Not to worry,” Xander assured her.  “We may be sick with the institutional green and the lack of daylight, but we have a very modern sprinkler system.”

The comment caused them both to laugh for several moments.

Finally, Xander sighed.  “My deepest sympathy,” he said, “but not much can be done about who you room with.  They’re still looking for that ‘special someone’ who can make it past a month with Angelus.”

Buffy sobered slightly.  “He can’t honestly be that bad, can he?” she asked.  “I mean, he doesn’t like eat people or listen to the Spice Girls or keep a really neat collection of scabs in a jar?”

Xander laughed and shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “He’s just ... one of a kind.  He’s a total genius, the best of the best, but he’s also weirdest of the weird.  Angelus sits at his desk for eight hours straight.  He never talks, never gets up and walks around, unless it’s for more coffee.  We’re all a fairly social group around here, but he never comes to any of our after hours get-togethers or Christmas parties or anything.”

A mischievous grin slid over Buffy’s features.

“What?” Xander asked warily.  “I don’t even know you, but I’m sure that look isn’t a good sign.”

“Nothing,” she said, “I just love a good challenge.”

“Leave him alone, Buffy,” Xander said seriously.  “Angelus is a loner.  He doesn’t like people talking to him or messing with his stuff.”

“I’m not going to do anything drastic,” she assured him.

*****

Later that night, Angel carefully pulled at the bandages, making sure they weren’t tearing the newly healed flesh as he removed them.  Idly, he dropped the fouled gauze into the sink.  His skin was still raw and red.  He fought the urge to flex his fist, knowing it might re-open the wounds.

He took a deep breath and realized he had no idea how long he had been standing at the sink.  Looking up, his still shattered reflection proved no help either.  It wasn't like him to get lost in his thoughts – nightmares, yes – but thoughts, no.  Still, he couldn't seem to stop replaying the day in his mind.  He usually paid no attention at all to whoever was sitting at the desk behind him.  It was almost always a different face.  Male, female – it made no difference as long as they supplied the little information he asked for infrequently.

But the slip of a girl, no, he corrected himself – woman, who had silently appraised him, had caught him off guard.  He had been drawn into those gray-green pools reflecting the light before she hurried away.  The strange connection had been almost tangible until she ran from the room.  He hadn’t missed how beautiful she was in that quick glimpse.  He remembered the huge eyes in such a small, expressive face, surrounded by burnished blonde hair.  Blonde hair … something that usually cast a shadow over his thoughts, hadn’t had that effect with her.

Angel shook his head at the empty room and absently rubbed his injured hand over his eyes.  He was just tired from the storm stealing his sleep the previous night.

In the days that followed he found himself oddly aware of the new occupant sharing his space.  It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

*****

Willow thought about Buffy as she put her things away in her desk after she returned from having lunch with her.  Willow’s workload had been exceptionally heavy for several days.  She planned on meeting Buffy the very first day her best friend started work right there in the same building.  But she hadn’t been able to get away until Buffy had been there for a couple days.

Willow hadn’t been able to contain herself when Buffy had called her after she got the job.  She had gleefully bounced up and down when Buffy asked if she’d help her find an apartment.  Two weeks hadn’t been a lot of time to move and be ready for her first day on the job, but they’d managed.

Now that Buffy had started work, Willow was glad she’d been brave enough to help her get the position.  Willow had heard they were looking for a replacement for a vacancy in Analysis … again.  Despite the rumors about the man who worked there, Willow had gotten up the courage to see Dr. Walsh to ask her to consider Buffy for the job.

Willow had been there long enough to watch the long line of men and women leave, requesting a transfer after working with Liam Angelus.  She had seen him many times, silently slipping through the hallway, trying to become part of the background, as if he didn’t exist.  He reminded her of a wounded animal that would start and run at any movement.  He never let her near enough to get a close up look at him.  She only knew the gossip she heard around the office.  Until a couple years ago he’d been in the field. The details on how he ended up in Analysis were vague, undoubtedly by design.  Everyone else ignored him, but Willow had a very tender heart, hating to see anyone shunned or alone.  She knew Buffy well enough to know she’d find working with him a challenge.  She smiled to herself, feeling more fear for Liam Angelus than for Buffy.

The thoughtful redhead had been concerned about Buffy for quite some time.  She’d watched her date any number of guys, but never forming a serious attachment with any of them.  Buffy had always been a ball of energy, even with everything she packed into her life.  She helped raise her sister after her mother died, taking care of Dawn and Giles and the house while she continued her classes.  She worked on ‘Teen Beat’ all through high school and college.  It was something she’d heard about when she helped out at the local teen center while keeping an eye on Dawn.  Buffy loved to patrol, giving the delinquents a run for their money.  A small cyclone, they were never prepared when she struck.

That Buffy loved a challenge was something that had never been lost on Willow, though she wasn’t sure her friend was aware of it herself.  Time and time again, Willow watched Buffy take on situations that daunted everyone else.  It didn’t matter if it was work or people.  She’d dig in until she solved the riddle to her latest puzzle and wouldn’t let go until she did.  Willow had known her long enough to know she was searching for something that was lacking.  She didn’t think there was much left in their small town that her friend hadn’t already met head on. Yet, Buffy was still restless.

She thought of how energized and alive Buffy had been during the hour she had just spent with her.  She looked excited about moving and starting somewhere new.  Willow hoped the different environment would be what Buffy needed.  In the meantime, she was ecstatic about being reunited with her best friend.  She had missed her and was glad to have her back in her life.

*****

“Good morning, Liam,” Buffy said as she did every morning.  It was five after nine and she was running a little late.  She was betting her officemate sat down at his desk at nine a.m. sharp, just like he had every morning for the last two weeks.  She took a seat at her desk and looked at the back of his head.  She narrowed her eyes at him.  “Angelus is an odd last name, don’t you think?” she asked.  “Where’s it from?”

He acted like he hadn’t heard her.

“It’s an interesting name.”  With a suddenly intuitive thought, she continued, “Way more interesting than plain old Liam.  I think I’ll start calling you Angel.  You don’t mind, do you, Angel?”

No response.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, pulling her bright pink Power Puff Girls pencil out of her desk.

*****

Angel couldn’t concentrate, something that rarely happened.  He had kept himself from turning around to look at her.  Pretending to work, he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she walked out the door, plastic coffee cup in hand, in the direction of the break room.  After she was gone he leaned back in his chair and let out a long, harsh breath.

He had been startled when she called him Angel, although he showed no outward sign.  ‘How did she know that?’  He calmed himself thinking the nickname really wasn’t such a stretch. Liam was an old family name, passed down through generations, but his immediate family had called him Angel since he was born.  Even after all these years he unconsciously thought of himself by that name.  But he hadn’t felt like such an ‘angel’ once he’d come back home as a child.  Being leery of anything at that time that might cause him pain, they had quietly dropped the term of endearment.  Except for Cordy, she had never called him anything else.

It astounded Angel that Buffy’s voice saying his name hadn't bothered him.  Had it been anyone else who tried to address him in such a manner, he would have been hard pressed to retain his composure.  He actually liked the way it sounded on her lips, soft and intimate.  Unwittingly, he stirred at the notion of being intimate with her.  He pondered again what it was about her that his thoughts kept wandering to her too many times during the day and night.  Just hearing her call him that had him thinking of her again.  He sternly reminded himself she was just trying to make the most of their working arrangement and he should do the same.

*****

Spike purposely clicked the heels of his boots over the tiled floors, hoping the small echo was irritating.  He smirked as his eyes passed the dingy walls and beat up wooden doors that lined the hall.  All that came to mind, surveying the view was the sarcastic line a bad guy said in an action movie, “I give you the F…B...I!”  He snickered softly, agreeing with him, certain they’d killed the wrong guy off at the end of the flick.  He reached his destination, a single door like any of the others except for the nameplate.  Knocking, he didn’t wait for a reply but turned the handle to the door, then helped himself inside.

His eyes swept the room, unconcerned by the absence of its owner.  Spike shrugged, knowing that he would return sooner or later.  He started towards the desk, planning to make the most of his time alone.  With a careless hand he opened and half closed drawers, searching for whatever he could find.  Finally spying something of interest, he dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk and rotated it, throwing his booted feet on the widow sill behind.  He was still in a deep study of the contents of the bland manila folder titled, ‘Angelus, Liam’ when the door opened behind him.

Not bothering to even turn his head Spike sneered, "Watching over your 'golden child', Father?  Be careful he doesn't see you. He'll break even more."

The man made no attempt to answer as he circled behind the desk.  He caught the back of the chair and pitched the occupant out in one quick movement.  As Spike fell forward, trying to regain his balance, he felt the file he was holding slip out of his grasp.  Catching himself before he hit the floor, he straightened out, took a few steps to the opposite chair and nonchalantly sprawled into it.

“Not even a hello for your dear son, Dad?” he threw across the desk.  “Or hasn’t three years been long enough?”

Holtz sat heavily in his seat, silently putting the papers away, straightening the others Spike had disturbed in his earlier search.  Spike waited, snaring a pencil out of the holder in front of him, rolling it between his fingers.

“I’ve missed you, William.” Holtz said quietly, raising his head to look straight into his son’s eyes.

Breaking the pencil and hurling the pieces to the floor, he bit out, “It’s not ‘William’, it hasn’t been ‘William’ for a long time.  The name is ‘Spike’!”

Holtz closed his eyes for a moment trying to calm himself, as he heard the same voice say those words long ago.  A tough little five-year-old telling his parents, “The name is Spike.”  The little boy had picked up the name from the villain in his favorite cartoon show.  He had insisted everyone call him that and refused to answer to anything else.  Regrettably, the moniker stuck.

He knew he shouldn’t have baited him.  He hadn’t seen Spike for so long, but he was irritated that his son had taken advantage of his absence from the office.  As usual, the one thing he wished to hide from his son had been the first thing William had found.  There was no way of knowing how much information Spike had gotten about Angelus or, more to the point, what he would do with it.

Spike eased back in his chair, bothered that he let his father get a reaction out of him.  “Just because Angel didn’t like his nickname, I suppose no one else can have one,” he shot back.

Ignoring the barb, Holtz asked, “Where have you been all this time?  You haven’t kept in touch.  I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Oh, what’s the matter?  Didn’t the boys at the gate warn you I was here?  Tsk, tsk, not much for security, are they?  Oh, wait … that’s right.  I’m family.  Maybe you should update their log sheets, wouldn’t want the wrong people to get in.”

Refusing to give into his taunts, Holtz asked, “Are you going to tell me where you were?”

“Would it make any difference where as long as I wasn’t here?” Spike returned.

“Would it do me any good to try to convince you it did?” Holtz asked tiredly.  At the closed look on his son’s face he sighed deeply.  “Is there something you need?  Is that why you finally showed up?”

“Do I have to need something to visit my dear old father?” Spike questioned, the contempt evident in his tone.

“No,” Holtz shook his head, using his hands to push himself back from the desk, “but you never do.”

“I need money, that shouldn’t surprise you. Why else would I be here?” Spike said levelly.

“We’ve talked about this before.  I’ve told you, let me help you find a …” Holtz started.

“A job ... and a nice girl, settle down and have kids?  Like you did?”  Spike interrupted.  He stood up and stalked towards the door.  “I don’t even know why I bothered.  I should know by now who matters to you.”  He swung the door open, turning to face his father.  “The only one who ever mattered to me has been dead and gone for a long time.  Do you even remember her or has Angel taken her place too?” he spat out angrily as he slammed the door behind himself.

Holtz put his head in his hands leaning over the surface of his desk.  Even for Spike that had been cruel.  Daniel Holtz saw the sweet, quiet face of his youngest daughter, round blue eyes which beheld things beyond what others saw.  The cutting words triggered sudden tears, falling silently down his face, as he remembered the picture of her that was burned in his memory forever…Dru’s and Angel’s.

Taking a deep breath, Holtz wiped away the tears with the back of his hand.  Crying wouldn’t help matters.  These wounds were old and deep.  Silently, he ruminated on Liam Angelus.  Holtz knew the troubled young man well, having lived next door to him as Liam grew from boy to man.  Angel, Holtz knew only too well, had never been comfortable around people after that short eight years since his birth.  He lost whatever that connection was and never regained it. He no longer knew how to relate to others, nor did he attempt to learn.

Holtz privately believed Angel to be caught in a prison of his own making – suffering from loneliness so acute it rendered him unable to relate to humanity.  That loneliness and the unapproachable demeanor it wrought had been a stumbling block all through his adolescent and adult years.  It wasn’t a façade, unfortunately, but an inescapable part of his character.  His own gentle nature had been stunted, a fact for which Holtz held himself responsible.  Angel lost the ability to trust anyone on a personal level.  Even his sister, the only one who still tried to make inroads in his life, was helpless to coax him out of his self-imposed exile.  Instead of daring to believe in the goodness in humanity, Angel created an invisible wall not keeping others out, but locked out himself.  Like looking in a window while starving, watching others eat their fill, with no knowledge of how to enter their door.

But for all he kept hidden inside, Angel still had a considerable impact on those around him.  His manner was harsh and abrupt, not mincing words or wasting them.  He spoke only when necessary, to the point, regardless of how or what he said might be taken.  But it was his behavior, more than his conversation or lack of it, that made people find themselves tiptoeing around him.  He ignored people if they weren’t important to his objective.  His dark, brooding expression prohibited anyone from approaching.  When they did dare, his eyes stared straight through them as if they didn’t exist.  The somber air quashed any attempts at lightness or humor around him.

Most of all though, it was the unavoidable feeling of suppressed power that emanated from him that caused people to steer clear.  Like a sleek, dangerous cat, tensed and ready to strike, his movements were akin to a panther swiftly and gracefully stalking its prey.  Holtz was one of the very few not intimidated by Liam Angelus.  He knew the simmering rage always just below the surface of Angel’s stony mask was directed inward.  That fury though had been instrumental many times when a criminal had come face to face with him and wisely decided to back down.

His skills as an agent had been exemplary.  His ability to be objective, to never personally involve himself in the task at hand had set him ahead of so many of his colleagues.  Holtz had lost count of the number of times Angel had cracked a case, seemingly by instinct, that stymied men with much more experience and working knowledge than he possessed.  Angel had found a career where his ability to disassociate himself from humanity proved a boon, rather than a hindrance.

If he lacked anything, it was finesse with the more social aspects that were needed on occasion in the field.  Isolating himself for most of his life, he didn’t understand, let alone see the necessity of polite mannerisms.  He was at a distinct disadvantage when pressed into playing a part in any kind of social setting.  Whenever possible those assignments were given to agents who could play the roles much more convincingly.  But it was a negligible duty when compared to his other capabilities.

Just when Holtz feared that Angel had become nothing more than a cold automaton, he found himself reevaluating the young man yet again.  In the course of his duties, it became apparent that Angel was an incredibly accomplished artist.  He had a natural gift for drawing, often penciling a quick sketch, needing few strokes to show a clear likeness of a suspect or missing victim.  His discovery of that creative sensitivity gave Holtz hope that Angel's savaged heart could yet be healed.

Liam Angelus had been promoted in a very short time due to his ruthless prowess in tracking and apprehending the subjects in any case assigned.  As the head of the team, there wasn’t a man in it who didn’t owe him his life.  He had saved quite a few outside of it as well.  He might have appeared cold and uncaring, but he was known to never put anyone in jeopardy within his authority if there was an alternative.  It was apparent that although his own life seemed to mean little to him, anyone else’s was paramount.

Holtz frowned to himself thinking of the botched training exercise that had led to the revocation of Angel’s field agent status.  Losing him had been devastating to the team and the agency, not to mention what it had done to Angelus.  He seemed to have folded in on himself, regressing even further into his own small lonely sphere of existence.  Any gains he had made in his difficult life seemed lost, as if they’d never been.  For the last two years he sat at a desk, his brilliant mind still clicking, making connections, but only in relation to his tedious, mundane tasks.  He was little more than a robot, taking in facts and figures, processing them and spitting them back out as needed.  The heart within, which had never shown itself very much since he was a boy, now seemed hidden from sight completely.

[end chapter 1]

Chapter II

Spike burst out of the main doors of the building taking long, heated strides towards his car.  He thrust his hand in his jeans’ pocket digging for his keys.  They slipped through his shaking fingers as he yanked them out only to have them fall to the ground.  Angered even more by his lack of control, he reached down, yelling, ”Fuck it!”  Snatching the keys from the pavement, he swung around in one movement to kick an innocent litter can standing nearby, knocking it halfway off the sidewalk.  He wrenched the car door open, then threw himself into the driver’s seat.  He jabbed the keys into the ignition, the car roaring to life.  He needed a drink … badly!

He pulled his car over to the first bar he saw.  Not the kind of dive he usually frequented, but as long as it had booze it would do.  Leering at the ‘Please Do Not Smoke’ sign, he ordered a bottle of whiskey.  He grabbed it along with the shot glass, heading for the furthest, darkest corner of the smoking section he could find.  He wasn’t in the mood to be bothered with having his ass thrown out for not being politically correct.  He just wanted to get drunk.

He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a long pull of the burning liquid, not bothering with the glass.  Feeling it sear his insides straight to his belly, he slid back against the wall of the booth and swung his legs, knees up, in front of him.  With the edge off, he took his time to fill the shot glass and knocked the welcome taste to the back of his throat once more.  Waiting for the liquor to work its cheap magic, he shrugged back and closed his eyes.

He had been brutal with his father.  Spike was beginning to regret it when he angrily caught himself.  ‘Not any more than he deserved,’ he fumed.  He tamped down that small part of him that was still troubled by the words he’d said and focused instead on the folder he found.

Angelus!  It always came back to that fucker.  Nothing had changed while Spike was gone.  He hadn’t really thought it would, but he hated it just the same.  Spike endured a lifetime lost in that broken fuck’s shadow.  He shouldn’t have been surprised to find his father was keeping track of everything the asshole did.  He expected it really … but seeing it in black and white made him see red.  He sneered at his own lame joke.  He wanted Angelus to see red, blood red.  He poured more whiskey into the shot glass.  Fingering the smooth surface of it, he stared at its contents.

He never thought much about his sister Harmony, she had her own world.  Harmony loved her friends and her clothes and herself and not much else if she wasn’t the center of it.  But Dru – she had enchanted him from the day she was born.  Blonde and blue-eyed, just as he and Harmony, yet Dru was so very different from either of them.  He tapped a cigarette out of the pack and lit it.  Drawing deeply on it, he exhaled a harsh stream of smoke, then emptied the shot glass.  She captured his heart from the first as he did hers.

He spent many a drunken, sleepless night wondering if she had known what was going to happen that day.  It still cut to the bottom of his heart knowing that she cried for him and he wasn’t there.  If only he hadn’t stopped to talk to one of his gang everything would have been different.  He was just in time to see what was happening, but too late to prevent it.  Spike’s heart pounded even now at the thought of how he had run as fast as he could even though he had seemed to be moving so slowly.  They disappeared around the corner and were gone.  He pleaded with his father to let him help.  Later he begged his father to take him along, but Holtz had yelled at him to stay home where he was.  Tears filled his eyes and he blindly reached for the bottle, letting the fire course down his throat, almost choking on it.

Why hadn’t he been there to save her?  He would have given his life for her.  But Angelus hadn’t.  No, he was found in one piece, hardly a scratch on him, a few bandages on his wrists.  Spike’s neglected cigarette burned his fingers.  In a masochistic moment, he let it smolder against his flesh for several long moments before finally flicking it away.  He welcomed the pain, wishing he could give that and more to the fuck who hadn’t done everything he could have – should have – for his sister.  Everything Spike would have done.

He took every opportunity to ensure Angelus knew exactly what he thought of him.  Spike told the wimp that he would have taken care of Dru, if he had been with her.  How dare Angelus return home alive while Dru’s tiny, helpless body rotted in some dank casket.  How dare he live when Dru could not.  Spike jogged another cigarette out and stuck it between his lips.  He flipped the top of his lighter open, rubbing the small wheel to ignite the flame, lifting it to the tip until it caught.  He poured another finger of the amber fluid and swallowed, then chased it with a drag of smoke into his lungs.

Spike remembered watching Angelus on the rare days when Cordelia would drag him outside.  He stayed close by her, his eyes never resting, hunting every corner of the yard.  It made Spike’s blood boil to see him.  Angel could watch over his own sister, but not Dru.  Spike hadn’t been able to stop himself from screaming at Angelus, telling him he couldn’t take care of Cordy any better.  Cordy always yelled back, standing up for her brother.  Angelus never defended himself, watching mutely as Cordelia raged.  It made Spike hate him even more, looking at the coward, not even willing to defend himself.

His father had told him that Angel wasn’t to blame, that it was his job as an agent that had placed Dru and Angel in jeopardy.  Spike couldn’t believe his father not only blamed himself but refused to admit whose fault it really was.  His father – that was a joke.  Holtz never cared about Spike.  It was all about Angel – even when he fucked up for all the world to see, his father worried about him.  Here he’d been gone for almost three years and Spike came back only to find Angelus was more important to his father than ever.  If he wasn’t then why did Holtz have a file on him thicker than his wrist?  Because Angelus had another breakdown?  Why was it that even when the asshole melted into yet another pile of jello he was still so important to Daniel Holtz?

One thing was clear though, Angelus was no longer an agent.  He was no longer the all-powerful, all-knowing perfection Spike’s father thought him to be.  The only bad guys Angelus hunted down now, according to his father’s file, were in books or on computer screens, not in the real world.  Angelus had sunk so low, Holtz had him working right there in the same building.  That was probably to keep an eye on him in case he went off again.  And that thought alone gave Spike more satisfaction than he’d felt in a very long time.  But it wasn’t enough.

Spike had another drink and another cigarette.  He kept thinking about Liam Angelus and still wanted to exact his own revenge, to make things ‘even’.  Spike was going to find a way.  He checked his pack of cigarettes and settled back in, deep in thought, searching for a way to solve his problem.

The lone waitress made her way to Spike’s booth.  She had kept track of the duster-clad figure since he strode through the door.  She would have been blind not to notice the piercing blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones below the sleek blonde hair.  And the duster had unfurled enough to reveal a muscular chest and flat abs under his thin t-shirt. He certainly didn’t look in the mood for company, but she knew the bottle had to get low sometime.  He definitely was worth the trouble to get to know.  She tried to time it when she figured the whiskey was almost gone.

After he ordered another bottle when she asked, she smiled seductively at him.  “You sure there isn’t something else you need?”

Spike looked up, not even realizing she hadn’t left with the empty bottle.  “No,” he said caustically, “not a thing.”

Not one to give in easily, she tried once more.  “Too bad. You look more interesting than the bunch from the complex who usually hang out here.”

Spike looked more closely at her, suddenly interested in her subject.  She was a little over five and a half feet tall, with dark eyes and dark honey blonde hair, falling long and straight down her back.  “There’s not much a crowd now.  I imagine it gets packed on the weekend,” he said, softening his reply.

“Fridays are the busiest,” the girl answered quickly.  She thought the speculative gleam in his eye was meant for her.  She was confident of her looks and knew they appealed to men.

“I take it the people you mentioned give you even more work to do … ah …” leaving his sentence for her to fill in the blank.

“Amy,” she supplied, not missing how his eyes lingered longer and lower than they needed to as his gaze dropped below her face in search of a nametag.  “And I can’t complain.  The tips are better.”

“Amy,” he said smoothly, “always liked that name.  I’m Spike.”

“Well, Spike, let me take this back and get you another one,” Amy breathed coyly, making the invitation clear.

“No,” he told her, eyeing the bottle, “I think I’ve changed my mind.  I’m not thirsty anymore … at least not for that,” he added provocatively.  Giving her his most winning smile he added, “You wouldn’t get in trouble if you joined me, would you?”

She turned and gave the large area a practiced sweep, focusing a little more attention on her boss behind the bar.  He was sitting on his stool, raptly engrossed in the newspaper, not bothering to even look around.  Amy knew he was probably checking his betting results.  She and Spike were the only other occupants.  “It’s not like there’s much going on at the moment,” she finally told him and slid into the booth across from him, accepting his gestured offer.

“So are those the ones who leave you the extra tips?” he asked nonchalantly.  “They must be pretty dry after a week of nose to the grind stone.  But I bet you can keep up with who’s who when the place fills up.  You seem very … capable.”

Amy never even picked up on his careful questioning, already thinking of what it would be like to be pressed closely against the body that sat opposite her.  She knew he’d meant ‘capable’ in quite a different way.  But she wanted to impress him with how well she knew her job and how she knew how to get what she wanted.  She told him about the different people who gathered on Fridays, which ones drank and who lingered the longest, whom to look out for, tip-wise.  It was as good a conversation as any, as long as he stayed there.

*****

A week later, Buffy took a seat next to Willow.  “He always sits there?” she asked.

Willow looked up across the lawn.  It was a beautiful spring day and they were eating at a picnic table in the middle of a sea of green grass.  Liam Angelus was eating by himself at a bench inside a small, dilapidated gazebo, a good distance away, near the edge of a wooded area.

“Yeah,” Willow said her voice oddly sad, “that’s his spot.  A few of us have tried inviting him over, but he just acts like you’re not there.  Dr. Walsh and the other bigwigs are the only ones he ever acknowledges and sometimes he won’t even speak to them.”

“Sounds like a good way to get fired,” Buffy said.

Willow laughed.  “No way,” she said.  “He could show up at work naked and no one would say anything about it.”

Buffy arched a speculative eyebrow at her co-worker and then stared across the lawn.  Angel naked, now there was a strange idea.  Given that their desks were situated on opposite sides of the room, both facing the wall, Buffy hadn’t really gotten a very good look at her officemate, but what she saw wasn’t hideous.  He had brown eyes and hair and he was tall.  He always dressed in faded, nondescript clothes.  He usually lurked in the shadows or stayed on the fringe, rather than out in the open.  He wasn’t unattractive, from what she could see of him.

She sighed heavily.  This was going to be more difficult than she had originally thought.

*****

“Good morning, Angel,” Buffy said as she sat the insulated mug of steaming hot coffee on her officemate’s desk the next day.  It was fresh and fragrant.  Buffy wasn’t a great coffee connoisseur, but when she indulged, she indulged in nothing but the best.  Giles had made a special gift of the outrageously expensive coffeemaker.  He was proud and a little bit in awe of Buffy’s speed in matriculating so quickly and her excellent grades.  It had been a long-standing joke between them of Giles preferring a good cup of English tea to Buffy’s American need for coffee.  The beans were fresh and at fifty-seven dollars a pound, the handpicked Blue Mountain Jamaican beans were as good as you could get.  She ground them at home and used bottled water in her three-hundred-dollar coffeemaker from Williams and Sonoma.

It was a damn fine cup of coffee.  Damn.  Fine.  As far as a first attempt at making peace, she thought it went above and beyond the normal call of duty.

He didn’t touch it.  Twenty minutes later, it was sitting in exactly the same position on his desk, obviously untouched.

In irritation, Buffy pushed herself up out of her chair and headed for the break room.  If he didn’t touch it, then he didn’t touch it – but no one could say she hadn’t tried.  She was muttering to herself as she turned the corner into the cramped break room.  Riley was standing at the sink, rinsing out his coffee mug when Buffy entered.  They smiled and exchanged pleasantries.  Riley was cute, but Buffy had a hard and fast rule about getting involved with her co-workers.  It just wasn’t a good idea.  But as Riley bent over to get something out of the refrigerator, Buffy wondered if it was such a good thing to live by the rules.  Riley might be a bit of a Gomer, but she couldn’t deny that he had a very nice body.

She was saved from such a weighty decision by Anya’s appearance.  The young woman was blunt and tactless, but very amusing.  Apparently she and Xander were a couple.  Odd as it was, they seemed to go together well.

*****

Angel stared down at the coffee.  He was stunned.  Buffy had brought him coffee.  And from the aroma, not the kind you bought in a convenience store.  Why?  No one had ever given him something without a reason attached to it.  What did she expect him to do?  Besides drink it, that is.  She must have made it for him.  He couldn’t remember anyone ever doing something like that – not just for him.  She didn’t seem the type to have ulterior motives.  She was too sunny and open for subterfuge.  Prattling on at times, she would act as though they were having a conversation.  Until those few times she left the office, he wasn’t aware how much he liked hearing the sound of her voice.  Her absence made the office feel oddly vacant.  He liked what she had done, even if he didn’t know why.  It made him feel … well … he liked it.  He wasn’t willing to examine it any more closely than that.  He knew he should say something, but he still couldn’t bring himself to talk to her.

He didn’t know about women and how they thought.  It wasn’t that he was celibate, far from it.  But women had always made the initial contact with him.  He had never needed to seek them out.  Being a healthy, virile male, he had needs and felt no remorse appeasing them.  He had never taken advantage of a woman, had always tried to make any encounter mutually satisfying.  But, that’s where it ended.  There had never been any long talks or even much idle chatter.  He’d never had feelings for any of them, or even contemplated a relationship.  And though a few wanted more, his cold, unemotional demeanor kept them from trying after one or two futile attempts.

After she left the room, he finally took a sip of the coffee.  It was delicious, the taste even better than the smell.  He sighed inwardly.  He would have to thank her, it would be rude if he didn’t.  It didn’t seem to occur to him that he’d been rude to her all along.  Or that he thought about her, unlike any of her predecessors.

*****

Buffy was still at her desk working when Angel neatly gathered his things and put them in his ever-organized briefcase.  She wasn’t good at spreading her work out evenly over her day.  She was more prone to goof off all morning and then stay until seven finishing up a project.  Angel never seemed to have that problem.

Squinting over her laptop, Buffy jumped when Angel set the mug down on her desk, neatly washed.  “Thank you,” he said.

Buffy was so stunned that by the time she gathered her wits enough to turn around, he was already rounding the corner.  Buffy smiled and leaned back in her chair.  “Maybe we are making some progress,” she said to the empty room.

*****

“Good morning, Angel,” she said out of habit the next morning as she set another mug of coffee on his desk.

“Good morning, Buffy,” he replied.

She stopped in the middle of opening her satchel and removing her laptop.  Slowly she turned.  He was facing away from her as usual, nothing out of the ordinary.  But he had spoken.  She knew he had.

Or maybe she was just going nuts.

Cautiously, she sat down at her desk, waiting to see if he would say something else.  He didn’t, but he did pick up the coffee mug and take a drink.  Slowly, Buffy turned her chair around and flipped on her laptop.

Curiouser and curiouser.

*****

It wasn’t the strong, pungent aroma of the coffee that he smelled.  It was the soft, sweet fragrance of vanilla.  He drank the coffee, savoring it, as he pictured a pair of small, deft hands carefully preparing the ambrosial liquid.  Just for him.  His palette registered at some level – and he knew his coffee – this was the best he had ever tasted.  Damn. Fine.  Not connecting that the flavor was deliciously enhanced by his current musings of the maker.  The vanilla made it all that much sweeter.

He still didn’t understand why she was doing this, but he had to thank her.  After all, she’d gone to all that trouble.  Besides, it couldn’t have hurt to tell her ‘good morning’ … it was only polite.  They did have to share an office.

*****

Willow made a visit to Buffy and Angel’s office to ask Buffy to go to the local pub where everyone met on Friday nights.  Her friend insisted that since Buffy was settled in her apartment she should join the crowd for their once a week get-together.

Angel had moved from his desk to a file cabinet in the furthest corner of the room the minute Willow entered the door.  Willow saw Angelus was keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the contents of the file that he pulled out of a drawer.  But she noticed that for all his concentration, he turned his head to catch Buffy’s reply to the redhead’s invitation.  Willow cautiously covered the few steps to where he stood.  She saw his eyes flit around the room as if preparing an escape.  Asking softly if he’d if he’d like to join them, she jumped back slightly as Angel gave her an emphatic, implacable, “No,” brusquely pushing past her.  He strode across the room, through the door, and vanished down the hall, leaving both women looking after him.

*****

Angel watched as Buffy left the office Friday, sighing as he saw her figure disappear from sight.  He knew she was keeping her date with Willow to meet the others at the pub.  He had no interest in seeing his non-Buffy co-workers after hours.  But he felt a strange twinge of jealousy that Buffy would be there laughing and talking with them.  It was one of the few times in his life he could remember wanting to spend time with someone.  He didn’t know what he’d say even if they did happen to end up together somehow.

He also didn’t know what it was that made her keep popping up in his thoughts.  But, there she would appear at the oddest moments.  It wasn’t like they even talked with one another, unless you counted Buffy’s running conversations with her computer or the air around her as talking.  Since she had started working in the office with him, when the weekends came they seemed interminably long.  He found himself waiting for them to be over, happy as few people were, when Monday finally arrived.

*****

Buffy smiled as she took a seat at the crowded table.  As Xander had said, the co-workers in the group were close friends.  It was apparently a payday night ritual to meet at one of the local bars and have a few rounds.  Not shockingly, Liam Angelus was nowhere to be seen.

“Buffy, you know Tara,” Willow said, nodding to Tara beside her.

“Tara, nice to see you again,” she smiled.  Buffy had met Tara when she and Willow helped Buffy move her things into her new apartment and had seen her briefly a few times since then.  She was still getting used to Will’s rather abrupt lifestyle change.

Tara looked at her shyly and stuttered self-consciously,  “Buffy, it’s g-good to s-see you too.”  Apparently it hadn’t been any easier for Tara.

In addition to Willow and Tara from Forensics, Xander, Anya and Riley were present from the Analysis department.  Several field agents were also in attendance.  Buffy smiled and nodded as she was introduced to Lindsey McDonald, Faith Knight and Kate Lockley.

Everyone was sprawled languidly over their chairs, watching the first drops of rain start to plop against the front windows.  “Oh, look!  Would you believe it? It’s raining,” Faith muttered mockingly.  The commonplace streaks of lightening and accompanying booms of thunder soon followed her words.

Xander sighed deeply, “And that would be new, how?”

The unusual storms had initially been an oddity, a freak occurrence that had been the talk of the town.  An astute weatherman on one of the national weather stations had been quick to find a pattern.  He reveled in the strange almost affectionate fixation about statistics he and others of his ilk always demonstrated.  With a triumphant smirk he had been the first to announce the phenomena of this particular weather system.

Exactly one hundred years before, in 1903 the area experienced an almost identical pattern of thunderstorms.  They started on almost the same day and month as the previous century.  The lightening and thunder from the first storms had been both mild and occasional.  But they had, over time, gained in intensity and frequency.  According to the national icon, the number, dates and even the manner of the storms matched its predecessor in an eerie parallel.

The storm cycle, officially called, ‘The Anniversary Storms’, was quickly dubbed the ‘Annies’.  Unlike their sister hurricanes, each progressive storm was referred to singularly as ‘Annie’.

But what had been a novelty of sorts had quickly become a continuing annoyance.  The intemperate weather forced people to stay indoors and contract severe cases of cabin fever. Those that wouldn’t or couldn’t stay in were overly tired of enduring the constant rain and damp. The dull pounding of thunder that followed the supercharged bolts of energy increasingly affected everyone’s mood.

Willy flicked the dial of the TV over the bar. The face of ‘Mr. Weather’, as he was fondly referred to by his associates and audience, loomed into view.  He was just starting his daily talk on that same miserable topic.  He warned that the pattern wasn’t likely to improve.  In fact he smilingly intimated that it would indeed get a lot worse with no end in sight.

Everyone at the table simultaneously groaned, then laughed as Xander took his shoe off.  He waved it at Willy, threatening to put said shoe in Mr. Weather’s mouth if Willy wasn’t quick enough to change the channel.

Riley looked at those seated, his gaze touching on Buffy speculatively and continuing to visually peruse the whole bar. “Well, guess it’s a good thing Psycho has never bothered to join us or he’d probably be hiding under the table right now,” he sneered as he lifted his shot glass and tossed the contents back in one motion.

A few of those around him snickered at his remark.  Buffy noticed that Lindsey, Willow and Tara remained silent.

Xander threw back his shot and then shook his head as the alcohol burned its way down his throat.  “Yeah,” he said, “poor Buffster got stuck with him – king of the rejects.  That guy is a freak with a capitol freak.”

Faith clapped Buffy on the back.  “My deepest sympathy, girlfriend,” she said.

Buffy smiled uneasily.  “He’s a little different,” she said, feeling an odd mix of annoyance at their remarks and loyalty to her officemate.  The euphemism ‘kicking a dog when he’s down’ came to mind.

“Different?” Riley asked incredulously.  “Angelus is as strange as they come.”

“You know it,” Xander replied with a laugh.

Buffy frowned at their brutal barbs but knew they were rooted in truth.  The storms had a profound effect on Liam Angelus.  His usually quiet, introverted veneer failed to hide an agitation verging on panic whenever the dark clouds gathered.  Clutching his papers, he would stalk back and forth, like a cat.  She half expected to see his tail twitch.  She glimpsed the tiny muscles in his jaw tighten as he clenched his teeth at the sound of a lightening bolt hitting its mark.  Unbeknownst to him, she could feel the waves of anguish and fear roll off him the longer a storm lasted.  He was a large, powerful man so maybe it should have scared her, but it didn’t.  Instead she felt an almost irresistible urge to wrap her arms around him, as she would the frightened creature he reminded her of being.

“You know him?” Buffy asked Faith, ignoring the laughter.

Faith didn’t seem to hear the question, but Lindsey did.  He smiled at Buffy and then leaned in closer, “Angelus used to do field work,” he said, keeping his voice low.

Buffy had the impression that Lindsey did not share the others’ opinion of Liam Angelus.  For some reason, this made her think more highly of the attractive young man.  “What happened?” she asked.

Lindsey smiled and she could almost hear the wheels turning in his head.  She had the impression that he was attempting to discern whether or not she could be trusted.  After a few moments he shrugged.  “He got messed up pretty badly some time ago and the brass stuck him in your department,” Lindsey explained.  He took a sip of his beer and his mouth curved into a wry grin that didn’t reach his eyes.  “Angelus is a class A oddball, but he’s also one of the smartest son of a bitches I’ve ever known.  He was a damn fine field agent.  It’s sad to see how far he’s fallen.”

Buffy had thought they were just talking about the storms’ effect on Angelus.  Lindsey’s remarks only piqued her curiosity even more about her strange, silent office companion.

*****

Spike looked around Willy’s bar thinking that even the worst establishments this side of the border beat what were considered the better cantinas in Mexico.  He’d had plenty of time to compare.  Too much.  Not that he had cared to go there in the first place, but there hadn’t been a lot of options at the time.  Spike had always been good at taking care of number one, his downfall was that number two, three and four didn’t have enough brains to add up to one person.  The ‘gang’ he had been the leader of was more like a band that couldn’t carry a tune.  Their last brush with the law had left his dubious companions in a cell and Spike slipping out of the country before any of them had time to ‘help’ the police find him.  Finally, after three years, he had taken the chance that it was safe enough to come back.

Lounging in his usual seat, Spike had a fine view of all who came in and out of the bar.  Since he was in the smoking section he was all but invisible to the band of workers who tripped through the door shortly after five o’clock.  They had all ordered something from the small grill, then washed it down with beer.

Spike had made it a habit in the few days since he’d met Amy to visit where she worked.  He’d made his visits to Amy’s apartment a habit as well, smirking at the thought.  Didn’t they say nothing like mixing business with pleasure?  Not that he was getting paid, with money anyway, he thought.  No, this was something far more important to him, as few things were.  He had a front row seat to the people who worked with Angelus on a daily basis.  There had to be someone or something useful to use against Angelus in the bunch.

He could tell which ones were field agents.  He was familiar with the behavior of his father and his associates the rare times he’d seen them.  He recognized it here too.  A certain way of looking about them, a wariness or vigilance, not apparent in what he presumed to be common office staff.  But that’s what Angelus was now, he snorted as he lifted his mug of beer.  A goddamn desk jockey.  He took a long draught and leaned back, still smiling at the picture it created.  Angelus always had his nose in a book, but even he must think what he did now was a far cry from what he used to do.  Spike hoped he hated having his wings clipped and being caged in one place all day.

He studied the group before him more closely, starting with those he’d singled out as agents.  A blonde and a brunette, both very easy on the eyes, and a dark-haired man who carried an air of quiet authority.  One other he wasn’t sure about, a large, tall country boy who was wasting no time helping the whiskey disappear.  Spike raised his glass once more, draining it.  That left three women and one other man.  He saw the man remove his shoe, getting a scattered laugh from those around him as he waved it at the bartender.  The redhead and the taller girl with dirty blonde hair who sat close her appeared to be a couple.  The last was also a blonde, very small and very delicious.  He smacked his lips in approval.  She looked good enough to eat.

He gathered from her slight awkwardness that the vivacious little figure was new to the group.  Amy hadn’t mentioned her.  He wasn’t sure if that was because Amy hadn’t seen her or chose to ignore she existed.  Spike could see how it could be the latter.  Amy wouldn’t cotton to competition.  He noticed Captain Cornbread was more than a bit interested in the young thing and could understand why he would be.  Spike frowned while watching the slender girl from his safe little nook.  If he wasn’t using Amy and her job at the bar to scout out Angelus’ playmates and if the little blonde weren’t one of them, he’d be tempted to take a shot himself.  He was still looking at her when Amy came back with a fresh beer, barely averting his eyes before she caught him.  It wouldn’t do, he thought, to bite the hand serving his purpose and his drink, not for now anyway.

*****

“Good evening, I didn’t know if I would catch you at home or not.”

Buffy smiled, sinking down onto her couch as she tucked her legs under her body, the receiver held tightly in her hand.  “Hi, Giles,” she said gently.  Even though Giles had been married to her mother and Buffy had known him for a total of ten years, she still called him Giles.  Rupert just didn’t sound right and neither did ‘Dad’, regardless of the fact that she personally considered him her father.  With the pressure of a new job, apartment, and city, Buffy hadn’t spoken to her stepfather as much as she would have liked.  It was a great comfort to hear his voice.

Even though Buffy was already fifteen when they moved, Sunnydale had always been ‘home’.   Her mother and father had gone through a bitter divorce.  Joyce had taken the money left by her mother, who had died a year prior to that, and moved her daughters to the small town to start over.  She had invested in a small art gallery to support them.

The move had been difficult on them, but Buffy most of all.  She blamed herself for her parents’ divorce.  But she hadn’t been altogether unhappy with living somewhere else.  Her parents hadn’t been the only ones having problems and she was happy to leave some of hers behind.

“Buffy?” the voice with a strong British accent queried, pulling her back from her ruminations.

“I’m here,” she said, “just thinking.”

Giles made a sound of agreement, but didn’t pry into her internal monologue.  He knew that Buffy kept a lot of things to herself, not wanting to burden those she loved with turmoil.

“I had a message from Dawn the other day, but I haven’t been able to catch up with her.  Have you talked to her lately?” Buffy asked.

“I have,” Giles replied, letting her change the subject.  “She’s doing well.  She’s fairly certain she’ll make the Dean’s List this semester.”

“Dawn on the Dean’s List?” Buffy chuckled.  “That’s great.  Mom would have been so proud.”

“Indeed, she would have,” Giles noted with a hint of sadness.  Joyce had died suddenly of an aneurysm four years after they were married.  They had been very happy years and Giles refused to become maudlin about something he had never expected to even happen in his life.  He was content to have had what he did.  Even without Joyce, he still had a family.  He was so thankful for his girls, even if he didn’t get to see them often.

Dawn was away at college and Giles was alone in the house, except for visits from his stepdaughters.  The thought troubled Buffy.  He and her mother had seemed so happy together, she hated to see him by himself.

After their mother’s death, Giles assumed the role of single parent without comment.  He considered both girls as his own daughters.  The small gallery had been successful and the sale of it made enough to pay off the house and ensure both Buffy and Dawn would be able to finish college.  There was still enough left over to save for emergencies.

“How are things with you, Buffy?” he asked.  “I assume Willow is helping you settle in.”

“Oh yeah,” Buffy assured him, “she rolled out the welcome wagon big time.”

“And work?”

“Work is good.  It’s interesting.  Still trying to get a bead on all the different personalities there, but it proves to be not boring.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said quietly.

“What about you, Giles?” she asked.  “What are you up to these days?”

“Oh, you know,” he said blandly, “life in Sunnydale trudges onward.”

Buffy took a deep breath.  “Anyone ... special?” she ventured.  She hated to feel like she was disrespecting her mother’s memory, but Giles deserved to be happy, not alone, nursing a broken heart.

“I … uh,” he stammered before falling silent.

“Giles?” she prompted.

“Ms. Calendar and I are going to a monster truck rally on Friday,” he admitted.

“Monster trucks?” she gaped.

He laughed.  “And nitro burning funny cars.”

Buffy laughed and slowly sobered.  “I hope you two have a good time,” she said, not wanting to pry too deeply.

“Thank you, Buffy,” he said gratefully.

[end chapter 2]

Chapter III

Buffy stared down at the little insulated cooler that held her lunch.  She had never really been a sack lunch kind of girl, but springing for the car right after graduation left her in a financial lurch.  It wasn’t new, but it was new enough.  Even a used BMW was really pricey.  So sack lunches it was.  Luckily for her, most of the Analysis department brought lunches as well.  Their offices were in a fairly rural area.  There weren’t a lot of restaurants nearby.

Usually, Buffy sat at a big table on the lawn with Xander, Anya, Willow, Riley and assorted other people who worked in the building.  But this day, she walked past her usual spot, as she headed for the small gazebo.  The others stared at her as she strolled by, but nobody said anything.

Her eyes scanned the horizon and she was afraid it might rain.  Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she figured the gazebo would be a shelter of sorts if it did.  She had a passing thought about what storms did to Angel, but she was determined now that she was almost there.

In actuality, it was nowhere near as uncomfortable as she had been imagining.  By this time she had nearly six weeks of practice in sharing space with Angel, hardly acknowledging each other.  The only difference here was that instead of having their backs to each other, they were face to face – or would have been if Angel would have looked up from the book he was reading.  He didn’t.  Buffy looked at the pages of the book.  It was hard to tell upside down, but she was fairly certain it wasn’t written in English.

Angel also checked the clouds overhead when he came outside.  The sky had been overcast for the last couple of days, making the landscape bleak and drab.  It hadn’t rained though.  But as he looked up from his book, he felt the faint electrical charge in the air that precedes a storm.  He shivered at the feeling and had just thought to leave … when he saw Buffy approaching the gazebo.  She was unaware of his perusal and he turned his eyes back down to the book.  Knowing the storm was near made him jumpy, but he couldn’t move once he saw her obvious steps in his direction.

Buffy sat down and openly scrutinized the food on the table in front of Angel.  She wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but it looked suspiciously like tofu.  She grimaced and opened her cooler, removing a bag of potato chips and a soda.

“That stuff will kill you,” he told her, without raising his head, eyes still trained on the page before him.

Buffy looked at him for several moments.  He was bent over so far all she could really see was the top of his head.  “Life’s short,” she replied, trying to keep her voice light.  She had the strangest sensation that she was trying to befriend a wild animal.   Okay, bad metaphor, not wild ... abused maybe, hurt, scared.  One of those dogs at the pound that had been kicked so much it bites anyone who tries to come near it and has to be put down.  That was Angel.

Slowly, he closed his book and lifted his head to meet her gaze.  Buffy couldn’t breathe.  She stared at him dumbly.  Angel.  Her Angel.  The weirdo she shared her office with day after day was ... absolutely fucking gorgeous.  She swallowed audibly. What on earth ever prompted her to use a dog metaphor to describe any part of him?  It was a definite case of the total package being more than the sum of the component parts.  She’d seen him before.  She looked at him in profile every day.  She knew what color his hair and eyes were.  She knew roughly how tall he was.  But damn, looking at him – no that wasn’t right – being looked at by him was ... bracing.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

She blinked several times before she realized he expected an answer.  An evil little part of her was tempted not to reply simply to get revenge, but instead she said, “Doing what?”

“Talking to me,” he said suspiciously.  “The coffee, now this.  Why?”

Buffy shrugged and then frowned.  “How did you know it was me?” she asked, changing the subject.

“What do you mean?”

“Like when I sat down,” she said, “or when I left the coffee on your desk.  You never look up, you definitely never look at me.  How did you know it was me?”

He stared at her for several heartbeats, then said the first thing that came to mind when he thought of her. “You smell like vanilla,” he said quietly.

Buffy blinked at him and a look of incredulity stole over her features.  “What?” she asked.

Buffy caught his movement.  With anyone else, Buffy would have said it was nervousness, but with Angel she just didn’t know.

“You smell like vanilla,” he said more seriously, like it was a valid explanation.  “I always know when you’re around.”

Buffy’s frown deepened.  “You ... smell ... people?” she asked.

He pursed his lips together momentarily.  “I do not smell people,” he said almost defensively.  “I know people think I’m strange, but I do not go around sniffing my co-workers.  Certain people have certain scents.  Willow Rosenberg smells like patchouli and incense, Anya Emmerson smells like All-Purpose Cheer on Monday and money the rest of the week, Xander Harris smells like cabbage unless it rains and then he smells like fabric softener and Riley Finn smells like gym socks and Old Spice all the time.  People have scents.  I notice them.  You, Buffy Summers, happen to smell like vanilla.”

Slowly, a smile crept over Buffy’s features.  “And here I thought you weren’t paying attention,” she said.

“Just because I don’t chatter does not mean that I am not paying attention,” he said.

Buffy sat up straighter, narrowing her eyes at Angel.  “So you think I chatter?” she asked.

“You do seem fond of talking,” he replied.

Buffy sighed and relaxed her posture.  She had enough experience with brainy males to know that he probably didn’t even realize he had just insulted her.  As far as he was concerned, he was simply stating a fact.

Angel suddenly stilled, hearing a low, deep growl of thunder, like a hunter after its prey.  The too familiar feeling of desperation slithered down his spine.  He lifted his head and looked through the archway, towards the trees on the edge of the grass, smelling the rain before it fell.

Buffy frowned, oblivious to the thunder or his growing turmoil, her eyes and mind focused on his hands that were still clasped over the closed book.  She saw faint scars circling both of his wrists just visible past the cuffs of his shirt.  The marks looked old, faded, but still raw somehow.  She hated to think of him hurt by the wounds that must have made them.  She didn’t even think, but reached a slender finger towards one of the scars,  “Angel, your wrists …”

An unexpected bolt of white-hot light illuminated the woods as the earth shook from the responding crack nearby.  Dark terror flooded him, Angel’s eyes skittered wildly, then fell upon the blonde head and the small hand moving towards his arm.

Buffy raised her head at the crackle of thunder and was struck by twin wells of raging, agonizing pain.  Her stomach clenched with a sick feeling of déjà vu.

Angel arched away from the table, wrenching his arms and hands from her.  His powerful body was caught in an unseen tension, muscles corded on his neck, his eyes sparking dangerously. “Don’t!” he snapped. “You don’t know anything about me.  And you don’t want to!”  Turning, he stalked away across the grass in a swift, forbidding motion as though the further the distance he gained from her the better.

She sat there, stunned, watching his rapidly retreating figure disappear from sight. She felt the wind and rain as it snaked through the tired boards of the little structure.  Numbly trying to work through both Angel’s scars and his violent departure, she heard his words ringing in her ears. The rain began coming down in sheets, highlighted by more flashes of lightening.  Buffy didn’t even notice.  She made no move to leave.  She looked like a water-colored still, painted behind the rain, vacantly staring at the spot of her last glimpse of Angel.

*****

Angel made it to the building before the clouds opened and rain started pouring down in buckets. As he stumbled blindly into the office he slammed the door, pushing his back hard against it.  The knuckles on his hand turned white as he gripped the handle.  His broad shoulders pinned against the door, he worked to calm himself.  After rapidly sucking air into his lungs he forced himself to breathe at a measured rate, feeling the erratic beat in his chest finally slow.  He resisted the urge to slide down to the floor, instead thrusting a hand in his pocket, crossing to his desk.

Using a key, he opened the drawer to grab the bottle of pills.  Much as he hated them, he fished one out and gulped it down with the cold coffee left from that morning.

He spent what was left of his lunchtime hunched on the floor of the office supply room. There were no windows there, but he could still hear the rain. That and the damn thunder.  He rubbed his large hands over his face, then up and down his arms warding off a chill he felt more inside than out. The room was rarely used and no bigger than a closet.  It was big enough to encompass brooding.  He had sought it out as a sanctuary more than once. Today he really needed one, then grimaced at the thought.  Drawing his knees to his chest, he threw his head back to rest against the faded green wall.

Angel was a painfully private person, not that he harbored any illusions that anyone gave a damn about him or his thoughts.  His lips curled in a rueful smile, thinking of one exception – Cordy.  His sister got as close as anyone could, not that she’d ever given him any choice.  But even she didn't know all of what he kept hidden from everyone.  He was well aware of how he was regarded by his fellow co-workers, especially since what was commonly referred to as the ‘incident’.

He had always been a loner, never fitting in anywhere or with anyone, never bothering to even try.  Before the said ‘incident’ he at least had gained respect for his work, admiration for his effectiveness.  Not that he was concerned how others viewed him, but it gave him a modicum of satisfaction that what he did was of value, that he served a purpose.

His eyes swept the dusty, gray shelving units bolted against the wall in front of him.  The only illumination was provided by the single, naked bulb that hung by its cord from the ceiling.  Sighing deeply, he stared at the mundane stacks and boxes of supplies without really seeing them.

Since he had returned to the Bureau, Angel questioned how much of an asset he really was.  But he needed the job – needed his time and mind occupied.  It hadn’t been easy returning to a desk job, instead of the fieldwork to which he was accustomed.  Working as an agent hadn’t limited him to the confines of a set time and place.  Although he was highly organized and disciplined by nature, it had been an effort to adjust to the static environment of four walls and a nine to five schedule.  He couldn’t deny he missed the freedom his former duties had afforded him.

Dealing with the constant scrutiny of the same set of people day after day was even more difficult.  It had died down now to a low murmur, but he had borne the whispered comments and subtle innuendoes he wasn’t supposed to hear.  He had grown used to the furtive glances or pairs of eyes suddenly turning away whenever he traversed the halls of the building.  He kept such journeys short, made only out of necessity.  The atmosphere of the break room had been the worst to endure, but the novelty of his frequent visits there to get coffee had, thankfully, worn off.

He wasn’t very successful at trying to hide how the freak weather system affected him.  When he heard the thunder, he stayed in the office even more than before.  Pacing restlessly over the tiles from one end of the room to the other and drinking even more coffee, which helped him even less.  There were some instances though when he had no choice but to interact with people.  He was forced into either braving the break room or explaining a detailed analytical report to a bunch of people who couldn't follow his logic without a wipe board and a calculator.  He could feel the wave of speculation that rippled through the ranks making him even more disquieted.

For the most part, his days finally rutted into an accepted routine.  He did his work, drank coffee, ate lunch, did more work with more coffee, and went home.  He existed – even less than he had before.

Then Buffy appeared and she changed everything.

Shifting his large frame on the cement floor, he tried to find a more comfortable position, still gazing blindly at the dingy walls.  His fingers traced a fierce, steady path up and down the side of his leg.

Angel was furious that he’d come apart in front of Buffy and then shouted at her.  ‘Fucking storm!’  He grabbed the closest thing on a shelf within his reach, a box of markers, and slammed them against the opposite wall.  They made an unsatisfying clatter as they hit the floor.

He was sick with self-loathing for losing his temper with her.  If it had been anyone else he could have dealt with it.  He didn’t care about anyone else, their reaction wouldn’t have mattered.  But Buffy wasn't just anyone.  Buffy mattered.  He saw the sting from his quicksilver retaliation strike her before he stamped off and left her sitting there.  And it was tearing him apart that he cared – deeply.  He cared what she thought and he had pushed her away.  He never meant to hurt her but he did.

Buffy provoked too many emotions for him to deal with at one time.  He was well aware she had no clue as to his reactions to her.  He didn’t know how to handle these new feelings washing through him like opposing currents.

He had been with many women in his years, yet none of them had done anymore for him than satisfy basic physical urges. They were never capable of offering any respite from the shadows of his past.  Blondes specifically he avoided – they brought his past hurtling back.  An icy trickle ran through him at a nightmarish apparition.  Since being released from the hospital two years before, he’d stopped sleeping with women altogether, building his walls even higher.

But Buffy softly shook him.  Nothing in his experience had prepared him for someone like her.  He found himself passing long moments lingering in his thoughts of her.  His body warmed in reflex, melting the momentary chill.  For the first time – not the first time he could remember ...  He always remembered.  It was forgetting he could never do.  For the first time – she made him forget.  It took only a trace of her scent, something that was so uniquely ‘Buffy’, to trigger pictures in his mind.  Laughing, talking, walking – it didn’t matter the picture if she was in it.  Visions of her didn’t blot out the grim, dark images that haunted him.  She obliterated them.

From their first encounter his response to her had been immediate and intense – so sudden it seemed obsessive.  But how she made him feel offered such a welcome reprieve.  He didn’t know.  It didn’t feel ‘wrong’.  What it felt like was soothing relief.  Like a soft flow of energy she gently moved through him.  It was an inexplicable sensation.

He heard her earlier when she approached the gazebo, but pretended to keep reading his book. He was inordinately pleased that Buffy sought out his company, yet ill at ease being that close to her outside of their work area.  The office was a kind of safety zone where they each had their own space.  This was the first time they were actually face to face for more than moments – and at such a small distance apart.  It wrought a devastating effect to feel her that near.  She staggered his senses.

In her presence Angel caught himself mesmerized by the glint of sunlight on her hair and drawn into eyes that were ever changing in color and intensity.  Hearing her voice, a soft, soothing cadence or clear ringing tone.  Her motions revealed a sure, innocent yet sensual grace.  She held a brightness that seemed to radiate from within, as if she had her own power source, something acutely lacking in the dark passages of his mind.  Her proximity set off an unaccustomed rush of heated desire that coursed through his being.  It was the only thing that had ever contended with the ever-present cold.

Not knowing how to act with Buffy, he felt stiff … awkward … and more than a little afraid. The sound of the approaching rain and rumbling thunder in the background forced him further into his protective shell.  Somehow, Angel knew it wasn’t pity that prompted her to choose his company.  He thought it might be kindness, a desire to include him in her world.  And what was his response?  Sniping at her as though he mistrusted her, spoiling her simple act of camaraderie. Then he had exploded when she had shown genuine concern for him.  She saw his scars.  Scars much more than skin deep.  They reached down to wounds that had never healed.  Vivid reminders dragging him back to a past he could never seem to move beyond.

Mentally kicking himself for the hurt he had put in her eyes, Angel wished he could take back the moment.  He needed a second chance to make it right.  Raising his fist in frustration towards the wall next to him, he stopped.  His eyes focused on the jagged cut across his knuckles.  It was healed now, leaving behind yet another scar.  One more sign of the isolation that held him hostage.  Tighter than the ropes that had left those faded marks on his wrists, etched ever so much more deeply into his soul.  Another reminder of the loss of an innocence barely acknowledged a shattered lifetime ago.

Angel turned his eyes away to visually scale the walls and ceiling, absently noting a spider busily building a web in a far corner.  He exhaled a long breath.  Lifting the now healed hand to his head, he dragged slightly trembling fingers through his hair.  He stretched his long, cramped legs out on the cold floor with a subtly catlike grace.

He thought of Buffy’s first day at work.  He had been trying to pull himself together … again … from the violent storm, which had started the night before and still raged on through the morning.  He had been aware of the voices, of someone coming in the room.  He continued to concentrate on his work, something that usually helped distract him.  Unconsciously filtering out the single voice that stayed behind, he compared the letters of the words in the documents before him.  He never bothered with whomever they left at the other desk in the room, unless their work affected his own.

A slight movement in the corner of his eye had caught his attention.  He turned straight into a hazel gaze, which rested on his face for only a moment before traveling to the bandages on his hand.  The rest of her small blonde figure filtered into focus.  He watched her study the strips of gauze.  Flinching, he pulled back as though she had touched him.  Her eyes widened with the realization that she was staring, then fell away as a deep rose color suddenly flushed her cheeks.  Without a word she turned and walked away.

She caught him completely off guard.  An echo of her presence lingered long after she left the room.  He wondered for a moment if she actually had touched him. The fact that she was beautiful hadn’t been lost on him, but that wasn’t what startled him in the brief exchange.  In that quick glance at her, he sensed her re-wrapping the bandages in her mind.  He could almost feel her fingers on his hand, oddly warm and familiar, as if she knew him intimately.  He had snorted, dissolving the ridiculous daydream.  Maybe it was the pill he had grudgingly taken once he arrived at work, to replace the one he had thrown away in anger.  He had immersed himself in his work, then put it out of his mind.

In reflection Angel realized that sensation of familiarity remained.  A comforting calm that enveloped him like a warm blanket.  He felt it whenever she was near.  He vaguely owed it to sharing office space with her, not consciously giving it room in his thoughts.  But now, he did wonder about it, which led him to contemplate what it would be like to be loved by someone like her.

That immediately stopped him as he questioned where that kind of thought had originated.  He’d never thought until that very moment about love, didn’t even have a concept of what it was supposed to be.  He instantly rejected even the possibility of anyone being able to like, let alone feel something stronger for him.  Who’d want the ruined remains of something like him?

Tracking the progress of the spider he watched it slowly move outside the circle of light.  Its legs carried it back and forth, again and again, from one wall to the other as it spun its silken web.

“Love,” Angel whispered.  He turned the word over in his mind as if it were something tangible that could take form and be examined.  He wanted Buffy.  A blaze of heat sweep through him at the thought.  He ached for her so badly it shamed him with its intensity.  But, though it was a part of the puzzle, a big piece, it wasn’t the major one.  He wanted so much more of her than that.  He didn’t know her that well, but he wanted to know all of her. To know her inside and out with the same degree of passion that he wanted to make love to her.  Love.  There it was again.  What did he know about ‘making love’?  He only knew what having sex was like, feeling flesh and pleasure, trying to fill a void.  Sex had served its basic purpose, satisfied his carnal needs, but it had always been empty.  Buffy filled him and she hadn’t so much as laid a finger on him.  Was that love?  He sneered inwardly at himself.  Even if there were something there, what did he have to offer her or anyone?  He sighed once more in frustration, thinking how difficult everything seemed to be.

He finally stood up, brushing the dust off the back of his pants, spying the pink and yellow pens in the corner under their overturned box.  He stopped long enough to gather the markers strewn across the floor, replacing them neatly in their cardboard home and back on a shelf.  Shoving a hand in his pocket, he took the few steps needed to reach the door, turning the knob with his other hand.  Taking one last glance at the room, he left, closing the door behind him.

Whatever his mixed feelings were for Buffy, he knew he owed her an apology.  A way to express his remorse for his outburst, for pushing away the tentative gesture she had offered.  He could never hope to become closer to her, as his mind and body were increasingly yearning and demanding, however undeserving.  But he couldn’t leave things as they were, letting her think she was at fault for simply reaching out.

*****

When he got back to the office Angel felt more than a small amount of trepidation.  He didn’t know how he could face Buffy after what had happened.  The papers for the project he had been working on were lined up in neat, exact rows on the top of his desk.  But he didn’t even pretend to look at them.  He couldn’t focus on anything.  The stricken look on her small upturned face kept materializing in front of him.  He didn’t even realize he was pacing, his soft, steady tread, marking a measured rhythm.  The floorboards under the tiles creaked with his constant trips to nowhere and back.  With each pass he would glance at the door expectantly, but there was no Buffy to be seen.

As the time grew longer he started to get worried when she didn’t appear.  Grimacing, he heard the rain still beating on the tiny windows above.  All he could think of was how he had deserted her in the gazebo.  He’d been so engrossed in thinking about himself, it never occurred to him what she had done, left there in the pouring rain.  Cursing himself under his breath, his feet continued to travel their now accustomed path.

He finally couldn’t stand it any longer and moved with an unknowingly predatory stride down the hall towards the outside door.  Before he reached it, the clerk who had brought Buffy to the office the day she began, caught Angel’s eye.

He almost growled, blocking the man’s way, “You know Buffy Summers.  Where is she?!”

The startled little man stuttered, “I-I heard her talking to Willow.  She said she was going home.”

“How was she?  Was she all right?” Angel pressed, looming threateningly as the smaller man unconsciously backed himself up against the wall.

The clerk gave him a wary look and told him, haltingly, “She looked like she was soaking wet.  I guess she got caught in the rain and went home to change.”  Tossing one last cautionary glance at Angel, he slid by him, newly intent on his interrupted errand.

Angel hadn’t thought he could feel worse until he heard that.  The wave of guilt was almost overpowering.  Walking back to their room with a stilted gait, he envisioned Buffy drenched and shivering before him.  He fought an overwhelming urge to find her and see with his own eyes that she was all right.  But he didn’t have any idea where she lived and with the last memory of her, burning a hole in his mind, he knew she wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of him.  He couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand still and once again prowled the circuit he had already covered numerous times.  His hands were crossed on either arm, moving up and down in time with his fluent step.  He spent what was left of the day in much the same manner, finally leaving the office, but not his thoughts.

Another `Annie' had moved in during the evening.  Angel was so involved in the suffering he imagined he had inflicted on Buffy, he barely noticed it.  And strangely, throughout all of the day and night, not once did his agitated ruminations turn to their usual preoccupation.  Not once did the image of another rain-sodden, blonde-haired girl enter his mind.

*****

Buffy wasn’t a broody person by nature.  She was cheerful and happy as a rule.  She loved ‘living’ and usually tried to do so many things in one day that it left little room for sleeping.  Home early from work and soaked to the bone, she was determined to lighten her mood.  After taking a shower and changing into dry clothes, she switched on her CD player with purposely upbeat music.  She kept herself busy by cleaning up her soggy clothes and scrubbing out the shower.  When she had straightened her apartment for the second time and caught herself cleaning dirt that didn’t exist, she turned to the TV.  Try as she might she couldn’t push what happened away any longer and clicked the ‘off’ button on the remote.

She was angry at Angel for running away, leaving her there feeling as though she’d done something wrong, not once, but twice.  And for doing nothing more than looking at him.  But, she couldn’t get the raw pain she saw in Angel’s eyes out of her mind.  It was so deep she felt as though she had glimpsed right into his soul.  She shivered unconsciously at the torment she wasn’t meant to hear in his voice.  The words he threw at her kept repeating themselves over and over.  What could have happened to him that was so horrible?  He was right, it was none of her business.  But that didn’t stop a number of unpleasant ideas popping up on what had caused the scars on his wrists.  She had a feeling the truth was worse than she could imagine and more than she might really want to know.

What had started out as a curious puzzle to crack, just getting Angel to open up a little, had suddenly become a lot more.  It wasn’t pity, although she was sure that’s what he thought she felt.  Still, this shouldn’t be bothering her like it did.  She got that same feeling of déjà vu and thought of the little boy look on his face when she saw his bandages.  She had felt the same way then, an urge to protect him, to help take away the hurt.

Buffy thought of him towering over her, eyes blazing, muscles tensed with heat and emotions.  She had one last thought that made her feel incredibly guilty, knowing he had been hurting.  That he was incredibly sexy when he was angry.

She finally gave up and went to bed.  She slept, but fitfully, with more than one dream of 'Annies' … and Angels.

[end chapter 3]

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]

Chapter V

Angel had thrown the repugnant memo away, but retrieved it out of the wastebasket.  He grudgingly conceded that pretending it wasn’t there wouldn’t make it go away.  Smoothing the crumpled paper and reading it once more didn’t make it any better than the first time he read it.  Apparently even having a desk job had its own hidden terrors.  He had to stand before a large assembly and talk.  When he was an agent he had forced himself to adapt to being part of a small group, even leading one.  But he had no experience in dealing with something of this magnitude.  He made a sound somewhere between a sigh and growl as he reread it one more time, looking for a loophole.

Each section of the Analysis department was expected to give a detailed report.  His area of expertise made him the only choice to give the presentation for the section to which he was attached.  For once, he cursed his solitary existence.  If he weren’t so isolated, someone else could possibly appear in his stead.  But as things stood now, he was the only one with the requisite knowledge.  Acting like a trained monkey, speaking publicly on demand, was not in his job description, he thought resentfully.  Which reminded him of why he was there and it didn’t improve his mood.  When he had been in the field he gave reports, but only to his own team or a small number of agents.  But, he wasn’t an agent now, making the situation grate even more.

The report was to be presented in the auditorium.  And ‘… making full use of audio/video equipment at your disposal,’ according to the instructions.  He had no idea what he was supposed to do.  Why couldn’t he just stay in his office and do his work in peace?  Why did they have to have ‘talks’ about it?  He did his job and he did it exceedingly well.  There was no point in trying to explain it to a bunch of idiots who were incapable of grasping his logic.

Angel was so engrossed in his little well of misery he never noticed his officemate watching him with an amused half smile.  Buffy knew what the memo said.  She could almost see the abysmal thoughts filing through his mind.  Watching him more closely, his tense profile didn’t quite hide the irritation and anger stirring dangerously near the surface.  She could see the silent conflict between annoyance and fear.  Recognizing that heavily guarded vulnerability sobered some of her mirth.  She knew it was only obvious to her and she would never betray that knowledge to him or anyone else.

She did feel badly for him, knowing how painfully inept he was socially.  The idea of having a sizable audience staring at him had to be torture for him to contemplate.  He unconsciously swung his chair in the only direction that offered a solution – towards her.  Although, she thought studying his face as he turned, the majority of women attending the conference probably wouldn’t care if he stood there and said nothing.  They’d be happy just enjoying the view.  She licked her suddenly dry lips and focused back on his apparent dilemma.

She planned all along on taking pity on him.  But she was waiting.  She received the same memo in her email and already anticipated his response.  Angel, of course, hadn’t known about the presentation until a clerk delivered a paper copy of the memorandum to his desk.  Buffy wondered once more how he not only managed to avoid computer training, but how he circumvented the necessity of having a computer on his desk.  Not that he needed one, he worked on some puzzles that came their way faster than any program ever invented.

Angel’s expression was so wretched that she was ready to offer her solution, when she saw the light bulb click on in his head.  She chuckled to herself.  She’d worked with Angel long enough – longer than anyone else, in fact – to become familiar with his distressingly shy nature.  He hated to ask anyone for anything.  She knew he finally thought of another alternative.  Not something he would normally do, but faced with one mind-numbing option, reaching out had to seem almost harmless in comparison.

“Buffy,” Angel cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady, “I see you were copied in on this memo about our section …” he trailed off, hoping she would pick up on what had suddenly occurred to him.

She knew she was being wicked, but she just couldn’t help herself.  “Yes, I was.”  She continued innocently, “I'd love to help you out, Angel, but I don't 'do' theories.  How exactly are you going to do the presentation?  I know I’ll be interested in listening to it.”

Disappointed she hadn’t taken the hint, he tried to sound nonchalant,  “I didn’t have anything in mind.  But I thought perhaps you could help me do it.”

She hid the smile that was tugging at her lips and tried to sound serious, “I don’t know … I’m not sure I’d be of any use.”

He hesitated, grabbing at straws.  “You’ve picked up a lot in just two months.  We share the work … in a way.  I-I wouldn’t mind the help,” he finished, a desperate tone creeping in.  His newfound hope was plummeting.  He looked so distressed as he waited for her answer.

Her heart twisted at the abject misery on his face and she finally relented.  “I could do the presentation, Angel, but I am still fairly new at this.  You’re the ‘theory genius’, I only know the computer side of it.  I’m afraid I won’t know everything that should be included.  I’d need help getting it ready.”

He brightened noticeably at her words.  She hadn’t been prepared for what simple relief could do to his usually somber features.  Smiles on Angel delivered a devastating effect to her breathing.  That he was ignorant of what his looks did to her made him all the more breathtaking.  She wondered if she’d be able to handle seeing actual happiness and be left standing.

“I can help with anything you need,” he said a little too quickly, so thankful she was willing to help him.  “I, umm … can take care of any of the … ah … equipment you need for it.”  He had no idea how to use any of those things, but he’d learn.  He was aware he’d still be in front of a large gathering.  In all fairness, he didn’t want to take advantage of Buffy.  The knowledge she’d be right beside him though already made the whole dismal affair less daunting.

Buffy nodded her agreement, grinning inwardly at the poor man’s relieved countenance, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

They had a month to complete the report.  It sounded like a lot of time at the beginning.  But they already had a full workload and with the inevitable emergencies that came up, it made it difficult to set aside the hours needed to work on it.  They squeezed minutes, sometimes a half-hour to an hour in, here and there.  Time grew shorter, and they ended up having to spend several evenings in the empty office complex after everyone else had gone home.

Buffy prepared the topics to be presented, tapping Angel’s vast store of information.  She had known his tasks were out of the ordinary, but never realized just how intricate the problems were or how brilliant he was at resolving them.  Angel amazed her.  He was so knowledgeable that sometimes as she questioned him, she felt like he was a book and she was turning his pages.  Working in tandem they fell into a smooth cadence, finding they simply enjoyed each other’s company.  There was an ease that belied the brevity of their relationship.

Buffy had grown so used to Angel asking her the time she answered out of habit without a second thought.  Working more closely the last couple weeks, he had forgone the asking and simply held up her wrist checking her watch when necessary.  The first time he did it, he was concentrating on case studies they were including in their examples.  He had suddenly pulled his head up to look out the window at the late afternoon sky.  Gently grasping her hand in his, he raised it to look at the small face of her timepiece, then placed it back down on the table.  The action was so innocent she knew he wasn’t consciously aware of doing it.  She felt a catch in her heart to think he felt that at ease with her.  She understood and accepted it as a simple act of trust.  The slight pulse of current at the contact hadn’t gone unnoticed either.  He became embarrassed when he realized he’d done it the next time.  But rather than let him shy away, she had taken his hand and placed her wrist in it, lifting it towards him.  No words were ever spoken, but from then on the small liberty was a given.

On the quiet evenings, pouring over books and papers together, Buffy got glimpses of Angel she intuitively knew no one else had ever seen.  Instead of the face he showed the world – there with only the two of them – he transformed before her eyes.  He would animatedly explain the difference between one methodology and another.  He wasn’t ‘geeky’, spouting facts and figures like an automaton.  He warmed to his subject, challenging her, sketching diagrams, showing comparisons.  And she became fascinated with his fascination.  He wasn’t lecturing on a topic, but rather introducing and sharing an old friend.  His eyes would shine when she understood a point he clarified.  He made leaps of logic that Buffy could see were brilliant, yet he softly and sheepishly led her through his thinking.  Leaning back in his chair, relaxed in his element, his demeanor showed a confidence and surety that was rare for him.  Conversely, it made him seem all the more vulnerable.  Normally hidden beneath a deceptively cold, undemonstrative cover, she saw the real Angel.  One she knew he didn’t even know existed.

Buffy wasn’t the only one enjoying the time they spent together.  Angel knew Buffy had a quick mind.  He’d worked with her on random problems, quizzing her findings or jointly figuring a sequence.  He didn’t know that mind was voracious – devouring every illustration and equation he fed her.  He felt like he could open a line of intellect between them and stream it directly into her brain.  He’d known she was beautiful on the outside, but inside – she was dazzling in her depths.  She would dance nimbly from one reference to another, following his lead, never losing step.  He wished he could draw in and hold a fraction of her verve and vivacity.  She was a warm zephyr, breathing life, while winding through the cold, solitary hallways of his thoughts.  Angel didn't know Buffy missed those long nights with each other as much as he did when their impromptu work sessions drew to a close.

*****

The day of the training Angel was ramrod straight with tension.  Buffy was again taken with just how handsome he was, even though he was petrified.  He was dressed in a black suit with a cream-colored shirt that showed his broad shoulders and large frame to mouth-watering advantage.  The determined look in his dark brown eyes and the decided set in his jaw enhanced his usual air of restrained power.

The only thing that deflected Angel’s monumental misgivings throughout the day, in fact probably made it possible for him to survive them, was looking at Buffy.  She wore a business suit, coincidentally the same shade of cream as his shirt, which accentuated her golden hair and green eyes.  The lines of the jacket and skirt defined every toned curve.  He had a hard time swallowing when she first walked in the office that morning.

Unbeknownst to them, was the arresting effect of how they looked together.  Later in the day, during their time in the spotlight, more than a few conference attendees were taken aback by the pair.  When he bent his head close to hers, sharing whispered instructions, they looked like an opposite, yet matched set, one completing the other. They were a striking couple, his towering dark looks contrasted against her dainty luminance.

The building was filling up, people pouring through the entry door in varying groups.  Eyeing them, Angel was becoming more nervous by the minute.  He headed for the break room and had one more cup of coffee to fortify his resolve.  When that didn't help at all he went in search of Buffy and found her in the nook in the hallway that held the water cooler.  Buffy was standing nearby it with Xander, Anya and Riley, watching the clutches of people on their way to the auditorium.  She was laughing at a remark Xander made and Angel went still for a moment in his steps towards her.  Tossing her long blonde hair behind her, eyes sparkling a deep emerald green – she was lovely.  He forgot for a few seconds that there was anyone else in the hall.  Snapping out of his reverie, he came up beside her.  Without thinking, he reached for her wrist and drew it up to peer at the small watch she was wearing.  Without a flicker of surprise at his actions, she continued her conversation with Xander.

Riley couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing.  That sick, psycho had touched Buffy and she hadn’t even batted an eye.  She acted as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  He was stunned … and revolted.  Xander was looking at him strangely and Riley realized he must have asked him a question.

“Are you ready to do your part of the report?” Xander repeated slowly.

Riley was barely aware of what he answered as he watched Angel propel Buffy through the auditorium doors, guiding her with his hand on the small of her back.

*****

Their slot in the schedule was the last presentation before lunch.  It was obvious that most of the people were not only there by command, but what little interest they showed at the beginning of the morning had dwindled appreciably. That was until Buffy lit the stage.  Once the group that preceded them sat back down in the front rows, Buffy stood at the podium and Angel stayed in the background.

He watched with a growing sense of admiration at the way Buffy caught the attention of her wavering audience.  Her lively figure moved gracefully from the podium to the board, then to the slides and on to the other equipment that Angel operated on cue.  All the while she kept up her spirited dissertation on the specific topics the two had worked on together.  Angel marveled, realizing how much she had learned from him in a very short time.  But even more at the innovative ways she relayed the information, building an interested following in her every word.  She spoke distinctly and with certainty, making it clear by her subtle phrasing and slight gestures, that it was her partner who was responsible for most of the content.  She didn’t do it in a way that put undue attention on him.  Angel was so entranced with her performance he never even picked up on it.

When she finished, a number of rejuvenated spectators became participants.  They asked questions, and offered their own insights, showing appreciation and a formerly lacking enthusiasm.  Angel flushed when directly asked some of the questions, but Buffy deftly slid in, translating his overly technical answers into something easier for people to understand.  He couldn’t help but feel pride and gratitude for her.  He just hoped they wouldn’t be called upon to do this ever again.

*****

After the auditorium was emptied at the end of the day, Buffy and Angel gathered their leftover props and materials.  The two of them walked in step together towards their office deep in an avid conversation about the conference.  Neither of them noticed the way Riley followed behind them.  His muscles were tensed, a look of disgust twisting his features, as he closely watched and listened until they closed the door behind them.

*****

A week after what Angel referred to as the ‘ordeal’, Buffy was still receiving requests for copies of the information they had presented.  Humming to herself, thinking how well it had turned out, she made her way to the copy room.  She let out an exasperated breath blowing the tendrils of hair near her face.  Her light mood was broken as she saw the indicator blinking for ‘low paper’ on the copier.  One of her pet soapboxes was people leaving equipment for someone else to take care of the problems.  She was busy digging out paper to put in the machine, momentarily annoyed at said people, when she heard someone enter the room.

“Riley,” Buffy greeted him as he walked towards the copier, “I’ll be done in a few minutes.  As soon as I clean up after whomever was here, then do a few copies.”

“I don’t have anything to copy, Buffy,” he said as he slid his hands in his pockets.  “ I … uh ... just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

“Oh?”  She looked up at him.  Buffy was really hoping he wasn’t getting ready to ask her out.  Riley had this nasty mindset of coming on as though she was the helpless female just waiting for a big, strong man like him to come along.  But he reminded her more of a St. Bernard with the little cask around its neck.  If she needed rescuing, she could do it herself.  She didn’t need a Scooby Doo to come to her aid.  She’d made an effort to subtly let him know she wasn’t interested by trying to be where he wasn’t whenever she could.  If he saved her a seat, she tactfully found another, if she saw him in the hall, she turned in another direction as discreetly as she could.

“You probably won’t think this is any of my business, but someone has to warn you,” he said in a rush.

“Warn me?  About the copier?  Nope, already heard about the little light rays in them being dangerous,” she said with a grin.  Thankfully it wasn’t for a date, but she knew it!  He just had to save her from something.  She had a feeling this could be nothing of the good.  She closed the drawer on the machine.

“No,” Riley shook his head, “not about copiers.  About Angelus.”

“An-Liam?” she caught herself. “I know you have problems with him, Riley.”  She turned her back on him to put in the papers she was copying and pushed the button to start the machine.

“That’s not it,” he put his hand on her shoulder to turn her around.  “I mean, it’s true I don’t like him, but he’s trouble. You don’t know what he’s capable of doing.”

Buffy pulled Riley’s hand away as she turned to face him.  “I appreciate your warning, Riley, and I know Liam’s had some problems in the past.  I’m not worried about him hurting me.”

“You should be,” Riley answered raising his voice more than needed to be heard above the copier.  “He’s a basket case.  I’ve seen him when he’s gone off.”

“Riley,” her voice took on a sterner tone, “Liam has never done anything to make me afraid of him.  They would hardly have put me in an office with him if he was dangerous.”  She turned back, taking the papers out of the copier.

“I’m only telling you for your own good,” he said not willing to give up, “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

 “And I’m telling you, Riley,” Buffy finally lost her patience.  Angel wasn’t even there to defend himself.  “I know something happened between the two of you.  I’m not asking what it was.  If you have something against him, that’s for you to sort out. But, I’m not a little girl.  I don’t need someone to protect me and tell me who to watch out for.  It's my concern who I spend my time with, not yours."  With that she pulled the rest of her papers out of the machine and walked out, leaving him standing there alone.

*****

Another ‘Annie’ had been hurling its force against the building for over an hour.  Angel was tense, he wondered if Buffy had reached the doctor’s office, then gotten home before the rain started.  He knew he shouldn’t be worried, he was the one affected by the weather, not her.  But he was concerned all the same.  She’d said it was just an annual checkup, but you never knew what could show up.  Shaking his head at the last thought, he knew he was getting too wound up.  Now he was just being stupid.  He just couldn’t keep her out of his mind though.  He was pacing around the office from a combination of concern for her and a reaction to the gale that raged outside.  He couldn’t concentrate and finally gave up the effort.  His usual drug of choice, caffeine, hadn’t helped any either.  Any excuse to leave the room which felt incredibly empty, sounded good, even a short walk down the hall.

Angel was washing his hands in the Men’s room when he heard the door open and saw Riley’s deplorable countenance reflected in the mirror.  Angel knew he should have moved to the side to let him pass.  Should have.  But Angel’s judgment wasn’t objective when it came to dealing with the Clark Kent wannabe.  Angel hated Riley.  He hated the fact that the jealous little prick’s prank had cost them both so dearly.  He hated that Riley blamed him rather than himself for the fallout.  But more than anything, he hated the way Riley was constantly hovering around Buffy.  Angel knew he should leave it alone, but it aggravated him to see Riley making every attempt to be near her. The thought brought a snarl to Angel’s features.  He watched as Riley blanched slightly and reached for the door to leave.

“Don’t worry, Finn,” Angel growled in a low voice, “I’m not going to beat the shit out of you.  As tempting as the thought sounds.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Angelus,” Riley countered, as he pulled himself up to his full height.  “Maybe someone should be though.  You might have some people fooled, but not me.”

The bald implications hit Angel and his lips curled back into a snarl as he spun to face Riley in the cramped space.  “You wouldn’t be talking about anyone in particular, would you?” he asked, looking Riley straight in the eye.  He knew Riley had talked to Buffy.  He should have known Riley would think he was looking out for her best interests.  Angel thought he knew whose interests really concerned Riley.

Riley saw how quickly Angelus discerned his actions, making him even more suspicious about the ‘working’ relationship between Angelus and Buffy.  Riley did care about Buffy and he didn’t trust the psycho in front of him at all.  “I thought your co-worker had a right to know about you.  She has to share an office with you, she needed to be warned to be careful.”

Angel saw red.  How dare this asshole take it upon himself to try and protect Buffy.  Buffy was not this cornflake’s concern.  Angel could just imagine Riley trying to slime his way into Buffy’s life on the pretext of keeping her safe from him.  Safe from him?  The notion was preposterous.  When she was with him, Buffy couldn’t be in a safer place in the world.  Angel would die before he would ever harm her.  But Riley was trying to make her afraid of him.  Without consciously thinking about it, Angel’s hand shot up and clamped around Riley’s throat, hurling him against the wall next to the sink.  Riley was slightly taller than he was, but Angel was angry enough that he had no trouble taking the upper hand.

 “I’ll never hurt her,” Angel growled, “But I can’t say the same for you, boy!”

Riley grabbed Angel’s wrist and twisted out of his grasp.  He swung at Angel with his other hand, but it was blocked before it connected.  Angel grabbed the hand aimed at him.  Pulling Riley forward, he jerked him around, twisting Riley’s arm behind his back.  Angel looked at the toilet in the stall in front of them with a gleam in his eye.

“You stay out of my office and my life,” Angel hissed into Riley’s ear. “You’ve fucked it up enough.”

Riley knew even though he was physically larger, he was no match for Angelus in a rage.  But Riley wasn’t a coward, he wouldn’t back down.

“It wasn’t my doing,” Riley bit out as he wrestled to get his arm free, “You were fucked up long before I ever laid eyes on you.”

Angel didn’t even try to rein in his anger as the words hit home.  He ratcheted Riley’s arm up higher, then brought his foot up against the back of Riley’s knee, kicking it, forcing him to the floor.  He hauled him the few steps across the floor to the stall and plunged his blonde head into the toilet.

“Finn,” Angel snarled as he kicked the flush lever, “don’t forget to wash after using the facilities.”  He didn’t wait to see what Riley would do.  Leaving the stall, he turned and stalked out of the room.

Riley pulled himself up, shaking the water from his head.  He was livid.  There were only two things that kept him from following Angelus down the hall.  The picture of the two men who had tried to take Angelus down the day they found him in the woods.  That and what was left of his career.  But he knew it wasn’t over between them.

*****

Buffy took a seat on the edge of Angel’s desk.  Slowly, he looked up with those piercing mahogany eyes. “Good morning, Buffy,” he said.

She smiled at him.  Their rapport was much improved.

Buffy’s scheming was paying off.  Slowly, but surely, Angel was coming out of his shell ... at work.  She still had made almost no progress on drawing him out of his shell socially.  He steadfastly declined invitations to the Friday payday get-togethers and he had avoided the Fourth of July barbecue several weeks earlier.

Buffy was forced to resort to alternative measures of persuasion.  “So, I’m having this party at my place next Saturday,” she said as casually as possible.

He looked at her, expressionless.

“I was thinking maybe you could come,” she added.

He dropped his gaze, turning his attention back to the sheet of paper in front of him.  “No thank you,” he said.

Buffy groaned in exasperation, slumping her shoulders as she glared at him.  “Why not?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I don’t socialize,” he replied, not meeting her gaze.

“Fine,” she said, all of her irritation with him clear in her voice, “but I’m putting a lot of work into this damn party and it would really mean a lot to me if you would come.”

*****

Angel was ready to kick himself.  He was so deep in what Cordy sardonically termed his ‘brood mode’, he had forgotten it was Wednesday night and she would be calling.  Wrapped up in his own world when he first spoke to her, he’d mentioned Buffy's party.  He felt like reaching into the phone to snatch the words back, but it was too late.  And it didn’t make him feel any better that she didn’t conspicuously comment on it.  Cordelia was quick, hardly anything got by her.  He knew she hadn’t asked about it because she figured he wouldn’t tell her.  She was right, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t tuck the information away.  He wasn’t sure what she’d make of it, mainly because he didn’t know himself.  ‘For a taciturn guy,’ he fumed at himself, ‘I’ve got a big mouth.’

Returning from the kitchen, he threw a couple small logs on the kindling he had prepared.  His eyes absently roamed the room.  It was a large space, but was dwarfed by the neat, nearly overflowing bookcases that lined every wall.  Only the windows and fireplace stopped their spread.  One section held art, another languages, but the shelves offered very few novels or works of fiction.  There was a corner, however, full of books of poetry that had become worn and faded, as if the ink had been absorbed in their many readings.  The rest of the volumes that climbed the walls were filled with hard facts and dry statistics to untangle and solve problems.  Math, history, science -– tangible texts for analysis and research.

Two overstuffed chairs and a couch with throws of warm, earthy colors tossed over them were on the far side of the room.  Small muted rag rugs stepped from there across the dark wood floor to where a pair of matching leather chairs and ottomans warmed themselves by the fire.  It was his favorite place to be.  A large, deep-piled rug stretched itself out between the chairs and the fireplace.  Small tables were scattered throughout the room, most holding more books that had escaped from the shelves.  It was cozy for a man, but very much a reflection of its owner, as if trying to generate a warmth he lacked.  It was his fortress.  He felt safe, surrounded and hidden behind his books.

He scraped the wooden match against the fireplace bricks and carefully lit the shavings beneath the logs.  Angel was always cold, even in the summer.  He thought fleetingly that the office hadn’t been as chilly the last few of months, then put it off to the faulty workings of an old building in disrepair.  At home alone he hadn’t felt any difference, the cold was still there.

Angel was well acquainted with the cold, but he needed his few creature comforts.  He liked the fire, it was like a comfortable old friend who bade him draw near.  He liked to read or draw by its light, one ear hearing its crackle and hiss.  It wasn’t unusual for him to sit in his chair staring into the flickering colors, much like someone else would watch a television.  Since he met Buffy, he found more reasons than ever to gaze into the flames as if they had answers to questions he did not yet possess.

He collected his coffee from the mantle where he’d left it, then fell into the welcoming cushions.  Angel thought about Buffy’s invitation as he leaned back in his dark leather chair, feet propped up on the ottoman before him.  He staunchly avoided gatherings of any kind.  The idea of attending a party, especially with the people he worked with only reinforced his long-standing aversion.  With few exceptions, he could do without seeing any of them outside work.  Scowling to himself, he scanned a mental index of his co-workers.  Only three people, besides Buffy, had ever made a positive impression on him.  Lindsey, who now headed the team of field agents, was bright, tough, quick and dedicated, qualities Angel admired.  He didn’t hold it against Lindsey being promoted to his former position, he understood there was nothing personal in the decision. The only other employees to catch his discerning eye were Willow, who he knew was Buffy’s best friend, and Willow’s friend, Tara.  He felt an odd sort of kinship, sensing a deceptively keen intellect and quiet, yet powerful strength in both young women.  He smiled, thinking Buffy had good taste in friends.

But, his scowl returned at the thought of Riley Finn.  He knew Finn wouldn’t pass up any chance to be near Buffy. A growl formed deep in his chest.  Riley, it seemed to Angel, had a very dangerous habit of continually making excuses to be in the vicinity of his small, lithesome officemate.  The thought filled him with near homicidal loathing.  Angel had a lot of unfinished business with Riley Finn.  Adding Buffy to the mix made him want to pick the boy up by the throat and throw him as far as he could fly.  The image twisted his lips into a predatory smile.  Dousing the boy’s head in the toilet was mild compared to some of the scenarios that temptingly paraded through Angel's musings.

He was only too familiar with Finn’s constant whining.  Riley blamed his demotion to a desk job on Angel, rather than himself.  Angel also overheard the rumors floating around of how he, himself, had gotten past the psych tests in order to achieve his field status.  He knew who started them. He didn’t know if Buffy had heard them.  And once again Angel found he was worried about what she might think.

He tented his elegant fingers as he watched a log shift from its place.  Angel had to give Riley credit, not that he’d ever tell the asshole that.  But Riley saw something that Angel had been blind to – at least when he was hired.  Angel had passed the testing.  He had to – not only just to get into the FBI, but also to attain his goal of becoming a field agent.  Once in, he’d gone even further, purely on merit, to head the team.

He’d never wanted anything more in his life and he had devoted all his time and energy towards being in the FBI, especially in the field.  He let nothing stand in the way of his resolve to get where he wanted to go.  Anything else paled in comparison to where he wanted to be.  He did everything asked of him and more … and he made it.  Alone.  He hadn’t depended on anyone.  He hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t needed to and he couldn’t.  He’d done his homework for fucking years and that’s what had gotten him in the Bureau.

And all the cases he did; the long nights he’d spent doing surveillance, weeks spent away from home undercover, costumes bought to mask who he really was, all of it, he’d done.  Clawing his way out of that black pit of pain and twisted memories, he had made it all by himself, to finally become someone doing something that was meaningful.

Angel picked up the cup of coffee on the small table next to him and sipped it slowly.  The most curious thing of all was that in all those years he never delved too closely into why he wanted to be an agent so badly.  A psychiatrist would have told him it was to assuage the guilt he felt over his past, he was sure.  Angel wouldn’t have argued the point, but there was more to it.  Did he do it to keep some unknown child safe from what had happened to him?  Was it a way to save himself?  To make up for Dru?  When he asked himself at all, the only answer that came back was that he needed it.  He needed to feel that he served an integral role somewhere.  It hadn’t been enough after all, but it was as close as he’d ever been to contentment.

Thanks to ‘Agent’ Riley Finn it had all dissolved.  Angel had finally achieved the single objective of his existence and it was over, compliments of a new recruit playing games … and a thunderstorm.  Angel closed his hand over a stray chip of thin, dry kindling and flicked it into the embers, hearing it snap as it burst.

While in the hospital after the ‘incident’, after the storm broke him, the truth pelted down on him, much like the rain.  Lying in bed for countless days, he let it wash over him, seeping into every pore.  He had never really changed.  All that time, all the days and nights, weeks … years.  He’d never gotten past it.  The storm and subsequent breakdown had rammed it all home with an agonizing intensity.  He was still that small boy, not just from his childhood nightmares, but from the very night it had all happened.  He never moved on, never conquered it.  He may have pushed that lost child down so far he thought he had finally lost him.  But the small boy was still there, as cold and terrified as he’d ever been.  Everything he did was only a charade.  He had spun a gossamer web of half-truths and blindness – and in the end caught only himself.  Days, weeks after his admission to the hospital, when he was trying to marshal his thoughts into some kind of cohesiveness, he remembered the day he was given his first position, in vivid detail.  After all those years of deluding himself that he had done everything alone, it finally clicked into place.  Holtz.

As though his hospital window had been a movie screen, he had gazed through it, back to the day he was assigned to his post.  Angel saw Holtz as he tried to slip unnoticed out a side door of the conference room.  He only caught a glimpse – Holtz looked up at the same time.  Both men held each other’s gaze, then he was gone.  So struck by Holtz’s expression, Angel tried many times to interpret what he saw in the older man’s eyes.  They reflected a mixture of pain and sadness, something with which Angel was all too familiar.  But there was more that he didn’t understand – hope, pride … love.  Angel couldn’t understand what motivated those emotions.  He couldn’t even understand the reason for Holtz’s presence.  In spite of what had happened with both families years before, he knew his sister’s best friend was still Harmony, the older man’s daughter.  But Angel himself had avoided Holtz and his family whenever he could ever since Dru died.  Although he hadn’t seen him in years, as far as Angel knew, his neighbor still worked for the FBI.  So he had surmised Holtz was there as part of his job.  It was just a coincidence seeing him.

The realization had made Angel sick with self-loathing. He had been so naive, so ready to believe in himself.  He should have known better.  All of his pride in his initiative and his accomplishments; every bit of it was sorely misplaced.  His admission in the Bureau had never been based on his merits.  He never overcame anything.  Not at all … and he had never known, maybe never wanted to know.  And though he still hadn’t known why, he knew then that it was Holtz who had made sure he passed the psychological screening.  Of all the people in the world it astounded him that Holtz would help him.  Holtz had every reason to want him dead.  As dead as his little girl.  Angel had failed her and everyone else in his life.  He found later he was one of the very few who knew or guessed what Holtz’s real role was in the Bureau.

Now Angel was just a shell, an empty husk of something that had never been real.  Something that, for a time, he had believed he was.  Now what was left, sat behind a desk.  He didn’t question his current status, knowing it was again due to Holtz’s silent, saving grace.  But Angel never approached him, never once sought him out to ask him.  He didn’t know what he could ever say.

He wondered since the day he was lying in that bed if he had fooled anyone except himself.  Had everyone else known all along what a joke he was?  They must have.  All those years he hadn’t succeeded, he hadn’t slayed his dragons.  Instead he was the emperor with no clothes, suited in his own armor of denial.  Wrapped in his own delusions of wholeness.  All the while still the broken toy, fallen off the shelf, that couldn’t be fixed.

He pushed up from the chair, walking stiffly towards the kitchen.  It was late.  The last thing he needed was coffee, he told himself as he poured another cup.  He took it back and set it on the side table, but turned away, instead of sitting down.  He moved through the room restlessly, lovingly touching the spine of a book here, pulling another one down, aimlessly fanning through its pages.  He circled the room slowly, surveying without seeing.  Finally, he took a couple of long, deep breaths to relieve the tension he felt in his muscles, he imbibed the scent of burning wood and old books.  He let what solace he could wring from them soak into him and help calm him.  Looking back at the fire and his coffee waiting for him, he let them draw him back.  He eased into his chair, stretching his legs out and picked up his cup.

He forcefully turned his thoughts, searching for another path to follow.  And he saw golden hair framing a small face with chameleon eyes in myriad settings.  Shining in the sunlight at lunchtime with Willow, laughing.  Puzzling out a cipher, biting her lower lip in fierce concentration.  Sliding onto his desk in her spot with a morning smile, offering the coffee that she had made for him.  Glancing towards the fire he thought he must have added another log without realizing it.  He remembered the irritation in Buffy’s voice earlier in the day when he refused her invitation.

Not long after his refusal, he saw Finn stop Buffy outside the ladies’ room.  The jackass put his hand on her arm as she passed.  Angel bristled at the gesture, but was mollified when Buffy shrugged the hand away and kept walking.  He didn’t hear the words exchanged, but the implication was clear.  Finn wanted Buffy and Buffy wasn’t interested.  Angel was inside the break room, they hadn’t been aware he was watching.  Nor did they see the rare smile that lit his face for a few seconds as he saw the distance between the two grow.

He still hated the thought of a party.  But he knew he’d hurt her feelings and he’d promised himself he would never do that if he could help it.  Not after last time.  He sighed deeply inside himself.  Just to make her happy, he would go.  And keep an eye on Riley while he was there.  He might know Buffy didn’t care about Finn, but he also knew Riley was too arrogant and dense to get it through his head that he wasn’t wanted.

[end chapter 5]

Chapter VI

Buffy opened the door and went stock-still.  The man never ceased to amaze her.  Angel was dressed in the usual Angel attire but the subtle changes were astounding.  The faded black cotton pullover had been traded for a rich burgundy silk button up shirt.  The khaki Dockers had been replaced with a pair of very nicely cut black dress slacks.

She swallowed audibly, making a mental note to never confuse the lack of desire to dress nicely with the inability to do so.  “Come in, Angel,” Buffy said, stepping out of the doorway.

The small gathering had been fairly noisy, but when Angel entered the room, most of the conversation died.  Buffy smiled nervously at the crowd.  It wasn’t strictly a work event.  The regular Friday payday group was in attendance and in addition a couple of Buffy’s neighbors, Gunn, and his girl, Fred, came.

“Everyone, this is An- Liam Angelus,” Buffy quickly corrected.  “Liam, this is everyone.”  Buffy was fairly sure that Angel wouldn’t have had the social graces to make everyone’s acquaintance, but she didn’t even leave him the option as she dragged him into the kitchen.

Angel looked at her uneasily and shifted, toying nervously with the cuffs of his shirt.  “I told you I don’t socialize,” he said.

Buffy shrugged.  “So, everyone should try something new now and then,” she snapped and then frowned at herself.  “Sorry,” she said sheepishly.  “I’m really glad you came.”

Angel smiled softly at her.  “Thank you for inviting me,” he said.

Buffy nearly jumped when the kitchen door swung open revealing Lindsey.  He looked a little startled upon seeing Angel, but then smiled warmly.  “Angelus,” he said holding out his hand, “good to see you.  Been a while.”

Angel looked at the proffered hand for a moment and then shook it.  “McDonald,” he said, nodding his head.

Buffy quietly slipped away, allowing the two to speak privately.  Willow ambushed Buffy and tried to be subtle as she steered her into the bedroom.  Once she closed the door she turned and pounced, “Give!”

“Give?”  Buffy asked, confusion covering her features.

Willow thought at first Buffy was kidding.  “With Liam,” she prompted.  “How did you get him here?”

Buffy’s face cleared and a tiny smile tugged at her lips.  It gave her a jolt to see Angel at the door, but mostly because of how he looked in that shirt and those pants.  It had made her wonder what he’d look like without that shirt and those pants … and what was the matter with her?

She flushed when she realized Willow was watching her, still waiting for an answer.  It didn’t hit Buffy, as it should have, that everyone would wonder why he was there.  She was used to working with him every day, used to seeing his face, hearing his voice, they weren’t.  She was surprised he had come, they were shocked.  “I’m not really sure,” she said honestly. “He told me he wasn’t coming.”

Willow saw the look on Angelus’ face when Buffy led him to the kitchen.  There was nervousness and discomfort, but not towards Buffy.  Nor had Willow missed the shy smile Angel gave Buffy that she glimpsed when Lindsey pushed open the kitchen door.

Riley hadn’t seen the smile, which was probably just as well.  He was still getting over the shock of seeing Liam Angelus attempting to be social.  What was Buffy thinking of inviting that lunatic into her home?  He shook his head as he sat on the couch, watching for Angelus to come out of the kitchen.  He’d keep a close eye on him even if no one else did.

When Angel left Lindsey and returned to the living room, he found a chair in a corner, as far away from everyone as he could get.  He glanced around the apartment inquisitively.  In his solitary life, there were very few instances he had visited other people’s homes and the times he did, he had never felt comfortable.  But here, he felt curiously at ease, not with the people, but the surroundings.  He could see and feel Buffy everywhere, in everything, from the warm, vibrant colors of the walls, to the soft, muted tones of the furniture it contrasted.  It held that sunshiny freshness he always associated with her.  Small touches like scented candles, framed pictures of friends and family that covered the tops of bookcases and shelves and stuffed animals tucked in odd corners, all bore Buffy’s unique imprint.  The fleeting sense of comfort, however, was lost in the more common and overwhelming feeling of awkwardness from being around so many people in such a small space.

Angel’s fellow co-workers were somewhat taken aback when he showed up.  He still acted as though a dark cloud lived over his head, the brooding look firmly in place.  He barely gave a glance to anyone in the room except Buffy.  Although he was civil to Lindsey when they met and made small talk blandly enough.  Even bland for Angel was a step up, he didn’t ‘do’ small talk.  He even seemed to attempt being pleasant to Willow and Tara, though it was difficult to tell for sure if that’s what it was.  Better to say he actually noticed them and growled less in their company.

The party had been going on for a while before Angel arrived and quieted down noticeably when he first came through the door.  Conversation had resumed after a time, but was muted compared to the rather loud, active chatter earlier.  The whole idea of having a good time seemed to be lacking to Xander as he looked around, deciding this called for drastic Xander measures.

“What this party needs is a little excitement,” he announced, glancing around for support, “A game maybe?”

Anya jumped up, practically jumping Xander in the process. “You mean sex games?” she asked brightly.  Then hearing a few snickers in the room, she added, “Well, I mean not the kind we play.  Although they are fun …”

Xander, reddening visibly at her statement, interrupted her, "Anya, remember we talked about the sex thing and keeping it between ourselves?"  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he flamed an even brighter shade of crimson.

One cue Anya replied, "Well of course your thing is between us!  I just said not those games,” she huffed.

Xander attempted to direct the conversation back to safer waters, “I was thinking of ‘Spoons’,” he said.

“’Spoons’?” Buffy questioned, “That’s a game?  An eating game?”

“All you need is a deck of cards and one less spoon than players,” he explained laughing, shaking his head.  “You use one set of four of a kind for each person.  You know … four twos, four threes, four fours.  You shuffle them and pass them all out.”

“Go, on,” Buffy prompted him.  She’d known Xander long enough to wonder what she was getting herself into if she agreed to let everyone play his ‘game’.

 “Then everyone passes one card to the right,” he went on, “and keeps passing until one person gets four of a kind.  That’s where the spoons come in.”

Buffy, feeling more and more like she was going to be sorry, finally asked, “And then?”

“Then everyone goes for the spoons in the middle of the table.  The one who doesn’t get one, is out,” he said.  Everyone was looking at him and then each other.  “It’s kinda like musical chairs, only with cards instead of music,” he offered as an example.  When there was still no response, he raised his voice a little to plead, “C’mon … for the fun!”

“Xander,” Buffy questioned him nervously, “why do I get the feeling my table and chairs might be in danger?”

“Buffy,” he chided her laughingly, “we’re all adults, right?  We wouldn’t break any furniture.  It’s just a simple game!”

“So,” she grinned back, “you won’t mind paying for them if they have to be replaced.”

“Hear that, guys?” Xander whipped around, now nervous himself, “No breaky the wood, ‘kay?”

Xander viewed Buffy in amazement when she told him she didn’t own a single deck of cards.  He tramped off to his car and retrieved the pack he kept handy in his glove compartment.  Since there were only six chairs, even doubling up on them only allowed twelve people from the party to play.  To make things more interesting, it was decided whoever sat on someone’s lap would play the cards.  That would leave the one in the chair to navigate with or around their partner to grab the spoon.

Angel had immediately melted further into the shadows in his corner.  The last thing he wanted to do was play games with people.  But, Buffy, now that she’d finally gotten him to come to the party, wasn’t about to let him hide.

“Angel,” she whispered to him, “please play?”  When she saw him start to refuse, she said, “Everyone’s pairing off.  I’d rather sit with you.”

Angel was still about to tell her no when he saw out of the corner of his eye that Riley Finn had a determined look on his face.  He knew exactly what Finn had in mind.  “All right,” he acquiesced, “but only with you.”  He was damned if the boy would get anywhere near her.  It also had no small effect on Angel when he realized Buffy had chosen him out of anyone else at the party.  She promptly led him to a seat at the table.  Buffy had been so intent on making sure Angel kept his promise, she had jumped into his lap before she even noticed Riley approaching them.

Angel hadn’t thought about Buffy actually sitting on him until she did.  The closest they’d been was working side by side.  The only physical contact had been when he gave her the mug and when he checked her watch and each time he felt that small spark of energy between them.  But if he thought touching her was electric, having her sit in his lap was … high voltage and almost overpowering.  She fit right there, like his lap had been made with her in mind, waiting for her to fill it.  His arms wrapped around her automatically, as if they knew where they belonged.  He could feel another more needy and immediate response to her being so near him and tried to pull back a little, desperately hoping she wasn’t aware of it.  When his senses cleared enough to become conscious of the world around him again, he saw Riley standing right in front of them.  All thoughts of anything except protecting Buffy fell away and a low growl escaped from his throat.

Riley stopped short when he saw Buffy hop onto Angel’s lap.  He was furious.  “Buffy,” he started in a fairly loud voice.

Hearing Angel’s menacing warning and feeling him tense around her, Buffy glanced up to see Riley before them.  “Riley,” she said firmly, “you’d better find a partner.”  She gave him a forbidding look, quashing whatever remark he was about to make.  She wasn’t about to have Riley Finn make a scene if she could help it and she definitely didn’t want him for a partner.  She couldn’t deny the deep rumbling she felt vibrating through Angel's chest was all that unpleasant, it was oddly comforting to have that strange assurance of safety.  She hadn’t even noticed his arms around her, almost as if she expected them to be there.

Faith intervened at that moment, seeing the dark look on Riley’s face.  She purposely avoided the matching expression that instantly appeared on Lindsey’s at her words.  “Riley, you want to win, you need a good partner.  And that would be me,” she told him cajolingly.

Riley realized he had everyone’s attention.  It was on the tip of his tongue to say just what he thought of Angelus, but one look at Buffy’s face silenced him.  Snapping his mouth shut, he sat down, letting Faith sit across his legs.

“Kate,” Lindsey offered, taking a great deal of effort to stay cool and collected seeing Faith choose Riley over him, “looks like you need a lap to sit on.”

When everyone was finally seated, Gunn and Fred were at the head of the table with Lindsey and Kate on one side, Willow and Tara on the other.  Anya saved Xander’s place on the other end, flanked by Riley and Faith, across from Buffy and Angel.

Walking towards Anya with the cards, Xander glanced at those seated at the table, feeling the tension in the room ratchet up a few notches.  While Willow looked cute sitting across Tara’s knees, Xander was still trying to contain his shock at seeing Buffy tucked in Angelus' arms, sitting quite calmly and comfortably on his lap.  Finn glaring at Angelus across the table from him and Angelus returning the look suddenly made Xander question his own wisdom at suggesting the game.  It would be interesting … if it wasn't so downright scary.

Gunn won the cut and dealt out the cards.  During the first few rounds everyone was getting used to the game and their respective partners.  On Tara's lap, Willow couldn’t stop giggling or concentrate on the cards she held.  Xander’s face seemed to have turned a permanent shade of red as Anya squirmed and wiggled on top of him provocatively.  Lindsey threw more than one look at Faith who kept her attention fixed firmly on the cards in her hand.  Angel’s usually swift, precise movements were hampered by his distraction with the petite player balancing on his knees, peering at her small handful of cards.  Riley stared at the couple sitting opposite from him almost nonstop.

The group finished a practice run which ended with only Buffy and Angel at the table.  Angel had recovered most of his usual prowess as the game wore on.  He and Buffy appeared to have an innate synchronicity.  As she closely watched the cards, Angel’s hand seemed to slip out towards a spoon even as she formed the thought.  It was an easy victory, one that didn’t please Riley at all.  Buffy, paying more attention to the game and all her guests, wasn’t aware of the growing undercurrent.

The look Finn gave them both, especially Buffy, kept Angelus' focus almost entirely on the glowering hulk across from him.  Lindsey wasn’t at all surprised.  He knew the truth of what lay between the two men.  He also knew what a predator Angelus was in the field.  Although he sat at a desk now, McDonald had no doubt his former superior was just as cunning and quick as always.  Liam Angelus had taught Lindsey all he knew and then some, especially that he wasn’t a man to be trifled with lightly.  Lindsey saw Riley’s temper building as the game progressed and kept a close eye on both men as they watched each other warily.

Trying to divert another player’s attention became the name of the game when it came to diving for the spoons.  Xander would sing out, “Look over there!” to anyone off balance enough to listen.  Willow put on her ‘resolve’ face, but even that was unsuccessful in catching hold of a spoon.  Faith tried to catch people by the eye to keep them away from the real action.  Buffy would laugh, wave her arms, do anything to get anyone’s attention if it took them off the spoons long enough for Angel to steal one.  That worked all too well on Riley as he watched, already too late, as Angel palmed the one they both reached to claim.  Buffy laughed all the harder which made Riley even angrier.

In the middle of the second round Lindsey, Gunn, Riley and Angel were left.  Tara and Willow had been first to lose – again.  Xander and Anya had lost next.  The growing tension between Angel and Riley made itself obvious to everyone whether they were still playing or not.  Every time Riley went for the spoon nearest him, it was gone before his fingers were halfway across the table and he had to scramble for another.  Angel would stare back at him with a taunting, openly daring look.  He was itching to sink his fist into Riley’s face for even looking at Buffy.

Gunn, even with his long reach and speed, still missed the spoon he thought was within his grasp and the game was left with three pairs of opponents.  Lindsey made a valiant attempt the next hand to procure a spoon, but Riley practically stripped it from his fingers.  Lindsey saw Faith shoot him an apologetic look from her place on Riley’s legs.  Faith carefully slid a card to Buffy and braced herself for what was to come.

Buffy, finally attuned to what the rest had been aware of for most of the game, tensed as she picked up the card.  As soon as she turned it up, Riley dove towards the table to retrieve the only spoon.  In one blindingly fluid movement, Angel stood up, lifting Buffy up near his shoulder, securely holding her aloft in one arm as he deftly plucked the spoon with his free hand and stepped back.  Riley went sailing across the surface, his arm outstretched for the spoon Angel had beat him at getting once again.  Riley slid across the tabletop and off the other side to land in a pile on the floor beside them, banging his head soundly against the molding.

“Faith!” Lindsey shouted, vaulting over the table to reach her.  In spite of being prepared, Riley had knocked her to the floor in his rush to outdo Angel.  Lindsey carefully helped her to her feet and was rewarded with a dazzling smile from the fallen dark-haired beauty.

Before Riley could even sit up, it was Lindsey who was looking down at him with a dangerous glint in his eye, “It was a game, Riley,” he spat at him, “You’re damn lucky Faith wasn’t hurt.”

“I’ve been in a lot worse situations, ya know,” Faith assured him, “No big, I'm five by five, Linds.”

“No thanks to him,” Lindsey replied, keeping his eyes on the still dazed Riley.  “I think it’s time he said good night to everyone.”

Riley gave him a withering look until he saw the other faces circled around.  He dragged himself to his feet.  Tight lipped, he walked to the door in silence.  He opened it, turned around, addressing only Angelus, who was still holding Buffy tightly against his shoulder.  “I won’t be the one who’s sorry,” was all he said before he slammed the door behind himself.

Angel gently settled Buffy on her feet and gave her a pained look as if to tell her it was his fault.  The party ended on a subdued note with everyone quickly deciding it was time to call it a night.  Lindsey helped Faith find her things and guided her out the door.  The others followed quietly after them.  Willow and Tara were almost the last to leave.

“Was different,” was all Willow could think of to say.

“Least my table is in one piece,” Buffy tried to reply lightly.  “Saved Xander some money.”

Willow smiled brightly at Buffy and at Angel, who was still there, standing behind Buffy.  “Lucky for him,” she said as Tara pulled her out the door.

“Buffy,” Angel said softly, once they were alone, “I shouldn’t have come.  This never would have happened.  I’m sorry I ruined your party.”

Buffy had turned around while he was talking and looked up into his solemn eyes.  “No, Angel,” she stopped him.  “I know there’s bad blood between you and Riley, but he’s the one who caused trouble, not you.  You were a perfect gentleman,” she told him.

Angel realized Buffy was under the impression that it was the ongoing animosity between he and Riley that had caused the tempers to flare.  It suddenly dawned on him that the others had probably thought the same thing.  After all, what would Buffy see in someone like him?  What would anyone see in him?  Angel knew he should be relieved she didn’t know his true feelings, it would have made things more difficult.  He tried to tell himself he should be glad that’s what she thought, but it wasn’t working.

“I should go,” he told her.

For some reason Buffy didn’t like the idea of him leaving which didn’t make any sense.  Angel was just a co-worker and a quirky one at that.  She’d done what she set out to do, bringing him into the world a little bit more, so what was her problem?  “Thanks for coming,” she said absently, still wondering to herself.

“I'll … see you at work then …” he trailed off as he walked out the door.

“Work, right, see you there,” she said.  “Good night.”  Once she closed the door behind him, she found herself feeling very lonely.  She shrugged it off to the emptiness of the apartment after having all those people there at once.  But the loneliness lingered long after Angel left.

*****

The following Tuesday evening Angel grabbed his duffel bag and headed for the complex’s gym.  He usually worked out and practiced tai chi and kickboxing by himself.  In a rare, erratic moment he had signed up for the kickboxing refresher class.  He told himself he needed to practice against a few real opponents but he was avoiding the truth.  When Willow made one of her infrequent visits to their office he overheard Buffy tell her friend she was going to the class.  Buffy had mentioned something to him one time about taking and teaching courses in martial arts.  He had a hard time envisioning that tiny figure being a threat.  He had a harder time not envisioning that tiny figure in most of his thoughts, day and night and not as a threat … at least not that kind.

He made use of the gym on the grounds often.  It was somewhere to release the pent up energy from sitting at a desk all day and a vent for the emotional roller coaster he found himself on lately.  He always felt better after working out, then calming and centering himself with tai chi.  He was well versed in kickboxing, but didn’t practice it often anymore, except by himself.  No one ever invited him to train with them and he never thought to ask them.

Tying the drawstring on the black cotton pants, he threw the dark shirt over his shoulder and slammed the locker door shut.  It was long before the class was to begin and the large room echoed its emptiness to him as he entered it.  Easing off a little tension before anyone else showed up seemed like a good idea.  He did some warm-ups then, donning a pair of gloves, he went several rounds with the punching bag.  After working up a sweat, he moved to a more dimly lit area and lifted his arms, flowing into the soothing cadence of tai chi.  He became intent on trying to clear his mind of a small bright figure.  So engrossed, he failed to notice the reality of the illusion pad across the room in barefooted silence to where he stood.

Buffy had arrived early with much the same idea in mind as Angel.  After changing into a pair of black stretch pants and a short black halter-top, she twisted her long, blonde curls into a knot and fastened it near the top of her head, securing it with a headband.  She became aware of the fact she wasn’t alone the moment she stepped in the room.  Buffy knew without a glance who it was in the shadowed corner of the gym.  She couldn’t seem to stop her forward movement until she was in front of him.  Close up, she couldn’t suppress a sharp intake of breath.

Angel looked like a living statue, chiseled from a vision and softened into life.  As he rotated in a slow circle of liquid grace, her eyes raked over the broad shoulders and chest, powerful arms, down the washboard abs to the slim waist and hips set upon long, muscular legs.  He was the most beautiful piece of man-flesh she had ever seen.  Turned away from her at one point, she was surprised to see a sizable tattoo of a bird of some kind on his back.  She admired the artwork almost as much as the muscles rippling beneath it.  He was clothed in a pair of pants … and beads of sweat.  The muscled wall that rose before her covered with those drops of moisture sent a shot of warmth tingling through her from fingers to toes.  She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

He felt her before he saw her.  As Angel’s fluid motion brought him back in her direction, he saw those same toes painted with pink nail polish.  His gaze swept up to catch hers, “Buffy,” he breathed as he found her eyes.  His own eyes dropped to the small pink tongue that came out to wet soft, pale pink lips.

Her eyes widened when she realized she was staring saying, “I didn’t know you could do that,” as if by explanation.

Feeling all the air rush out of his body when he connected that the dream before him wasn’t actually a figment of his imagination, he was suddenly shy.  “There’s a lot of things about me you don’t know,” he said quietly.

“I believe that,” she said, reminded again of how true that was.

‘Why did I tell her that?  She doesn’t need to know anymore about me, much better off if she doesn’t,’ he thought.  Trying to change the subject he asked, “Do you practice tai chi?”

“I-I do, yes,” she stumbled over the words as she watched him scoop a towel off the floor and dry his arms, then his chest.   ‘Oh, to be a towel,’ she thought wistfully, then mentally slapped herself. What had gotten into her?  Adding out loud, “Not the movement you were doing though.”

“I could show you  … if you like,” he offered hesitantly.  It was a temptation he couldn’t resist, ignoring the little voice in his head that told him he shouldn’t.  He remembered how perfectly she fit in his arms the night of the party, rather how he hadn’t been able to forget.  He just wanted to feel her against him one more time.

She nodded mutely, giving him a tiny smile, not quite able to hide her enthusiasm about the idea.  He came up behind her and slowly slid his hands down her arms, pulling them out straight in front of them.  Laying his big hands over her considerably smaller ones, he slowly raised their arms straight up.  Just as slowly he swept them in a wide circle, bringing them down and back around to where they started.  He kept his breathing in time with the motion as much as possible, to show her the rhythm as they moved.  It was difficult though – she took his breath away.  They repeated the movement several more times in silence.

Angel felt as though he’d been struck dumb.  His line of vision fell over her shoulder, down to where their hands were joined and followed as they moved, her back flush against him.  The current he always felt at her touch was burning into him.

Hard muscles flexing against her back made Buffy very conscious of the chest pressed against the thin layer of her cotton shirt.  She felt safe in his arms, as she had a few nights ago at her party when she was tucked securely in his lap.  No one else generated that kind of response in her.  She had always relied on herself, never needing anyone else for protection.  She was surprised at how much she liked it.  The warm tingle shimmered through her once again as his hands guided the arc of her arms.  It was as if she could feel him, not just outside where their skin touched, but deep inside.

He felt her … warm and soft and close …  She turned after they went through the movements.  He could see her shining hair, then her face lifting towards his, eyes closed.  Bending his head closer, his breath caught in his throat as he stared down at her, mesmerized.  The long, curling lashes, the slope of her cheek, the adorable nose … the full, pouty lips.  He was panting for breath and it had nothing to do with exertion.  His face kept moving down towards hers of its own volition … his eyes fastened on those pale pink lips … so close … waiting to be kissed …

Her eyelids started to flutter bringing reality hurtling back to him.  He stepped back, afraid his body would betray he wanted to do more than calm and center himself.  Afraid of what she must be thinking.

“I think you have the idea,” he managed to say in what he thought was a normal voice.  She molded against him so naturally, it felt like peeling his skin away when he separated himself from her.

For just a moment Buffy thought Angel looked like he’d been ready to kiss her.  One second, she had closed her eyes, letting herself go in the sensation of their arms moving together, like it was the most natural thing in the world.  The next, as if it were one smooth extension of the movement, she turned and raised her face to his.  Just as she opened her eyes and saw his head descending towards hers … he was gone.

“Yeah …” she answered, slightly dazed.  She was imagining things.  This was Angel after all.  He would never do anything like that.  Shaking her head slightly to clear her delusion, she missed his guilty, yet longing glance before it disappeared beneath his expressionless mask.  “Like this, right?” she asked as she mimicked the circle by herself, missing the warmth that had moved away with him.

“You catch on quickly,” he noted, a hint of admiration seeping in.  His heart was still racing as he tried to breathe deeply to slow it.

“Comes with practice, I guess,” she told him, “Although I spend more time with kickboxing.”

“So why do you need a refresher on it?  You are here for the class, right?” he wondered out loud.

She laughed, “Never hurts to practice, but I’m not taking it.”

“Oh,” he tried to keep the disappoint from showing, “I, uh … thought that’s what you came in for, was all.”

Chuckling again, she explained, “That is what I’m here for, but I’m leading it, not taking it.”

“Oh,” he repeated, though the word sounded completely different the second time.

Smiling, she whispered conspiratorially, “Just wanted to see what I’m up against around here.  Maybe you can tell me, how good are they?”  She wanted to bite her tongue as she saw his face fall and grow a little dark.  Of course, she thought, he wasn’t a joiner, how would he know?

“I don’t think I can help you with that, I just use the gym sometimes,” he said quietly, looking at the floor.

“I thought you were here for the class too,” she said, trying to keep it light and move away from the subject.

“I was…” his voice dropping off, he stepped back a little more.  What was he doing there?  What had he been thinking?  He should leave before the rest of the people showed up.  He found his shirt next to the towel he had dropped on the floor.  He pulled it on, getting ready to go.

“Good,” she said quickly, “you can help me get warmed up.”  She could see the look of flight in his eyes.  She wasn’t going to pass up on a chance to get Angel involved, especially when he’d taken the first step.

“I don’t know if I can help you with that either,” he told her.

“Why not?” she asked, not taking no for an answer.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly.  She felt so small and fragile in his arms a moment ago.

Buffy’s temper flared in spite of knowing he meant no insult.  “I’m a little girl.  I’m delicate,” she said mockingly.  “Yada, yada, yada.  It’s getting old,” she added heatedly.  “C’mon, Angel, just try to hurt me.”  Then she moved in front of him in a fighting stance.

Angel winced inwardly and thought he probably winced outwardly as well.  One moment he was looking down into the most beautiful face he'd ever seen.  The next moment that same face, although still incredibly beautiful, was filled with fury.  He hadn’t meant to make her angry.  He really didn’t want to hurt her, but he knew that if he backed away he’d only make things worse.

Without even daring to answer, he took up a position in front of her.  His swift response appeased her anger.  Buffy moved back to face him and nodded.  His only thought was to be careful, to go through a simple maneuver and be gentle with her.  He made the first move and suddenly found himself on his back staring up at her in amazement.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she smiled down at him while she held a hand out to help him up.  Buffy wasn’t ready for the face splitting grin she saw flash back up at her.  She unconsciously fell back a step from the blinding effect, her offered hand almost dropping away.  Those tingling sensations were never going to go away, she thought.

He took hold of her hand anyway even though, bounding lightly to his feet, he had no need of it … at least not to help him up.  Quickly, he stood in the same starting position as before, signaling he was ready to try again.  “First lesson,” his grin still in place, “never underestimate your opponent.”

Buffy’s smile widened at his words and she faced off against him once more.  There was a new alacrity to both their movements the second time around.  Angel still wasn’t of a mind to actually fight her, he couldn’t stand the thought of harming her in any way.  But he was intrigued by how quickly and easily she had subdued him.  They circled each other, Buffy trying to provoke him, Angel moving out of her range.  Then he made the mistake of really looking at her and once more got lost in her beauty.  The way her lithe frame generated her energy and vitality, her look, so intent on her purpose, her hands and feet weaving dainty patterns.  When she advanced on him he never saw it coming and found himself once more looking up into her eyes with his back flat against the mat.

They both heard the sound of hands clapping, Angel on his feet at the sound, Buffy’s head snapping in the direction she heard it.

Lindsey came into view, hands still hitting lightly against each other, a look of amusement in his eyes.  “She must be good,” he said as he came up to where they stood, “I never managed to get you on the mat.”

Angel didn’t feel any embarrassment at all.  “She is good,” he responded admiringly.

“’She’s’ right here,” Buffy snarked at being talked about.

“Sorry,” Lindsey apologized, “it wasn’t meant to leave you out at all.  I can’t tell you how many times and how much effort I put into trying to do what you accomplished in seconds.  I can see why you’re teaching the class,” he finished.

“It was my idea,” Buffy told him, “I wondered how I stacked up against the minions of the FBI.”  She didn’t mention she’d asked Angel the same thing and didn’t look in his direction, afraid to see that small sad look again.

“It doesn’t look like you have much to worry about since you just bested the best,” Lindsey smiled.

“I wouldn’t really say that was a fair fight,” Buffy said, shaking her head.  “Angel and I were just getting warmed up.”  Her face reddened suddenly as she heard the words she used and the fact that she had used her own name for him.

It hadn’t escaped Angel that Buffy didn’t call him Liam.  He was sure Lindsey had caught the nickname.  Rather than making him uncomfortable, Angel took an unwarranted pleasure in her familiarity.  And he didn’t mind at all that the other man had heard her use it.

“It was fair,” Angel interjected seeing the color rise in her cheeks.  “She just reminded me of how important it is not to take your opponent for granted.”

“Yeah,” Lindsey agreed, “That’s where I came in.”

Lindsey had been surprised to come across the two together when he entered the gym.  Surprised, but not really shocked.  The shock had come the Friday before at Buffy’s party.  It hadn’t been difficult that night to see the chemistry between them, no matter how low key and emotionless Angelus generally appeared.  In fact, the party was one of the only times Lindsey could remember ever seeing Liam Angelus show real emotions.  He’d been face to face with Angelus when the larger man scooped Buffy out of harm’s way while Riley slid his way into idiocy across the table and onto the floor between them.  Lindsey had been close enough to see the concern, anger and more than a hint of jealousy flash through Angelus’ eyes.  He purposely hadn’t commented on Buffy calling her officemate, ‘Angel’ and wondered if it was realizing she’d used that name or the remark itself that actually made her blush.

In all the years Lindsey McDonald had worked with Liam Angelus, he’d never heard him mention the name of a woman or join in any of the locker room discussions about women in general.  He didn’t make it his business to know Angelus’ personal life, unless it impacted directly on his work.  But he doubted that if Angelus did seek female companionship, it was anything beyond the physical.  The man never let anyone in behind his defenses, man or woman.  The little Lindsey had seen of him since he was reassigned lead him to believe Angelus’ walls had gotten even thicker and his world even smaller.

He remembered finding Angelus that morning a little more than two years ago.  The look of lost anguish on Liam’s face wasn’t one Lindsey would ever forget.  He knew something intrinsic to who Angelus was had been pierced and shattered, leaving a shell in its place.  The night of Buffy’s party he’d gotten a glimpse that the Angelus he knew was still there.  He admired and respected the man, still did, maybe even more now than before.  It was true Angelus had fallen, but a lesser man wouldn’t have struggled and scratched his way back even to where he was now.  He knew Angelus’ family was rich but that it was what Liam did with his life that he valued as his true wealth.  To have it taken away in a senseless turn of events had been tragic.  Lindsey had felt the loss of Angelus’ presence on the team more keenly than the rest.  McDonald had learned the most important lessons of being an agent under his tutelage and he owed him his life many times over.

He hoped, for Angelus’ sake, that there was something between his former leader and the small blonde fighter before him.  He could easily see why anyone would like Buffy Summers.  She was a bright, beautiful woman.  If Lindsey wasn’t so infatuated with Faith he might have been interested in Buffy for himself.  But it wasn’t hard to tell that Buffy was attracted to Angelus, although Lindsey got the feeling she wasn’t all that aware of it herself, not yet anyway.  At least not to the same degree he instinctively knew Angelus was drawn to her.  They made a strangely compelling image, turning as one towards sudden sounds coming from the far side of the gym.

McDonald heard voices behind him and looked back to see the others who were now filing through the door.  Turning back he told Buffy with a friendly smile, “I’d like to take my turn to see how good you are for myself.  You game?” he asked.

As the rest of the group filtered in and surrounded the mats, Buffy answered, “Sure, Linds.  It’s a good way to start the session.”

The other students gave Angel openly curious stares.  A few had seen him in the gym from time to time, but never interacting with anyone else.  He wasn’t doing much else now, only watching Lindsey approach on the mat and meet Buffy face to face.  Angel was barely aware of the others, his attention was riveted on the combatants in front of him.  Trying to suppress an uneven mix of fear for Buffy’s safety, growing respect for her abilities and jealousy at seeing Lindsey in close proximity to her, Angel worked to keep his expression impassive.

Sitting back as an observer, instead of a participant, Angel was struck by how deftly Buffy moved against her opponent.  Lindsey wasn’t quite as broad or tall as Angel, but was still a fair size larger than the lightweight girl he was fighting.  She seemed to dance up, then away from him, always moving, her motions calculated, yet flowing.  He saw Lindsey lunge and Buffy smoothly retreat, only to twist gracefully, bringing him down by sweeping her foot under his.  Angel didn’t know a smile broke over his face with a look of satisfaction at Lindsey’s defeat.  Not until he found himself almost clapping as Lindsey had at Angel’s descent to the mat.  He carefully masked his features again as he continued to watch the show before him.  When Buffy brought Lindsey down a second time Angel was impressed with how skillfully she accomplished it.

Lindsey, no less awed by Buffy’s expertise, exchanged places with someone else in the group as Buffy proceeded to use the encounters to instruct everyone gathered around.  Angel never moved from his spot until the class was over.  He was entranced by the petite blonde teacher’s talents although he managed to maintain his usual unreadable façade for the remainder of the lesson.

*****

Angel took a long, cold shower trying unsuccessfully to ignore the thoughts of Buffy fighting her way into his heart.  He was oblivious to the rest of the men leaving the locker room as he took his time getting dressed.  There was no hurry to return to a house he usually regarded as a haven, but tonight offered no illusion of peace.  He walked slowly out of the building, heading for the parking lot when he saw Buffy stopped outside saying good night to the last of the group.

Picking him out of the shadows, she teased, “Are you here to protect me while I walk to my car?”

Pleased at the unexpected encounter, he closed the distance between them and smiled down at her, “I think you convinced me you can take care of yourself.”  Angel’s words belied his true feelings.  Regardless of how effectively she demonstrated her combat skills, he still felt protective of his diminutive kickboxing expert.  “But I don’t mind if you guard me while I walk to mine.”

Buffy was shocked, Angel was actually joking with her.  She had been pleasantly surprised to see he was still there after everyone else was gone.  Unwillingly to spoil the moment she fell in step beside him without answering.  Neither hurried towards their destination.

When they finally did reach their cars, parked near each other, Buffy said with a grin, “Guess I should have thought of taking on the FBI sooner.”

“Maybe they weren’t ready for you before now,” he teased.  He felt unusually light-hearted and in no hurry to say good night.

He had surprised her yet again with his answer.  “Now that they know what they’re up against, I’ll have to be on my guard,” she responded, keeping the mood going.

Seeing no alternative, he finally opened his car door as she unlocked her own.  “I think you’re up to the challenge,” he told her honestly.

She liked this small peek at the other Angel she only got to see in glimpses.  Not in any rush to see him disappear, she suddenly offered, “There’s a place around the corner from here that has pretty good coffee.”

Angel looked up not able to cover the smile that slipped into place.

Emboldened by the sight, Buffy added, “Not as good as my gourmet mix, but good.”

Shutting his inner ear against the warning voice whispering inside his head, he answered, still in the same playful vein, “Guess I’ll have to try it, just to see how it measures up.”   When she smiled back he said, “I’ll follow you there.”

After the short trip, he got out of his car and reached hers, holding the door open for her.  “And they say chivalry is dead,” she teased as she stood before him.  Seeing the sheepish look at her words, Buffy hurried to tell him, “I like it,” trying to ease his embarrassment. “It’s … nice,” she ended softly.

Angel said nothing, not really sure how to respond.  In fact, now that he was here, he felt tongue-tied, wondering why he had agreed to come.  He knew the answer was that he couldn't refuse a chance to be with her, but now that he was he didn’t have a clue what to do.

He automatically opened the entrance door for her.  The gesture elicited another smile from Buffy.  He silently sucked in a deep breath of courage as he guided her to a corner table.  The only worker in the deserted coffee shop took their orders then disappeared once she served the steaming mugs of caffeine.

Buffy sensing Angel’s nervousness was careful to keep the conversation centered on the kickboxing class, then about work in general.  Discussion of anything personal in nature, she knew, would send Angel skittering back behind his walls.  She was enjoying him too much to take that chance.  They spent over an hour dawdling over their first cup of coffee and then the refill the lone waitress reappeared briefly to supply.

They finally said their good nights beside her car as he watched her get in and start it.  “Thanks, Angel,” Buffy told him sincerely, “I had a good time.”

“The coffee,” he told her, remembering her earlier remark, “wasn’t as good as yours.”

“You’re just afraid I won’t bring you any more,” she tried to say in a light tone.  She couldn’t hide the faint blush his words brought to her cheeks.

He smiled as he straightened up and stepped back, “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.  Good night,” he added.

“Night, Angel,” she called as she pulled away.

[end chapter 6]

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