Little Bitty Puzzle Pieces

By PJzallday

Reveal

"John…" Fred said to the prone figure on the floor. "John?" She gave him a nudge with her foot. "Oh… no… John!" Cautiously she stepped over him to position herself nearer to his head then she leaned down and gently slapped him across the face a few times with her free hand. Nothing. After straightening again, she alternated her gaze from John, who appeared to have paled several shades, to the page in the book at which he'd been looking before he collapsed, while muttering, "Buffy. He said he killed Buffy. Oh… no…" Jittery, she dropped the sketchbook on a chair then edged toward the door. "Charles?" Fred called into the hall, not taking her eyes off the man on the floor. "Charles! Help!"

Full of dread, Gunn raced up the stairs brandishing a shiny battleaxe, prepared to take on the creature that had his friend in such a state. He knew they shouldn't have let a total stranger into the hotel on his own claim to have been a friend of Angel's — even if that were true, it didn't mean he was "safe" to have around. "Fred! What is it?"

"It's John; he's fainted," she stated simply. "Could you… Could you keep an eye on him while I… I get something from my room?"

Before he could answer, she was gone.

Gunn scratched his head, bewildered by Fred's behaviour and unsure why he was babysitting the unconscious guy on the floor. At least if Fred had told him she'd whacked the guy over the head, it would have made sense, but he fainted! With a shrug and a huff, he sauntered over to a comfortable chair near the guy and flopped down, only realizing afterward that he'd sat on something. Shifting in the chair, he pulled out the sketchbook then proceeded to flip through it.

Interspersed amidst sketches of buildings and artefacts, were ones of demons and people, not all of whom he recognized. Several of Cordelia. One of the Beast. A lot of Buffy. "Oh shit!" It was John, but he didn't look quite right; didn't look so helpless or innocent. "Angel knew him alright," Gunn mumbled. "Not so sure about them being friends."

In a whirl, Fred burst into the room with a taser and a bucket of ice.

"Fred? What the hell?"

"Everything's fine, Charles," she assured as she went to the kitchenette to top up the bucket with water. "OK. Ready."

Looking at her with raised brows, Gunn asked, "For?"

"To bring him around. Here, throw this on him," she ordered, thrusting the container toward her friend.

"And why the taser?"

Fred was fidgeting. "Well, just in case he's dangerous." She eased the tension in her elbows and lowered the bucket.

"What makes you think he's dangerous?" the man asked in a tone that made clear he didn't doubt the possibility John was dangerous, just that he wondered what would have given Fred that impression. "And if he's dangerous, why d' ya wanna wake him up?"

"I dunno. Something I thought he said. We're not-"

"Wha' did he say?" Gunn demanded.

"I'm not sure. But Charles…" Fred swallowed hard. "I think he said he killed Buffy. He was looking at a drawing of her and I think… well, that's what he said."

"A picture, huh? Did you see this one?" he asked turning the drawing of "John" toward the already high-strung woman.

Fred set down the bucket and took the book. Looking at the sketch only a moment, she shook her head then she dropped the book on the counter. "Well… We don't know anything," she insisted, reaching again for the ice water-filled container. "We can't make any judgements until we know something. In this country, everyone is innocent until proven guilty."

"But you said-"

She glared at him and held out the bucket. "We're not going to know anything for sure until he's conscious and can answer some questions. And we have to be careful; we don't want to spook him. But we need him awake. So get on with it. Wake him up!"

***

"Buffy?"

Sitting in front of the fireplace in the mansion's front sitting-room, the Slayer looked to the door to see Willow and Bea with another older woman. "Why do I get the feeling I'm in for an intervention?" mumbled Buffy to herself. "Yes?"

"This is Aisling; she's one of our Coven's Seers," Bea introduced. "Might we speak with you a moment?"

"Um… Sure."

The three women joined her by the fire, Bea and Willow perching on the hearth, the other woman settling into the wingback chair opposite Buffy.

"Now Buffy, luv," Bea began. "I hope you don't mind, but we've been talking about you."

The Slayer gulped.

"It's just... well, you've been really reclusive since you came and we were worried about you," Willow explained.

"I'm fine, Will."

"But you're not fine," the Seer spoke up, "and you're going to need all your strength to survive what's coming."

"What's coming?" the Slayer repeated, questioningly. She didn't want to hear about it, didn't want to think of any new evil or apocalypse.

"I know you're frustrated. Angry. But you've got to look inside yourself to overcome those emotions," urged Bea.

"You're going to receive a call," Aisling stated, "from someone unexpected. Someone from your past who needs you. Heed that call. It will impact greatly on your life and the lives of all humanity."

***

"A hundred plus years, and there's only one thing I've ever been sure of: you." He could feel her heart skip a beat and smell the saltiness of the tears welling in her eyes.

She looked away in that moment, breaking their intense shared gaze. He reached for her cheek in a gentle gesture of caring, but she turned away misreading his intensions.

He pulled his hand away, holding it in midair pondering what to do with it. Realizing he'd gone too far, he brought his arm down to rest on his knee. "Hey, look at me. I'm not askin' you for anything. When I say I love you, it's not because I want you ...or 'cause I can't have you. It has nothing to do with me. I love what you are. What you do. How you try." The tiniest hint of an encouraging smile curled his lips as the tears trailed down her cheek. "I've seen your kindness and your strength. I've seen the best and the worst of you," he said teasingly, "and I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are: you're the one..."

Her eyelids fluttered; eyes blurred by her tears, briefly opening wide — she was stunned by such a compliment. Her lips part slightly as if to speak.

***

With a twitch, a sputter, some coughing, and a "Bloody Hell", their "guest" regained consciousness.

"Sorry about that. You fainted. Here, let me get you a towel," Fred chirped with insincere sweetness as she popped into the bathroom.

"Fainted?" Embarrassed, John avoided making eye contact with the man he noticed was now in the room.

Fred reappeared and politely handed the dripping man the towel then settled into a chair next to Gunn.

"What happened?" inquired John shyly, as he sat on the floor resting his elbows on his raised bent knees.

"You were looking at some of Angel's drawings then you saw-"

"Her," he uttered staring beyond the pair in front of him.

Fred needed to be absolutely sure to which woman in the book John was referring, so she picked it up and passed the book back to him. "Can you show me?"

He flipped the book open somewhere in the middle then shuffled through a few pages and found her: Buffy.

"So you knew her? The woman in this picture?" Fred clarified as she looked with shifty eyes to Charles.

"I did," he said with a sorrowful smile. After a pause, whispering woefully, he admitted, "I killed her."

The other two stiffened at the declaration.

"She was the love of my life and I… killed her."

"When?" asked Gunn.

Even more shocked by John's belief that Buffy had been the love of his life than by the possibility that he'd killed her, Fred's jaw dropped, "Huh?"

Gunn repeated, "When did you…?"

"I don't… I don't know," was John's strange reply. "Like I said, I don't remember much about my life before…"

"Before what?" Fred inquired.

"I woke up in hospital a few months ago; I don't remember much before that," the visitor stated. "Just flashes here and there."

For a moment, the other two sat bewildered, processing what John had told them. Then Gunn said, "But if that was months ago, you couldn't-"

Fully aware of the conclusion the man had drawn, Fred slapped his arm to keep him revealing it then finished his sentence in an entirely different vein, "-couldn't have been living here in L.A. or we'd have met you? Right?" Without pausing to let the man answer, the twitchy woman jumped to her feet. "Well, it's late and you must be tired; I know I am. You are too, aren't you, Charles? I'd better get you outta here," she said, giving him a stern look and a sharp but subtle jerk of her head toward the door, "before you drop off right there in that chair." Fred dragged Gunn up out of the chair and pushed him toward the door. "We'll meet you downstairs in the morning. Night."

"Good night," a bewildered John called back as the pair disappeared behind the closing door.

***

On her way to work, Jude tried to reassure herself that John was alright. He wasn't hopelessly roaming the dark lonely streets of Santa Barbara late on Christmas Eve; he was home in bed, sleeping off too much food and eggnog with his landlords, or maybe he was working that night too. She'd called his place several times since they'd last spoken — since he'd said simply "thank you" and hung up the phone — but he didn't answer. Distracted with worry, Jude didn't notice the figure in the street until it was too late. Still, she slammed on the brakes.

Hearing the thump and rumble of the body over the hood of her car, gave the nurse a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Oh god. What have I done?" She reached for her purse, pulled out her cell phone then opened her door to check on the person she'd hit.

"Nine One One emergency. How can I help you?"

"My name is Judith Sanders. I need to report an M.V.A.," she stated as she walked to the back of her car. But when she reached the rear, there was no body.

"What's your location ma'am?"

Jude was hardly listening. She was desperate to find the accident victim when suddenly the panicked driver was grabbed from behind and her cell phone ripped from her hand.

"Look what we have here," said a girl who didn't look to the nurse to be more than fourteen. "Great phone, lady. Been looking for one of these."

"You want it, take it. Please just let me find the person I hit!" The woman struggled but the teens that were holding her were collectively too strong. "I just wanna help."

"Well, you can help by givin' me that sweater," the girl sneered.

"But…" She couldn't give up John's gift.

Coolly, the teen stepped up and said, "But it's Christmas. That's OK; I don't mind that you didn't wrap it." She took Jude's hand a squeezed, hard — so hard that the nurse could feel the bones splintering. "It's the thought that counts, and I think you better hurry up and gimme that sweater."

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