Chapter 10: Exits

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t stake you," Giles said slowly and fiercely as he peered at a stiff Angel from over his glasses.

Angel maintained a calm and apathetic expression. "I’ll give you a reason. Buffy."

"And I’ll give you two reasons why I should. My son and his mother."

Angel sighed and hung his head, an involuntary response whenever anyone brought up the subject at present. "I’m sorry for any pain I caused your family---" he tried to say lamely.

"Pain?!" exploded Giles. "You’re apologizing for ‘any pain’?! As if that term properly expresses all the damage you’ve done to my family!"

"Giles---"

"Quiet!" He adjusted the crossbow carefully so that it was precisely in the range of Angel’s heart. "I don’t think you’re in any position to be rationalizing your actions. It’s a little late." Giles’ eyes flashed a quiet fire, the kind that brimmed with untapped danger and was much hotter than it looked.

"It’s true," Angel quietly conceded. "I can’t begin to explain what I did, not when I can’t fully understand it myself."

Giles nodded slowly. "That being said, I don’t see much that’s separating you from the end of this stake."

Angel just gazed at him icily and blankly. "You’re the one who’s just buying time. You could have staked me the moment you knocked in the door."

"I have all the reason to. You kill my son’s mother, leading him onto a path of hoodlum delinquency and violence----"

"That is not my fault," Angel interrupted, jaws tensing suddenly.

"Whose fault is it that my son is lying in a hospital bed?!" Giles yelled, his arm whipping down and the crossbow with it. A look of guilt passed over Angel’s face as he ducked his head while Giles neared him with slow, deliberate steps.

Angel brought his head wearily back up to face Giles. "I never meant . . . everything got out of hand----"

"I think I’ve had enough of hearing about your intentions. It’s been made painfully clear that your intentions are not to be trusted. What I want to know now is what you're going to do."

Angel cocked his head with surprise. "You’re not going to kill me then."

Giles maintained his stonily menacing expression. "I kill you and I devastate Buffy." Just when Angel began to visibly relax, Giles spoke up again. "BUT . . . I don’t kill you then I risk losing my son."

"I wouldn’t do anything to----"

"Again, I don’t think I’m inclined to believe any of your promises." Giles was bringing the crossbow up to chest-level again and Angel eyed it with cautiousness.

"Buffy told me to stay away from her, from all of you----"

"It’s not enough. You stay and Spike will undoubtedly seek you and try to avenge his mother’s death. Are you prepared to say that you wouldn’t try to protect yourself is it came to that?"

Angel’s lips tightened and he struggled to lie, if it meant that he could stay in Sunnydale, somewhere, anywhere near Buffy. But honesty was intrinsic to him, much like his vampiric nature. He cursed both traits at the moment. "I would," he murmured quietly.

"Right. And him being an impulsive seventeen year-old boy and you a centuries old vampire with super-human strength, it wouldn’t be much of a question of who would prevail in that prizefight, would it?"

Angel’s whole body slumped despairingly. "So what do you want me to do?" he asked in the same slightly pleading tone he used when asking the same question to Buffy earlier. However, he already expected what Giles’ answer would be.

"I want you to leave town," Giles said softly and firmly.

"When?"

Giles looked around the sparse apartment. "What’s stopping you from leaving right now?"

Angel looked at him carefully and dangerously. "You know what is."

"Ahh, yes." Giles leaned down to prop up the thrown-over kitchen table, placing his crossbow down and seating himself at it as he began wiping his glasses. "Buffy."

"Yeah. Buffy."

"She herself asked you to say away from her didn’t she?"

"She didn’t ask me to leave town. You’re asking me to leave, without telling her, without even telling her when I’m going to see her again----"

"I’m in no rush for you to EVER see Buffy again," Giles interrupted as he straightened in his chair. "I don’t intend for you to ever to return to Sunnydale."

"That’s not your decision to make," Angel snarled.

"Do you love Buffy?" Giles asked abruptly, his head cocked as if he was asking in pure curiosity. Angel was taken aback by the sudden question and pursed his lips momentarily.

"You know I do," he replied, almost whispered.

"Then you would understand the notion of ‘unselfish love wouldn’t you? You’d want what’s best for Buffy. Much like I’d want what’s best for William. On my part, I think I’m being most unselfish." Giles placed his glasses back upon his brow and stared at Angel up over them. "Because there is nothing better I would want than to see your existence diminished to a pile of dust." Giles got up from the chair and began to pace the room slowly. "You see, Buffy is an extraordinary girl who’s been handed an enormous burden for a calling. She spends most of her life in either my library or the cemetery. She knows far too much about death and darkness than any human should ever have to face. She should be spending her time shopping, dilly-dallying with her friends, fixating on entirely silly young schoolboys who aren’t worth a second thought, enduring the normal trials and tribulations of any sixteen year-old girl. She deserves that much." Giles paused and gazed at Angel in a sort of sad and quiet way.

"Instead," he continued, "She falls in love with one who has nothing to offer her except more darkness instead of lightening the burden. She’ll never have the pleasure of an afternoon walk with you, will she Angel? She’ll never be able to hold your hand and feel the sunshine on her face and know that you’ll be able to take her to the matinee and for a burger and fries afterwards. And she’s worth more than that."

Angel’s whole body was tensing with every word of truth Giles uttered. It was true, all of it. Did Giles not realize that these thoughts were with him, painful and clear every time he was with Buffy, soaking her in with love and despair because he knew all this to be true? He knew how selfish he was being to her daily, to let her go on with her schoolgirl fancies and affections, but he had never experienced anything like her before and instead compensated by saying he wasn’t what he really was, that two centuries of slaughter and violence were completely erased by this little blonde sixteen-year old. But how could he not be aware of it? He didn’t just know it, he felt it, every time she smiled dazzlingly at him or softly brushed her hand against his in a sort of unintended embrace. He would look at her and secretly wish he hated her, just so she would get what she really deserved. His greatest wish was the ability to let her go. He looked back to Giles wearily who nodded knowingly.

"You have to leave Sunnydale, Angel."

Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Entrances

"But what if he’s still mad?" Buffy whimpered as Willow pushed her closer to the door of Giles’ condo. It had been three days since the whole mess with Angel and Spike at the Bronze. Buffy was now attempting to visit Giles, albeit a little nervously, since she was unaware whether Giles’ anger towards herself had passed. Willow tried to be flippant with her best friend’s concerns.

"Pfft, you know he’s probably not. Come on, he’s British. He’s probably making with the whole stiff-upper-lip and Mother Country stoicism."

"Well from when I last saw him, he seemed to have that whole good ol’ American rage thing down pat," said Buffy as she wrinkled her nose, frowning.

"Yeah but Giles----" Willow’s train of thought suddenly was interrupted when she and Buffy became increasingly aware of the thunderous crunch of death metal rock muffled from inside Giles’ apartment. They could practically feel the violent thrashing of the electric bass, as it seemed the whole condo complex seemed to rumble in time with the beat. The girls exchanged confused glances.

"What the . . . ?" Willow urgently and worriedly pounded on Giles’ door now, lest he had been attacked by a horde of heavily tattooed biker gang-members, who had locked him in his bathroom and proceeded to rip apart his house in a mad spirit of partying and drunkenness. Just as Buffy was about to kick in the door with similar panic, a ruffled and disheveled Giles thrust open the door, allowing a storm of deafening and crunching metal music out into the courtyard, forcing the girls to smash their hands to their ears.

"What IS that?" Willow yelled over the din. Giles wearily motioned them both in, which were invitations that Buffy and Willow were a bit hesitant to accept.

"Yeah, I would have figured your taste in music would precede the Metallica era . . . y’know, some rockin’ little ditties written by 17th century dead white guys with violins," Buffy pointed out, still wincing from the screeching feedback of the music.

"Well it bloody well isn’t my music," Giles sighed, reaching down for his Scotch bottle. "It’s some of Spike’s. Since he’s refusing to talk to me, he’s translating his adolescent dissatisfaction by blasting rubbish at ungodly volumes. All the neighbors have been complaining."

"Well how are you dealing with it?" Willow asked, hands still muffling her ears.

"I find a great deal of alcohol helps," Giles said almost cheerily, as he downed a glass. Suddenly becoming aware of both girls’ stoic glances, he hiccuped and sighed. "I’m afraid I’m not very experienced in how to deal with such situations."

"Well I’m pretty sure the loss of your long-term hearing wouldn’t help," Buffy said, alternatively trying to find ways with her hands and ears that would block out the most sound.

"He’s been playing that music for----well I’m not sure how long, the hours have seemed to have all melted together into one endless stream of hoarse screaming and non-sensical heavy metal gibberish." Giles rubbed his forehead in the spirit of extreme vexation. "Spike, will you PLEASE turn the music down?!" He called up towards Spike’s room pleadingly.

"Sod off!" was the irate reply from upstairs.

Giles sighed. "Well I suppose it can’t be helped. Ever since I took him home from the hospital, he’s been like this."

Willow’s eyes widened. "D-did you talk to h-him? About, you know . . ." Willow glanced worriedly at Buffy, who had suddenly turned sullen now that they’re were discussing the topic at hand, and mouthed "A-N-G-E-L" to spare her. Buffy laughed an abrupt, mirthless laugh.

"Willow, please! You don’t have to treat me like a piece of glass, I’m not tearing myself up about it, am I?" But there was a flash of pain behind her eyes that seemed to say otherwise. Giles saw it and suddenly felt a pang of guilt, remembering how he had driven Angel to the bus depot and nearly had to force him onto a bus.

"Giles?" Buffy tried to shake him out his thoughts.

"Huh? Oh . . ." It had not been Buffy, but the incessant noise emanating from Spike’s room that had brought him back to life. Giles sighed and took off his glasses to clean them. "Oh yes, now what was it you girls wanted to see me about?"

Buffy twitched slightly, but Willow, with her eternal spirit of irrelevant enthusiasm, jumped towards Giles. "Giles, would you please tell Buffy here that you are in NO WAY angry at her?"

"Willow!" Buffy elbowed her for her forthrightness. She cast a guilty and timid glance towards Giles. "I d-didn’t think you were MAD mad, I just---"

Giles smiled tiredly and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I’m not upset with you in the least, Buffy. I fully realize that none of what happened was your fault."

Buffy relaxed and brightened. "Well y’know, I felt I should apologize for not coming to you right away about Spike---"

Giles shook his head, cutting her off. "I understand why you did what you did. In a similar situation, I would have been equally torn. I’m just at a loss of what do now with Spike and his recklessness."

Willow and Buffy feebly glanced upstairs to the source of all the ruckus and frowned when they thought of the fuming young teen behind the door.

"Spike . . . I was kind of . . . well I was kind of hoping that I could see him." Buffy twisted her hands nervously despite her steely Slayer lot. Giles face lit up with recognition.

"Oh yes, well um, just let me . . ." Giles turned to his desk drawer and withdrew a key. Puzzled, Willow and Buffy followed him upstairs as he began to unlock Spike’s bedroom door.

"You’ve locked him in?" Buffy asked incredulously.

"I had no other alternative." Giles mumbled exasperatedly as he struggled with the lock.

"You really don’t know squat about teenagers do you?" Buffy hissed. "King of all rules, don’t lock the kids in. Especially kids like Spike. You confine and bottle up high pressure like that, it keeps building and building, until you get something that makes Mount Vesuvius pale in comparison."

"Again, I had no choice. The moment he got home, he tried to keep slipping out, despite all his injuries. And I know he had the intention of seeking out . . ." Giles paused and Buffy paled when they both understood that no one in particular wanted to talk about THAT subject at the moment. "Anyway," he recovered quickly, "I had to ensure that he wouldn’t get himself into another kamikaze mission. I suppose the music is his way of just thanking me for the favor."

Buffy nodded knowingly as Giles gingerly opened the door. A large, heavy object went flying and Buffy, Willow and Giles were forced to duck. Giles recovered and popped his head through the door cautiously. "Umm, William, y-you have visitors."

"I thought I told you to sod off!" An infuriated voice stated. "That bloody well wasn’t a welcoming gift!" Buffy slowly peeked her head into the messy room and surveyed Spike struggling with the window, trying desperately to open it. There was a duffel bag that had been stuffed with a number of weapons, bottles of holy water and stakes on the bed. Despite the number of bandages Spike was swaddled in, and the sling confining his arm, he was wrastling with the window violently. When seeing the still-glaring bruises and cuts that covered his face, Buffy suddenly understood why Giles felt forced to resort to imprisoning his own son.

"Spike," Giles sighed as he went to turn down the music on Spike’s stereo. "What on earth do you think you’re doing?"

Spike whirled around, enraged at his father. "You even bolted the bloody windows?!"

"Well the very fact you even thought you could slip out of a second story window in your condition only confirms my reasons for doing so."

Spike scowled and landed floppily on the bed. "For being such a bloody awful excuse for a dad, you make an excellent prison warden," he snarled.

"Thank you Spike. Now why don’t you greet our guests?"

"Hey Spike," Buffy made her presence known as perkily as she could, but upon seeing her, Spike only darkened even more at a furious rate.

"You. What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Spike!" Giles gave him a parental glare.

"We’re just here to visit you," Willow said, entering the room brightly, bearing a basket. "And umm, here, w-we made you Get-Well cookies!" She offered him the basket with a smile. Spike softened a bit and accepted the cookies.

"Thanks Red. Nice to see you." He veered his head towards Buffy. "Not you though. You can get the bloody hell out of here."

"Spike--"

"No, it’s okay Giles." Buffy held up and hand at a disapproving Giles and plastered a fake, bright smile. Spike maintained a poisonous glare towards her, but she turned to Giles and Willow. "Umm, why don’t you guys go downstairs for a bit? I kind of wanted to talk to Spike alone."

Giles’ eyes widened and Spike rose from his bed in disagreement. "Excuse me Blondie, but whoever said I wanted to talk to you? I just told you to get the fuck out."

"Buffy, perhaps--"

"No, don’t worry about it, it’s okay." Buffy smiled and continued to shoo Giles and Willow out of the room. After the two left, albeit very hesitantly, Buffy turned to Spike, who was glaring at her, and took a deep breath. "Look, I know I’m the last person you would want to see---"

"Oh yeah? And why would that be? Maybe cause you went and told Ol’ Rupes all about my vampire hunting gig, thus leaving me to be locked in my room to rot? Yeah, why would that bother me at all?"

Buffy cast a pointed look. "There were dire circumstances."

"Yeah, except you promised, you bitch. But no, you just had to go a skitterin’ to Pops as fast as you could and tell him all about it didn’t you?"

"Well SORRY, but I considered you landing in the hospital constituted as ‘dire circumstances’!"

"And whose fault was it that I landed in the hospital?" Spike spat at her cockily. "Whose boyfriend beat the shit out of me in the first place?" Buffy fell silent with guilt immediately.

"I’m trying to apologize here," Buffy said quietly.

"Yeah, thanks. I feel loads better. Maybe if I wasn’t stuck captive in m’room with a couple a’ broken ribs and a friggin’ fractured collarbone, I’d feel good enough to take you out for a cup a’ Joe and a chat." His eyes narrowed into slits and his voice oozed with hostile sarcasm.

"Look, what do you want me to do? I can’t help what . . ." she paused and tried to say the name, but it didn’t seem to get past the sudden lump forming in her throat, "he did . . . if I had known . . . about any of this . . . I would have never let you meet him."

Spike straightened. "Oh don’t apologize for that, Slayer. Now that I know where he is, it’ll be pretty easy to track him down and make dust bunnies of him."

Buffy glared at him and tensed. "That’s not going to happen, Spike."

"And why not?"

"B-because, because . . ." her mind raced, trying to find an explanation that wouldn’t indicate how much feeling she still had for the vampire in question. "Because you would only kill yourself trying."

Spike laughed dryly and humorlessly. "I am a vampire hunter, ducks. I do know how stake a vampire or two."

"Angel’s more than two centuries old. He’s been around the block more than a couple times. He’s not your average stakeable. What makes you think you could take him on?"

"What makes you think I couldn’t?"

"Well looking at those two shiners on your pretty little mug offers pretty compelling evidence."

"Are you just afraid that I could?" Spike asked, carefully noting how Buffy’s composure suddenly changed from confident to guarded. "That’s it, isn’t it?" he prodded on. "All you’re afraid of is losing your boyfriend. You don’t care who the fuck suffers or who he hurts, as long as he gets to stay your cuddle monkey."

Buffy eyed him, wounded. "Shut up," she whispered.

"That’s a compelling argument you got there yourself, Blondie. Here you are, pretending to be little Miss Concerned-for-Your-Safety, making with the gracious apologies and whatnot, but secretly all you care about is Soul-Boy and when you can snog him next."

"What do you want from me Spike?" Buffy asked pleadingly, thinking that somehow this question would shut him up, get him off her back, stop him from saying anything else about Angel.

"What do I want? What do I want? I want to be with m’friends in London at my favorite pub. I want to be up and about, doing what I do best: dusting vampires. I want to wake up and see my mum smiling at me like the last eight years have been one big joke. I want freedom from this bloody hellhole, I want----" his eyes suddenly gleamed as he gazed past Buffy and spotted the door open. "Freedom," he whispered, grabbing the duffel bag from off his bed and pushing past Buffy before she could realize what he was doing.

With Spike bounding down the stairs, Giles and Willow looked up from their cataloging of old texts they were immersed in. "What the hell---" Giles started. Struggling to keep Spike from running out the door, which he was barreling for, he grabbed Spike’s arm and was rewarded with Spike punching him out of the way. Buffy ran down the stairs, trying to catch him as well and Willow dropped all her books in alarm.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t know Giles, he just ran past me," Buffy was blubbering towards Giles who was clutching his head in pain.

"I’m blowing this sorry pit stop!" Spike declared triumphantly. "And there’s nothing any one of you pissants can do about it!" Thrusting open the door, he prepared to rush into the night, but nearly collided with two bodies about to knock. "Shit," he whined when he realized his exit was blocked. "Why does that happen EVERY time?" He glared fiercely at the two visitors, but his expression soon changed into one of shock when he recognized who they were.

"Is that any way to treat an old chum, mate?" a distinctly rough British voice said, mixed with amusement and familiarity. A young man that looked a few years over twenty stood framed in the door, his arm lazily hanging off a slight young girl about Spike’s age. The man had lank, shoulder-length, brown hair, a five o’ clock shadow of a goatee and was smiling smugly, as was the girl. The girl was extremely pale, her complexion only made more distinct by her raven-black long hair, large, glittering eyes and heavy red and black makeup. She was dressed in a fashion foreign to the valley-girl stylings of Sunnydale; a long burgundy lace dress with a black satin corset over it, accented by pointy black military-style, lace-up boots, all which culminated into an outfit that brought to Buffy’s mind only two words: Goth Princess. Spike seemed to have been struck speechless, something that Buffy had never seen before and regarded with confusion. He just stared at couple with awe and amazement, his mouth hanging open, much to suspense of the rest of the occupants of the room. Suddenly he shook his head, as if he was struggling to wake up from a dream and broke into an ardent grin. His attentions were especially placed on the girl. "Drusilla?" he whispered in disbelief.

The girl leaned against the frame of the door and gave him a wicked grin and wink. "’Ello pet," she crooned.

Chapter 12: Things Suddenly Get a Whole Lot More Confusing

Before any of the confused observers could inquire as to what was going on, Spike whooped loudly, threw down his duffel bag and lunged towards the girl, lifting her up in his arms and showering her with kisses and other profuse signs of affection. Well, thought Buffy, startled. Certainly wasn’t expecting that. She immediately found the scene distasteful and above all, mystifying. Spike? Associated with signs of affection? This must have been defying all fates of the cosmos. She frowned along with Giles when watching this confounding display.

The girl was squealing with pleasure, her arms thrown around Spike’s neck, legs dangling in mid-air as she returned his kisses with equal fervor. He swung her around the room, both of them chuckling with ebullient laughter. Spike gazed at her, still in amazement. "Drusilla, baby, I can’t believe you’re here," he breathed in a soft voice Buffy had never heard him use before. For some reason, it bothered her just as much, if not more, as his regularly caustic tone. Spike had let Drusilla down and looked to her partner with equal excitement. "And Munitz! You bloody, wonderful bastard, how the hell are you?! W-what are you doing here?!" He attacked the man in a crushing, manly hug that involved a number of grunts and much backslapping. The man grinned intensely as they both parted.

"What do you think, mate? I’m here to visit you! I finally managed to wrench out of that old baggage you call a grandmum details on where you bloody were. And since me and the missus were wantin’ a release from the London fog, a visit to the States, and some fun in the sun, we figured, hell, we might was well go to the place that had it all, not to mention our favorite rabble-rouser." He scruffled Spike’s hair messily in a brotherly embrace.

Spike was still overcome with elation, babbling jubilantly. "But y-you . . . I mean, how d-did you---h-how’s everyone? S-Smithy, Peterson, Benny, Rob, Arab, Blade, Tom--"

"William!" Giles stepped forward, interrupting the joyous reunion as he eyed the two newcomers suspiciously. Both certainly looked well acquainted with the street life of London. Munitz was dressed in old leather and black, a sort of taller version of Spike without the bleached blonde hair and reminded Giles of some of his old mates during his "Ripper" days. He immediately distrusted him. "Umm, w-why don’t you introduce us to your, um, friends?"

"Huh? Oh." Spike was brought back down from his euphoria momentarily. He sighed carelessly towards his father and breezed through introductions. "Umm, allow me to introduce Munitz and his sister, Drusilla. Munitz, Drusilla, that’s Rupert."

"His father," Giles corrected and leaned forward for a courteous shake. Munitz nearly ripped off his arm and shortly turned back to Spike.

"Your dad?" Whistling, he eyed him up and down. "He’s rather stiff and upper, in’t he? Looks like he’s got a good bit a’treacle behind the ears. Wouldn’t imagine you came from that."

"Ehhemm." Giles frowned maddeningly, interrupting. "Uhh…Munitz is it? How is it that you’re acquainted with my son?"

"Oh we go way back. We’re both in the . . ." Suddenly, with some forethought he paused. "Umm . . . in the same band," he finished with a shrug of the shoulders. Giles saw right through it.

"Aha. I see."

Spike abruptly slapped Munitz on the back before Giles, in all seriousness, brought down the mood completely. "Yup, we were in the same band. This bloke plays a killer lead guitar. Rips it up, he does. Taught me the tricks a’ the trade. And this lovely goddess---" he turned now to Drusilla and put an adoring hand to her pale face. "Would show up to all our gigs, our most loyal fan. She’d come firstly as support for her brother, but later as I’d come to know her better, she and I---" he blushed as he lay down the history of his and Drusilla’s relationship. "Well, let’s just say, by that time I had my own personal groupie." He winked to no one in particular and snaked one arm around Drusilla as she sighed with contentment.

"I missed you so much luv," she said, simpering and saccharine-like. Spike pulled closer to her.

"If it’s as half as much as I missed you, baby . . ." Spike purred, spooning into Drusilla’s arms. Buffy nearly gagged at the sight. Annoying, hostile, perverse Spike was bad enough; sweet, puppy-loving Spike was repulsive.

"I wanted you to come with me and Miss Edith to a tea party in the park," Drusilla was mumbling in a lilting, singsong voice as she drew circles on Spike’s chest. "But you weren’t there to hear the music in m’head as the horsies went off to play down Kingsbury Row." Spike responded to her Dada-esque remarks by merely nuzzling her forehead. Buffy and Willow exchanged utterly confused looks.

"Miss Edith?" Buffy interjected puzzledly.

"Her doll," Spike supplied, still nuzzling.

"Huh . . . not exactly the most linear girl on the block, is she?" Willow whispered to Buffy, who nodded in agreement.

"Where are you stayin’ pet? Spike still retained his hushed voice as he smiled towards Drusilla.

"The Sunnydale Motor Inn," Munitz cut in.

"That pile a’piss?" Spike was incensed. "No bloody way, you’re stayin’ here."

"Ahhh, William, perhaps---" Giles was up and started, dismayed at this new prospect.

Spike gave an incredulous look to his father. "You’re not gonna let my best mate and my girl stay in that squalid hellhole, are you?"

Giles pursed his lips. "I thought you were preparing for a departure yourself."

Spike shrugged his shoulders restlessly. "Was gonna, but now, not so much. Didn’t have any money anyway. Wasn’t a good plan besides, didn’t think it through." He turned back to Munitz and Drusilla. "So it’s settled! You and Munitz are welcome houseguests here!"

"Wonderful!" Munitz was fast catching on. "I’ll just take the master suite, and I’ll be set." Giles cleared his throat meaningfully and Munitz grinned puckishly. "Just joshin’ you, mate." Before Giles could brighten, he continued. "I can take the couch. It’s closer to the bar anyway. Glad to see you keep it well stocked. Hope the larder is too, cause oi, am I ravenous. You don’t happen to have Weetabix here in the States, do you?"

Giles rubbed his forehead again and tried to put it as politely as he could. "I-I really d-don’t think it would be a good idea t-to---"

"You could sleep in my room with me," Spike was saying softly to Drusilla with a smile. Giles straightened.

"I bloody well think not! Drusilla may have your room, but you’re bunking down here with Munitz!"

Spike gave him a sour face, but happily grinned at both the new houseguests. Giles suddenly realized what he inadvertedly agreed to and inwardly groaned. Willow and Buffy both had the epiphany that they were in over their heads.

"Ummm, well, we’ll just leave you all to getting settled . . ." Buffy said uncomfortably, backing away towards the exit with Willow. Munitz perked up when he became aware of her presence.

"’Ello, ello," he piped up, giving Buffy an appreciative look up and down. "Who’s Miss Hollywood?"

Buffy recoiled and cringed. "Okay, umm, eww," she quipped, unsuccessfully disguising her repulsion.

Spike, still tangled in Drusilla’s arms turned to Buffy, and resorted back to his scathing attitude when referring to her. "Oh her. Never mind her, she’s just a dumb blonde."

"Hey!" Buffy made a jump towards Spike, her fist instinctively flying up in regular Slayer stance. Willow tugged on it and eased her away from the scene.

"Ummm, i-it was nice meeting you all," Willow was saying with her usual generic politeness as she dragged Buffy out the door. "I-I hope you have a good stay in Sunnydale." With that, she and Buffy nearly ran out the door, which Spike slammed after them with relish. Out on the doorstep, Willow sighed with relief before glancing over at Buffy. "Is it just me, or did things suddenly just get a whole lot more confusing?"

Buffy alternated her gaze from her best friend to the door behind which the recent dysfunctional scene had taken place. She raised her eyebrows. "Oh yeah," she affirmed as they both walked away.

Chapter 13: City of Angel's

The winter month of February was always overwhelmingly warm in Los Angeles, a never-ending testament to the sort of freakish and curious nature that characterized the city. This was the home to misfits from all over the country. Starstruck, ambitious, misguided, oddball, beautiful, corrupted, naïve, superficial, existentially despaired and aimless souls all resided here, making one wonder how this place could ever be nicknamed "The City of Angels".

Speaking of aimless souls, one such straggler was roaming the back alleyways of a Los Angeles blood bank, searching in the dumpsters for an uncleaned container, a pack of spoiled blood, any remnants of sustenance he could find. To any observer, this man was the saddest case of human survival; a person desperately hanging off of the bottom rungs of society, but somehow, always falling short. Someone who even put the homeless to shame. He sighed frustratedly, drawing his head from the dumpster, throwing the heavy bin over with brutish desperation. He glanced soberly around at his surroundings and down at himself, a sad excuse for a human being. Except he wasn't human.

His usually sturdy frame had been reduced to a frail mockery of what he used to be. His face was paler than it ever had been, a frightening canvas of ghostly white stretched over weary bones. His hair was greasy, lank, and fell short from the usual on-end shock of hair it usually was. His black clothes were tattered, hanging off his body in shreds---a sad end to what had before been a spotless Hugo Boss suit.

He had chosen this city for the anonymity. He knew, in the entire world, if you had no place to go, you could come here. A sort of unwelcoming hospice for freaks, losers, outcasts, pariahs, he figured he would feel at home here. Wrong. He should have remembered he felt at home nowhere. He was one-of-a-kind in all the world, he could never feel anonymous, even when he visually blended into the crowd of other social lepers.

He remembered existing like this once; the streets of Manhattan, not unlike this, he prowled about in sewers and alleyways, accepting his fate as the penultimate nothing---a thing that existed not as a human, not as a demon, therefore solidifying his out-of-place role in the universe. He told himself daily that his suffering and his pain had no point----he was nothing, insignificant---no one would ever care the trials he went through, not when he had spent nearly two centuries casting scourges of cruelty upon helpless innocents. He was paying the price for being one of the most infamous deviants in Europe; his name was uttered and feared by millions----now no one cared to even learn it. He had dealt with it then, what was so different about now?

Two years. Two years among eighty was enough to suddenly make him feel like he had a place in the world, that he mattered. Two years and one blonde girl gave his unlife purpose and meaning. Unaccustomed to any attention whatsoever, he was suddenly basking in it, in love and affection. Not only that, but he had something to give this girl: his aide, his support, his devotion. It almost fooled him into thinking that he had relevance to the world after all, that he could give and receive. He ragingly kicked the wall in self-desperation. Goddamn Whistler, he muttered hatefully to himself. Goddamn him for making me think there was something better . . . that I could actually become something. For giving me a taste of what could have been---no strike that, what never could have been. For making immortality seem that much longer without it . . .

"Hello?" A soft voice pierced the night, cutting through the hazy noise of sirens and car alarms that circled the man's head. It was the voice of a young girl, something that he hadn't heard in weeks. He quickly veered his glance to the source of the voice.

A blonde girl, somehow familiar, though obviously not. She cautiously and nervously glanced about the alley, searching its corners with a flashlight. She held a bag of trash in her hand, but had initially jumped when she first heard the noise. "Hello? I-is anyone t-there? I h-heard something. I-if anyone's there, come out now!"

He blinked twice, trying to see past his dizzying hunger and overwhelming despondency. She almost looked like---but no, it couldn't be. Still he was far enough gone to fool himself into thinking it was her.

"B-Buffy?" He whispered, and immediately, the flashlight shone in his direction. He could see her plainly enough to see she was indeed not the same---the difference in her facial shape, her clear, blue eyes instead of stormy hazel ones, all the signs were there indicating that this wasn't his girl. And still he imagined she was. Green eyes replaced blue ones in his mind.

"Oh my god," the girl murmured as she caught sight of the stranger's pinched, pallid face. She approached him slowly, pity coloring her face. "A-are y-you sick? Are you okay?" Sympathetic tone. Only one person in the world ever spoke to him this way. It only deluded him further into his mirage. He reached his hand out, trying to touch the girl desperately, grasp onto the air around her. At that, she backed away slightly. "Y-you are, aren't you? Y-you're sick . . ." Her gaze this time was mixed with apprehension and disgust. She had got a better look at him and frowned at his tattered clothes and slovenly appearance. And he was still reaching out to her, imploring her for her touch.

"Buffy? B-Buffy, is that you?" he was still muttering nonsensically. She suddenly got a glimpse of half-eaten blood packs at his feet, trash littering the space around him. She saw that his hands were matted and dirty, and covered with blood from clawing through the garbage can, rummaging his way through discarded syringes and needles. She understood now. He was a thing, not a sick helpless man, but a thing. A dirty thing. She gazed at him critically, repelled now.

"You aren't supposed to be here," she snarled.

The stranger looked as though he had been slapped in the face. "Wha----Buffy--"

He was obviously high, psychotic or brain-dead. "I'm not Buffy, or whoever you're mumbling out," the girl stated harshly, glaring accusingly at him. "You're crazy. You don't belong here, you're nothing."

He ground his hands to his skull. "No . . . n-no it's not true---"

"Get out of here!" she spat at him, shining the flashlight full on in his face, blinding him for a second. He hissed, so shell-shocked now that his demon visage was rising, turning his brown eyes to slitted glinting yellow ones and his smooth, pale face monstrously disfigured. The girl watched in horror as he morphed into the truly dirty thing he was and began to back away. Finally, she threw down her flashlight and bags she was clutching onto and screamed, a horrible, frightening sound that filled his ears with despair. A hundred years ago, a terrified shriek like this would have been his siren song, a beautiful sound he would have relished as much as musical note. Now it just filled him with dread and odium for himself.

The girl was scrambled away from him, running back into
the light, leaving him to soak in the darkness. And suddenly it wasn't enough for him anymore. He got off his feet and stumbled out of the pitch-black alleyway.

He could barely see where he was walking, all the lights, colors, people meshed into one stream of blurry color, every voice, call, siren and car alarm becoming indistinct and hazy. He never noticed the disgusted strangers who gave him disapproving looks as he limped past them down the dirty sidewalk. All he could distinguish from the chaotic cloud of people and noise and lights in front of him were blonde heads. Every blonde girl that past him suddenly made him die inside, because he always mistook them for one singular blonde girl, one who was the only one in the world for him, one who felt like she was a world away. He saw her face everywhere, floating above the rest of the crowd, smiling at him teasingly, laughing at him with a soft tinkling laugh that made him want to grab the mirage before him, touch it, savor her if she was real. He tried that once, but was rewarded with an infuriated blonde woman smacking him upside the head with her massive purse. "Goddamn druggies!" she yelled.

I can't do this, he was frantically muttering to himself. I can't. I can't live like this, there's nothing for me, absolutely nothing . . .

He was unconsciously stalking the streets now, almost forgetting that his place was in the shadows as he walked aimlessly under the sleazy, neon lights of this L.A neighborhood. Suddenly, a little item in a pawnshop caught it his eye and he halted. Pressing his hands up to the glass, he gazed at it longingly from where it sat studded in a little black box. It didn't look that expensive, he had seen a dozen rings like it before, but somehow, he now wanted it so desperately he was ready to raid the store in a fury for it. From behind the window, he saw a nervous and anxious man staring back at him, already guessing his motives by his scraggly appearance. He glowered back at the man and walked into the shop.



Thirty minutes later, Angel walked out of the pawnshop, leaving an unconscious shopkeeper lying amidst a ravaged shop in his wake. He had a box containing a claddagh ring in his hand, and enough money in his pocket for one train ticket back to Sunnydale.