Title: Gathering Dust
Author: Ling
Posted: 08-10-2002
Rating: R (What can I say?  I've got a dirty mouth, er, fingers, er, mind.  Um.  Shit.)
Email: lifebounce@yahoo.com
Content:
Summary: "You'd write a eulogy for me?  That's sweet, in a creepy way, considering you're probably the person who'd kill me."  Cordelia removes the last pieces of her life from Sunnydale, and in the process runs across an old, familiar face, much changed by time and unhappy love affairs.  It is in mutual misery and blustering unawareness that something sparks between the two, and in L.A., at Angel Investigations, a love already blossomed is threatened by an attraction revealed. 
Spoilers:
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made. John Milton's work is, of course, his own, and used with only deep respect for one of the Masters.
Distribution: Nothing Fancy has express permission; anyone else, please inquire at lifebounce@yahoo.com before posting this story.
Notes: This story is not fluff. Go away.
Feedback:

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Part 1

Her breath came out in white-cloud puffs, and the sight of it startled her.  Admittedly, it was early morning in December, but it was early morning in December in Southern California, it hardly seemed appropriate for the air to be that cold.  'Still,' she reasoned to herself, 'you are standing in the middle of Sunnydale, where Master vampires with flighty souls and Slayers and Hellmouths once and still reside.'  She felt the scowl rising to her pretty face, and did nothing to mask or force it away; there was no one there to pretend for, and no reason for pretending.

"It's pretty damn nasty in there," the man warned, his voice raspy from too many two-packs-a-day years.  "No one's been in there since," he checked a clipboard, scratching his head, "hell, three years ago.  When it was first taken out."

"That's fine," she bit out, rubbing her hands together.  "It doesn't matter."  She managed a wane smile.  "I'm used to certain amounts of ick."

The man smirked, tipped his green hat, and left without so much as a backward glimpse.  In another life, this lack of attention would have bothered her: she had made it a goal to capture the gaze of every man who could appreciate her charms, and she'd succeeded well.  Now, she was just glad nothing leapt out of any dusty corners to maim or kill her - maybe both, possibly at the same time. 

She was on her third calming breath, eyes staring into the mostly-darkened contents of the storage space, when the cell phone rang.  The tone was set to some brief TV theme she'd found on the Nokia website after she'd gotten her new phone ("Oh, yuck!  Wes, please tell me this stuff washes off..."): some techno-computer mix with a cello theme, a little electric guitar and synthesizer in the background.  Or, at least that's what the original music had sounded like upon sampling; on her phone, it more resembled a random series of blips and beeps, only Fred recognized it for what it was.

Cordelia finally answered at the third ring, breathless and distracted.  "Hello?"

"Cordy."  The male voice on the other end was solemn.  And if she listened hard enough, focused, channeled the spirit of Eliza Dolittle's savior-linguist, she could hear the vaguest hint of Ireland still floating from his tone in lengthened syllables and softly-rounded 'r's.

She blinked, and reality clarified itself around her.  "Hey."

There was a pause.  "Um, where are you?"

She cleared her throat, old Queen C shielding up, on a limited basis, of course.  "Sunnydale Storage Space called this morning; my mom and dad left some stuff when they took their little 'trip.'"  She fumbled through her coat pocket, looking for the mini-flashlight that was hanging from her keyring.  After a few harried seconds, she huffed and gave up pursuit, deciding to wait until sunrise.  "I rushed out of my apartment first thing this morning.  Management was threatening to throw all our old stuff into an enormous bonfire down in the landfill."

Another pause.  "Oh.  Well."

Something suddenly struck her, and she looked at her watch to ascertain her suspicions.  She looked back up quickly, narrowing her eyes at the brilliant white of the sun, just peeking over a bank of storm-gray clouds.  "It's only 6:25 in the morning; what the hell are you doing up, Angel?"

He grunted over the line, followed by a high pitched hiss, and the faded sound of voices in the background, the heavy clopping noises of boots on tile flooring.  "Never went to bed.  Went patrolling and found a nest, called in Gunn and Wes."  A long-withheld whimper, and then a flare of anger.  "Gunn!  Ow!  That hurts!"

"Not bad, I hope?"  There was an unbidden flutter of worry in her chest.  Should a piece of stray wood get too close, or a little too much sunlight...  During rougher fights, as the blood flowed and before his skin and flesh started to knit itself back together, she couldn't help but feel rocking nausea at the horrible white flashes of bone from deep gashes and his quiet groans of pain when he couldn't hold it in any longer.  She'd seen bad, and hoped that today's fight didn't fall into that category.  For all of the vampire's strength and agility, he was still a remarkably fragile creature, in her opinion.  Not that she'd ever share it with Angel; the man had his pride - and an ugly glower. 

"Nothing to be worried about but - Oh for Christ's sake!  Gunn!"

Cordelia had to bite back a smile as she heard, "And I don't apologize for lacking a woman's touch when I was rudely hauled out of my cozy bed at half-past Late As Ass at night to dust vamps and get the crap beaten out of me."  There was the rustle of cloth and bandages before she heard Gunn say, "Tell Cordy to get back here quick."  The next lines were spoken loudly, yelled in the general direction of the phone.  "'Course, you wouldn't have to rush 'cept for the fact that Angel whines like a little girl!"  With that, Cordelia let any lingering worry rest: Angel only whined when it wasn't serious injury.

There was an irritated growl over the line.  "Punk," Angel muttered affectionately.  She let the smile wash across her this time, the expression reaching even her eyes.  Angel seemed to return his attention to her, and asked, "So you're getting your parents' stuff?"

"Yeah.  The guy at the office is agreeing to drive it into LA for me."  She hesitated, and then asked, "Actually, I was wondering, would it be alright if we kept it at the hotel?  I don't have that much space in the apartment."

"Sure.  I'll open one of the empty rooms."

The manager was fast approaching again, this time accompanied by a large truck.  She smiled and waved at him, mouthing her thanks.  "Thanks a lot, Angel.  I've got to run.  Seen you soon - two hours, tops, all right?"

There were no more parting words said before they both shut their cell phones.

* * *

She was loading the last box onto the truck bed when the manager got an urgent call.  He'd be back in a few minutes, but she was on her own for the time being.  She sucked it up, certainly, it was Sunnydale, but during the daytime, and that made a world of difference.  Her fingers were thawing, and the early morning light was undeniably beautiful across the orange-tinted skies.

It had been easy to leave Sunnydale, getting it to leave her was markedly more difficult. 

She'd spent her entire life there, in a large house with a gardener and the pool boy, being envied by all her neighbors and so-called 'friends.'  To be honest, living in Sunnydale was not the suppressed-angst-fest that she was certain most people assumed it to be.  She'd been incredibly shallow in her youth, and it was not some calculated cover to hide some secret heartfelt pain at being abandoned or molested or whatever the hell people blamed their own psychological problems upon nowadays.  It had simply been a function of the fact that her parents had never bothered to tell her to behave otherwise, and no one else had dared to press the point.  Occasionally, she'd felt an odd shiver of hurtfulness when someone tossed her an icy glare from across the playground, but by the time she'd gotten to high school, her own emotional dermis was so thick that it didn't even register on her Queen C radar.  She was still living with the consequences of her self-involvement.

It was an everyday struggle to change herself.  After arriving in LA, the punches had landed hard and fast, unmerciful on the soft underbelly of her more sensitive, grown-up version.  The arguments weren't petty any more, it wasn't just best hair or perkiest breasts or varsity cheer squad, it was degrading commentary about...her, and nothing else.  The low point had been after she'd met Angel, after she'd stormed his apartment in the middle of the night, unable to stomach even one more night in her own 'home.' 

The fight was rough, but in the end, she always thought it was worth it.  Depth gave way to depth of emotion, and that led to wonderful, warm feelings of camaraderie. 

"My, what have we here?  Last I heard, the Poof had you wrapped up in L.A."  Cordelia froze.  She recognized that voice, but prayed she was only hallucinating.  "What, no 'hello,' 'how are you,' and all that other blather?"

She turned slowly, her eyes registering the shockingly blonde hair first, and then the mild, predatory smirk on the handsome, male face. 

"Spike," she said cautiously, backing away.

The vampire in question reached into his pocket and pulled out a new pack of cigarettes.  "Oh, off it, Cheerleader."  He peeled off the plastic and hurriedly lit one, taking long, deep breaths of nicotine-laden smoke and sighing.  "Peaches a no show?"  His eyes turned dark, and his voice darker as he added, "Thought he'd take any excuse at all to moon over the Slayer."  He was picking on his grandsire, as usual, but his heart wasn't in it at all: there was no zing behind the pricking meanness, no life behind habitual verbal castigation.

Cordelia frowned.  "Why are you here, Spike?"  In her pocket, she fumbled with her cell phone, opening it as quietly as possible, her finger hovering over memory four and five, ready at the first sign of danger to have Angel or Cry-Buffy to a) find her dead body, and b) finish off Spike, since during a daytime endeavor, she had not counted on the large, ample shadow that the Sunnydale Storage Space buildings created. 

William the Bloody smirked and held out the pack of cigarettes.  "Want a fag?"

Cordelia narrowed her eyes, becoming annoyed.  "No.  Why are you here, Spike?"

The vampire huffed in annoyance, and blew out a mouthful of white smoke.  "Skulking, Cheerleader."  He cocked an eyebrow at her, saying, "I take it no one's informed you."

Cordelia, as a rule (of Angel's, that is), habitually carried a large wooden cross, a vial of holy water, as well a stake.  Her boss-cum-coworker insisted that she be prepared in all cases if Angelus should ever arise.  "Oh, and if there're any other vampires around, too," he'd said offhandedly.  He was more than certain that he could handle any outside threats to Cordelia if and when they should appear; Cordelia just took all of his precautious with good-natured stoicism, and humored him.  At that moment, though, she was enormously grateful for Angel's paranoia, and fingered the stake in her pocket alternately with the cell phone, wondering whether she ought to wait for him to make an attack, or to move first and fast, a preemptive strike.  She went ahead and pressed memory 5; as much as she hated Buffy, if anyone could save her ass in that situation, it was the Slayer.

"Informed me about what?" she asked, trying to buy time. 

Spike cocked an eyebrow.  "Who're you calling, Cheerleader?"

Cordelia gaped at him. 

"Oh, please," the vampire said conversationally.  "You know about my hearing.  Hang up the blasted phone.  I can't hurt you."  He took another drag off of the cigarette, holding it in between his pointer finger and his thumb; whether he did it because it made him look more dangerous, or because all Brits were strange like that, Cordelia didn't have time to think about.  She was in red-lined panic-mode.

She frowned at him.  "Have you got a death wish or something, Spike?"

The vampire regarded her oddly.  "How'd you figure that, Cheerleader?"

Cordelia snorted, a bit more of the old Queen C rising up in her, comforting her with icy, metallic walls.  Queen C never allowed herself to be afraid: it was beneath her.  Queen C, instead, got pissed.  "It's California, Spike.  During sunrise."  She checked her watch - the one which utterly clashed with her outfit, but she wore because Gunn had given it to her for her birthday, wrapped in four different boxes all covered with loads of tape, the sadistic bastard.  "Actually, half past six, so over the clouds, a little to the left, and I'm talking to a pile of vamp-dust.  The hop from Sunnydale Storage to any given manhole or shade is probably pretty risky, and I know you're not going to hang around here in this pitiful shade smoking yourself into oblivion all day."  Cordelia narrowed her hazel eyes.  "So all I can assume is that you've got a death wish."

Spike rolled his eyes in annoyance.  "I'm not stupid, or suicidal, this great beast of a building casts the largest shadow next to the church over there," he looked at her newly shortened and lightened locks, "Blondie."

Cordelia narrowed her eyes, some sort of irrational rage flaring up at the mention of a completely harmless haircolor.  She had a sneaking suspicion that it was the side-effect of the entire Darla/Buffy/Kate fiasco that Angel passed off as his love life. 

She pulled the stake out of her pocket, wielding it threateningly.  "Don't screw with me, Spike.  I'm not feeling very jokey right now." 

He smirked at her, took another long, squint-eyed drag from his cigarette, and threw it down to the ground, crushing it beneath his left heel.  Spike looked back up at her briefly, almost contemplative, and said, "Oh, for the love of Christ, Cheerleader.  Put it away already.  I've been chipped, I can't hurt any humans."

Cordelia balked at this on two levels: a) Spike was a lying fucker, from past experience; and b) she was not human.  Though, she assumed that if his heightened vampire sense of smell had not picked up the demon in her yet, he wasn't going to pick it up anytime soon.

"Chipped?" she asked, skeptical.  The stake remained raised.

He rolled his eyes.  "The government got a little...excited.  There's a chip in my brain; I can't hurt any humans."  He smirked at her in a self-deprecating manner.  "You happy?  Feel safer now?  Less flighty?"

'No, you son of a bitch.  Last time I saw you, you hurt Angel,' Cordelia wanted to say.  But Angel was in LA, and she was within striding distance of direct sunlight.  "A little," she lied.  "Why're you here, Spike?" she asked again, this time in a firmer tone.

The vampire sighed, and stared out at the soon-to-be-blazing sky.  "You're a little behind on Sunnydale news, right?  Involving Buffy?"  He saw Cordelia visibly wince at the name, and laughed out loud.  "Still shaky on the Slayer?"  Former Queen C simply sniffed, and tossed her head at the mention of one of her less satisfactory subjects; but put the stake back in her pocket, momentarily assured that death did not wait for her just yet.  Spike allowed himself another guffaw before saying, "You're a trip, Cheerleader."

"Gosh, Spike, thanks for the praise," she drawled, sarcastic.  "'You're a trip'?  What the hell happened to William the Bloody, Master of Poetry?"

Spike glared.  "You want poetry?"  His honor had been challenged.

She sighed in annoyance.  "I was just saying - "

"Fly, envious time, till thou run out thy race!

Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,

Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace,

And glut thyself with what thy womb devours -

Which is no more than what is false and vain,

And merely mortal dross."

Cordelia stared at him for nearly a minute before Spike smiled. 

"Lovely, isn't it?" he said, drinking in the shocked surprise on her face.  He was secretly delighted that she wasn't anywhere near as well-read as she pretended to be: it would have been disastrously embarrassing for her to point out that his oration had been not-so-creatively lifted from a dead English poet. 

In a sudden shift from shock to anger, her nostrils flared, and the dark hazel-brown of her eyes grew almost black, her shoulders tensed, and her heart raced.  "You stole that from Shakespeare!" she accused.  "No one comes up with stuff like that on the spot."

William the Bloody looked appalled.  "Shakespeare?  I bloody well think not!"

"Oh," Cordelia said, looking defeated.

'Of course, Milton is a whole other story,' Spike thought privately.

They shared a few moments of silence before Cordelia asked, "Why hasn't the Slayer come yet?"  She reached freely into her pocket, now unconcerned about Spike, and pulled out her cell phone.  If he was going to kill her, he would have done it already.  "I called her ages ago."  She looked at it, puzzled.  Had her phone died?  Momentarily malfunctioned?

He shrugged.  "She's probably screening her calls.  Caller ID, you know."

"She can't do that!" Cordelia gasped.  "She's the Slayer!  She's legally obligated by voodoo and woowoo and all that crap to come to peoples' aid!  The Powers That Be are going to be so pissed off when they hear about this!"  Her hands were fisted now, nails digging into her palm in anger.

Strangers were worth saving.  Horny teenagers found necking in parks while Dark Evils lurked about were worth saving.  Everyone in Sunnydale High School was worth saving.  But Cordelia was not worth the trouble; for Cordelia, Buffy could turn off her cell phone, and go back to highlighting her oh-so-goddamned-blonde hair.  For Cordelia, Buffy held no sympathy, friendship, or concern.  That much, from her behavior in the last three years, was readily apparent; but she had not anticipated being completely ignored in her moment of assumed need.  What if Spike had been feeling malicious, and bitey?  Where would that have left her?  Dead in a shadow for the management of Sunnydale Storage Space to find?  In pieces weeks later in Spike's crypt?  The more she thought about it, the angrier she became, and the madder she got, the less rational she grew.  It would, she reasoned, explain why it seemed as if hot tears were pricking her eyes.

Spike, all this while, was regarding her reaction to his words carefully, intrigued by the emotions that crossed Cordelia's face: bewilderment, revulsion, anger, hatred, and grief.  It seemed to defy explanation: Cordelia had always hated Buffy, that much everyone in Sunnydale knew.  In the early days of the Buffy/Angel affair, the brunette had even been noted throwing herself at tall, dark, and lifeless for the dual purpose of appeasing teenaged hormones and royally irking the Slayer.  It seemed to defy all explanation that now, three years removed from one another, Cordelia would have suddenly become affronted with Buffy's ambivalence.

"Y-You all right there?" he asked, unsure.

Cordelia closed her eyes, and nodded.  "I'm fine."  And just like that, the clouds passed from her face, and she was once again perfectly collected, looking at Spike expectantly.  "For the third time, Spike: why are you here?"

He ignored his raging curiosity and said, "There's actually a manhole, just there."  He pointed past Cordelia.  "I ran out for a pack of fags and  was cutting across in a rush so as not to burst into flames."  He frowned at the bright sunlight that was, by now, streaming down on Sunnydale, making it look deceptively suburban and harmless.  "Fuck."

Cordelia, though knowing she shouldn't care, couldn't help but feel a certain measure of guilt for delaying him.   She shuffled about in her large shoulderbag for a moment, digging past the folded changing-cloth, the extra diapers, and the travel-pack of baby-wipes she took everywhere, and grabbed the black umbrella that sat at the bottom.  Angel had once commented that given time and an unlimited budget, Cordelia would eventually be able to rig a makeshift crib out of her bag, complete with mobiles and all.  Cordelia took this as a personal challenge, and had immediately petitioned him for funds.

She stuck out her hand, umbrella offered.  "Here.  Take it."

Spike stared at her in dumb surprise. 

On some level, Cordelia still wanted Spike dead because of his past treatment of Angel, but then again, she was sure a few high school acquaintances felt the same about her.  Certainly, a supposedly-defanged vampire and a reinvented young woman were different things, but there were undeniable parallels.  If not closeness, she felt at least a connection.

Cordelia wrinkled her elegant brow.  "It's my fault that you didn't make it before it got sunny out."  She shook the umbrella about, as if offering a treat to a dog.  "Take it."

At that exact moment, the manager returned, and looked uneasily at the exchange, his eyes betraying his fear.  Spike grabbed the umbrella and opened it abruptly, almost putting his own eye out, and rushed off toward the manhole without so much as a word of goodbye or thanks, still mystified. 

Cordelia, ever the master of spin, flashed the flabby, over-the-hill manager a gracious smile, and said, "Natural redhead; if he so much as gets a little bit of sun, he burns like crazy."

* * *

The bandages on his side were slipping off, but he would be damned if he was asking Gunn to fix them.  The hellish patching-up session had made him rethink his tactics as Angelus, as Charles Gunn seemed to have a better handle on inflicting pain and enjoying it.  That Marquis de Sade had nothing on the young vampire hunter.

"Thanks, Wes.  That was the last box," came Cordelia's voice from the second story.  Angel, instinctively looked up, despite the protestations of his newly garnered wounds and smiled to see his Seer covered head to toe in dust.  Fred's brown hair popped into view and the two women smiled at each other, leaning over the upstairs railing and smiling out into the space above the lobby, amused by...something.  A few moments later, Wes, who occupied himself by staring indiscreetly at Fred, joined them.  Gunn was hopping around Cordelia's computer, excited and laughing like a five year old little kid, waiting with baited breath for the CD to finish reading.  Thirty seconds later, Angel's head whipped around at the sound of trip-hop blasting from Cordy's CD player, and laughed at Gunn's 'dance moves.'  Later, Fred would confide that he "looked like he was having a seizure."  Lorne was taking a nap in Angel's easychair, Connor snoozing in time with his babysitter - who was, by the by, dressed in purple satin and aquamarine silk, sporting a handkerchief in the breast pocket with a sequined pair of women's lips on the corner peeking out.  But they were family, and family didn't care if you were a shitty dancer or if you were a stuttering idiot around your crush or if you lived in a cave for five years or if you could give Ralph Lauren a heart attack.  Family didn't care if you were once the biggest bitch in your high school, or if you preferred O positive to hot chocolate.

Angel managed to hide his smile. 

He heard descending footsteps, and then smelled the familiar, sweet, hot smell of Cordelia, almost, but not completely, masked by the sticky, sensual scent of her menstrual blood.  He closed his eyes, taking a moment to compose himself as the boiling, dark scent hit him in waves; he would not vamp out, or lunge at her.  He'd made it three years into working with her without alerting her to how arousing and distracting her period was, and he wasn't about to let the cat out of the bag: it would only embarrass her and humiliate him. 

Turning slowly, he allowed himself to smile at the sight of her carrying his son, soft and smelling of powder and baby oil against her shoulder, his pale, flushed cheek pressed against her own.  This, he realized, was heaven, as close to perfect bliss as he'd chance, and have to worry about, here in L.A.

It did not register how bizarre it was to have a quiet conversation with raging trip-hop playing in the background, and invoices being printed by the horrible deskjet that replaced a temporarily broken laserjet.  With all that background noise, one would assume that Angel and Cordelia would at least have a fussy baby on their hands.

"Of course," Cordelia huffed, sitting down delicately next to her Champion.  "The little guy screams like there's no tomorrow when someone so much as walks loudly, but sleeps clear through all that noise."  She glared at Connor without any real malice.

Angel just smirked.  "He just likes being the center of attention."

Cordy grinned.  "Well, then.  Scientific proof that personality is not genetic."

The vampire frowned.  "He's part Darla, too, you know."

"Don't remind me," Cordelia muttered, rolling her eyes. 

As much as she was grateful for Darla's sacrifice, it didn't bring up many pleasant memories when she thought about Angel's blonde sire.  The first images that flashed through her mind were okay, with Angel coming back from the alley rainsoaked and bewildered, cradling a baby.  Then, she thought further, to his 'beige period' and how he'd fired them all and done the horizontal nasty with someone he'd sworn he hadn't slept with.  Lies and betrayal and deceit; all too harsh for Cordelia to think of.  She'd forgiven, but forgetting was an entirely different thing.

Angel watched the emotions play across his Seer's face, and bit his lip in concern, knowing exactly what she was thinking of.  The delicate trust between them had been forged out of desperation after Doyle's death, and had been shattered when he'd gone stupid and tan and decided to fire them and go gallivanting around Los Angeles with a chip on his shoulder the size of New Jersey.  The bond had been rebuilt piece by piece months later, but with Darla's arrival, a lot of old mistakes were revisited.  Connor's existence had done a good bit to erase Cordelia's silent loathing of him, but there were still rough spots, still tentative moments where he felt awkward and guilty, deservedly so.

The brief, tense silence ended when Cordelia announced, "I saw Spike today."

Angel blinked.  "Pardon me?"

"Spike," Cordy said absently, playing with Connor's fingers, but staring out into the lobby blankly.  "You know, William the Bloody?  Your disaffected grandchilde - "

"I know who Spike is!" Angel snapped.  "How'd you see him?  Where'd you see him?"

"In the shadows of the storage center," she started, "in Sunnydale."  She wrinkled her nose and turned to Angel, a tone of disapprovement in her voice as she said, "He's lucky he's a vampire, or that chain-smoking would have killed him years ago!  I mean, he's a walking invitation for emphysema."

Angel was reeling.  "He didn't try anything?  He didn't try to bite you, or harm you?"

Cordelia shook her head, distracted again.  "No...  And that was the strange part.  He said he couldn't hurt humans anymore."  She frowned, still not looking at him, now idly bouncing Connor in her lap.  "Though..."

* * *

Angel was pacing, which was, in his opinion, markedly inferior to brooding.

But he had nowhere to brood properly at the present moment, which seemed ridiculous considering he owned a somewhat-condemned hotel.  Be that as it may, he did have coworkers: Gunn was sprawled out on the pink puff in the lobby, enthusiastically cursing at his Gameboy; Wesley had taken over all the office space, allowing his books and by association their dust mites to consume all the brooding room; Fred had was in the garden, chatting up the shrub; Lorne was in his room, watching over Connor as per request made almost twenty minutes prior, before Angel had known it was the only place to get any privacy.  Cordelia was sitting around in the only other non-dilapidated room of the entire hotel that he felt comfortable walking around, that, of course, being the extra suite which, he admitted, had been set up specifically for her use. 

Still.

So, Angel was walking along the third stair hallway, refusing to sit down on the dust-ridden carpet and stare at faintly olive-green walls.  He would not condescend himself to that level; there would be no desire to brood great enough for him to press $356.99 slacks to ugly, moldy carpet – especially not after having waited a week to get them tailor-fitted. 

He didn’t understand what Spike was doing, or the look on Cordelia's face that morning.

Spike had no reason to be hanging about Sunnydale during daytime; it was California, and the city was named Sunnydale for a reason.  But then again, it was Spike, who had loved Druscilla, and who had started out his life as a poet; odd things were to be expected of William the Bloody.  What was more puzzling was Cordelia.  She hadn't seemed either angry or afraid of Spike; rather, she'd just looked thoughtful. 

The last time Angel had mentioned Spike, Cordelia had started a twenty minute rant that began with how horrible Spike was to have tortured him, and ended with what she would do to the "bleach-blonde idiot" if he ever came within a hundred yards of her.

Stranger things were afoot.

Of that much Angel was certain.

* * *

The phone rang three times before an unfamiliar female voice answered.  Cordelia assumed that it was Tara, Willow's girlfriend; with that realization came the horrible memory of her "big fat lesbo" comment, and she was nearly tempted to hang up.

"Uh – hi, I'm looking for Willow?" she forced herself to say.

"Sure, can I ask who's calling?" the girl on the other end replied.

Cordelia twisted the phone cord about her index finger.  "It's Cordelia."

"Okay."  There was a brief shuffle, and faint voices in the background before a loud rustle was heard and Willow said, "Hey there, Cordelia.  Long time no chat."

'Yeah,' Cordy thought.  'Long time.  Damn resurrecting Slayers.'  Out loud, she said, "Yeah, it's been ages.  Look, I've got a question, and I'm sure I'm going to sound absolutely nuts for even thinking about it, but…"

There was a long, uncomfortable silence before Willow said gently, "It's okay, Cordelia.  Go ahead and ask it."  Still silence.  "Does this have anything to do with my being a lesbian?" the redhead asked, nervous.  "'Cause, you know, it doesn't change who I am outside or, you know, what I like – well, some of what I like, and – "

Cordelia colored brightly, horrified.  "No!  Of course not!  I just – I just ran into Spike today, and I was wondering about something he said to me!"

"Oh," Willow replied.  "You were in Sunnydale?"

"Yeah," Cordelia sighed.  "It's a long story.  He just…he told me he was harmless, and he didn't seem to be lying."  She laughed softly.  "It's ridiculous, isn't it?  I mean, it's Spike.  The last time we saw him he was trying to kill Angel and – "

"You hadn't heard?" Willow said, surprised.  "He's telling the truth.  He got a chip in his head a while back.  He can't hurt any humans.  I mean, last time he tried, he got hurt worse than the human.  But then, the human was just sort of shaken up and…"

Willow continued, her voice fading from Cordelia's mind as the brunette just stared at the wall, dumbfounded.  Spike was harmless?  Since when?  And how was one defining harmless?  A computer chip?  A computer chip made Spike harmless?  It was almost beyond belief!  But then again, he hadn't tried to kill her or hurt her or bite her at all that morning, and he'd almost seemed shy about taking her umbrella.  And if Willow was convinced…

"…So it's been an interesting while in Sunnydale, you know, with Spike being all fighty on Buffy's side instead of, uh, trying to be bitey on…people in general – "

"Gosh, thanks so much for the info, Will," Cordelia interrupted, "but I've got to run."  For politeness' sake, she chirped, "You ought to come down sometime, to L.A., you know, when no one is dead, or coming back to life.  I could take you clubbing."  And almost as an afterthought, she added, "Oh, and bring Tara!  We could make a day of it."

* * *

Spike had already sulked around the Summers' property for nearly two hours.  He'd hunched his shoulders and kicked the grass; he'd skulked around the trees; he'd even brooded and glared.  After having gone through four and a half packs of cigarettes, he decided that his feeble cash supplies couldn't handle this any longer, not unless he was able to pickpocket someone soon.

He reached into his coat pocket to fumble around for his last pack of smokes, making plans for what he'd do after he went through those.  Instead, his hand brushed the liquid cloth surface of an umbrella, and suddenly remembering that morning's events, he pulled it out, and stared at it, somewhat disoriented. 

It was ridiculous to call the umbrella a gift, but in essence, that's what it was.  The Cheerleader certainly hadn't acted like she'd expected to get it back.  He inspected it closely, and noted the cheap, shoddy machine stitching, the badly molded plastic handle.  It was one of those five dollar umbrellas that one purchased in the doorway of the Wal-Mart when caught by sudden showers, something you kept but didn't really over think.  Spike had been unaware that the former Queen C of Sunnydale owned anything short of a hand-crafted Burberry umbrellas in classic black, so as not to make the expense of a weather-necessity showy.    Things, he decided, had changed.

As far as gifts went, in his entire life, he'd gotten all of ten.  The first eight came from his family, back while he still had one, before he'd gone to school, become a poet, and gotten turned by Dru.  Thereafter, he'd received offerings of bodies every once and a while from his crazy lover, but the real substantial gift, the one that he still had, was a silver pocketknife, purchased mid-1800s, when they were deadly expensive.  Dru had seen it in a shop window and been enchanted by how shimmery it was; with soft, stroking fingers, she'd begged it from Angelus, and given it to Spike.  She'd never explained why.

This umbrella made ten gifts in all.

He was still somewhat thrown, a little emotionally raw after his most recent encounters with Buffy.  Ironic that, he caught himself musing oftentimes, remarkably distanced from the reality of the issue.  It seemed absurd that a Slayer would attract not one, but two vampires; and not just common stock: Angelus and William the Bloody, some of the most famous names in Watcher's diaries and general vampire lore all over the world.  There was just something about the tiny, blond thing that drew men to her, Spike supposed.  He really shouldn't feel bad about it; if Angelus - ignoring the pussy-eating-soul problem - could admit to falling hard for the Slayer, then there was no shame in Spike doing the same, right?

Except the little blonde chit had all but fallen into his grandsire's undead arms, and she'd beaten the fuck out of him; slightly less encouraging, if one thought about it.

Spike growled, low in his throat.  He was no nubile young schoolboy, nor would he delude himself into thinking that Buffy was his first love.  In some ways, he was vastly more experienced that Angelus; he knew the heartache that came with parting ways, and he understood that there was no guaranteed forever, only gratefulness for each moment one was able to steal with their loved ones.  Angel and Buffy had not understood that; they still didn't, and the horrifyingly badly-plotted storyline that was their never-ending, star-crossed love affair would be left out for all to see and pick at, to fester and rot.  He hated the Buffy/Angel story; not because it had happened, but because it was time for it to end, and the producers kept signing it for more goddamned seasons.

What was it about Peaches, anyway?

First Darla, who had always has an unnatural fixation on her childe, considering Angelus was probably the only vampire ever borne that hadn't fallen madly in love with his Sire.  Then Dru, who - Spike admitted to himself privately - loved Angelus wholeheartedly, her shattered mind dancing in circles and sparking with happiness every time he so much as stepped into a room, her eyes flaming like bonfires for her "Daddy."  All this led to the ugly soul-issue and subsequently Buffy.  He didn't want to think about her then.

But even Cordelia!  The Cheerleader, all shiny and golden from days spent in Los Angeles had been reeking of the Poof, tainted with the smell of him.  And though the overpoweringly lush scent of her period had covered up some of Angel's stench, it hadn't been enough.  Spike couldn't even lose himself in the fertile, thick spice of a woman's blood: he was too distracted by Angel.  Fuck if that was fair. 

Suddenly he realized why the smell of his grandsire was so strong even though Cordelia had been gone for nearly a day: the umbrella.

And angrily, he glared down at the present, realizing he couldn't keep it, not if it was drenched in Angelus.  Not even if it still faintly smelled of Cordelia and her slick, hot smell.  Spike barely resisted the urge to bury his nose in it: he didn't care which woman it was, the menstrual cycle was probably the most arousing thing in the world to a vampire, which was ironic, and cruel, as female vampires didn't have them. 

'Shit,' he thought angrily, jerking the umbrella away from his face.  'I have more dignity than this.'  And he almost threw it away, tossed it into a pile of wrappers and Styrofoam containers and used condoms on the side of the darkened street. 

But no matter the reasons, it had been a gift. 

William the Bloody had not been a poet for nothing; he openly admitted (at least while he was alive) to being sentimental to the point of maudlin sometimes.  He couldn't toss the gift; not when it came from someone so shiny and golden, smelling like fucking and hot and good and who had believed him on faith and gotten sad when Buffy hadn't come to rescue her, not that she'd needed to.  William the Poet, the lover, somewhere deep inside the vampire found Cordelia somewhat intriguing: he liked how much she pretended.

He glanced at the umbrella again.

"Well, then," Spike said aloud to himself, "it's only proper to return borrowed things."

* * *

He heard her coming, and set Connor down in his crib, turning around to look at the doorway expectantly.  As expected, Cordelia, perfectly coiffed and looking somewhat bewildered, stormed into the room, and declared, "Spike is harmless."

Angel blinked at her.  "Have you been drinking?"

Cordelia bit her lip, conflicted.  "I just called Willow.  She said that Spike got a computer chip in his head, and can't hurt people anymore."  She regarded him hotly.  "Do you believe this?"  She flopped down on his bed and stared out ahead of her, not meeting Angel's eyes and talking in a low, confused voice.  "But...then again, Willow wouldn't lie about something like that, would she?  This couldn't just be some sort of stupid joke, right?"  She sighed loudly.  "I guess it's true: Spike is...less evil."

"Please.  Spike?" Angel scoffed.

Cordelia looked conflicted.  "That's what I thought, too.  But this morning...  I just don't know!  He didn't even try to scare me!  It was almost as if he was tired, you know?"  Angel didn't, and was vaguely unsettled by how much Cordy was reading into such a brief encounter; at least, she'd claimed it had been brief.  Only God knew what her definition of brief was...  "He even recited poetry!" Cordelia cried, growing ever more confused.  "I mean, what if Spike really is...well, clipped?"

The vampire sat down next to her, and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, rocking Connor's crib with the other, his eyes soft.  "Cordy, why are you so upset about this?"

She look at him, and her eyes were dark as obsidian.  "I just...  I can't stop remembering what happened the last time I saw Spike."  There was no audible tremble in her voice, but her breath hitched in her chest, and her heart beat a little faster.  The dim lighting of his bedroom and the orange glow of his lamp caught the extra shine in her eyes.

Angel felt his chest tighten in anger.  That son of a bitch grandchilde of his had scared  Cordelia, frightened her so thoroughly that she still had that slightly haunted expression in her eyes just thinking back to it, all these years and months later.  She made the case of being strong when other people were around, but she was tired now, half-asleep already and confused, and there was no one there to pretend for: Angel knew her. 

Spike was dead, Angel thought. 

She leaned back, holding herself up on bent elbows, and rested her gaze on Connor's crib, carefully avoiding eye-contact, mentally cursing herself as her verbal diarrhea continued.  She would have given anything to shut up then, to make herself stop talking, but she couldn't, the images kept flooding her mind.  "I just see you strung up in my head, with Spike smiling all evil-like, watching you die."  She was going to choke and become Cry-Buffy of she didn't stop soon. 

'Shut the fuck up,' she told herself.  'You're probably scaring him.  Just shut up.'

She didn't dare meet his gaze.  His hand had fallen away from her shoulder, comforting heaviness gone, half a minute of silence ago.

Instead, he did something very surprising, and she found his fingers, long and thick, the palms of his hands calloused from battle, tangled in her hair, stroking her scalp and neck, curling about her skin.  The touch was gentle, soft, and welcomed; Cordelia found herself leaning into the rhythmic motions of his hand, and felt his closeness as he bowed down to press a lingering kiss to her temple. 

"It's all right now, Cordelia," he whispered.  "He's not here now."

She let her eyes drift closed, and saw vaguely that it was nearly midnight.  How had she allowed herself to stay so long, to become so tired?  Being tired around Angel was dangerous: ever since Connor, his mothering instinct - she hadn't even known vampires, ensouled or not, could have one - had kicked into high gear.  Fred, during a brief illness, was confined to her bed, waited upon hand and foot happily by both Gunn and Wes.  When Wes had caught whatever Fred had, Angel set up on the guest rooms and made him stay at the Hyperion.  Gunn, noting an unsettling pattern, had gone home before symptoms manifested, and escaped Angel's watchful eye.

Cordelia would not be so lucky.  'I'm not going to fall asleep here.  I don't care what his hands are doing.  Oh, God...that's so good...  No, not going to - Shit.'

She groaned softly, feeling her head get heavier, and her cheek press against his 300-count cotton sheets.  The silk ones, the Really Expensive Silk, ones had been burned after Darla.  He'd come back from killing a nest of vampires one day to find her happily tending a trashcan-bonfire with his ridiculously overpriced bedding, but hadn't deigned to say a word.  He'd been completely forgiven that day, and presented with new sheets. 

Cordelia knew she was in dangerous territory.  Oh, she'd spent the night at the Hyperion before, never in Angel's bed, never so comfortingly close to being intoxicated with the soft, babysmell of Connor, melting against Angel's fingers.

"A-Angel," she whispered half-heartedly.

He shushed her gently, his eyes warm, the smile on his mouth as gentle as his expression.  "Go to sleep, Cordy.   You're safe here."  He smiled and brushed her cheek, watching her surrender to sleep, hazel eyes fluttering shut, lips slightly parted. 

Angel looked in the crib to find his son breathing softly, deep asleep, and turned back to his bed, where his Seer was curled up on the left side, the side he didn't sleep on.  Feeling almost guilty for how quickly he disrobed, Angel tossed a blanket over her, and crawled under the sheets next, reminding himself that he had quality stock cotton between them, and that nothing could happen.  The blackness of the room pressed about him, condensing her vanilla-perfume-sweet-blood-woman smell into a womb of comforting air about him, with Connor's soft breath and faint scent of babypowder and him just close by. 

He felt contented, if not blissful; and that was so good in and of itself.  He would be happy just to lie there, to sleep close to her and hear the sound of her breathing all night.  And she would be safe from whatever lurked outside or in her nightmares, because he would be there; that was the only time he ever stopped worrying about her, when she was there, and whole, and well beside him.

Because he couldn't resist, he pressed his mouth to her forehead, and said:

"You don't have to worry about anything while I'm here." 

...And then, there was nothing but night, and the soft sound of three hearts beating in tandem; one of them more softly than the others, but there, just lying in wait.

* * *

"Oh, for - could that wanker be any more pretentious?" Spike said to himself, his feet planted firmly, looking up at the four-story hotel with some disgust.  Of course his pathetic excuse for a grandsire would pick the most conspicuous and gaudy place in all of California to settle in.  And what was that Angel Investigations crap, anyway?  Who hired a vampire to find out if their wife was cheating on them?

Did Peaches even know how to use a camera?

'Why,' he asked himself for the 107th time since he'd set out for L.A., 'am I here?'

William the Poet would have marched a thousand miles to give a girl a proper "thank you" and a gracious kiss on the hand; he'd been that kind of guy, with those kinds of girl following him all around.  Had Dru not turned him, Spike assumed he would have spent a few more years fancy-pantsing around before marrying some lovely creature and having a boatload of children with her, dying ridiculously mortal and content.  He sneered at the thought; the murder and maiming and terror had been much more fun.  So why was William the Bloody standing in front of a hotel in Los Angeles to return an umbrella to a girl who probably hadn't thought twice about him, unless it was how to stake his arse? 

The answer was quite simple, actually, if he let himself think about it longer: Buffy. 

He couldn't bear the thought of lingering in Sunnydale to spend another day competing with Buffy's half-hatred half-lust.  Oh, she hated him, but she loved to screw him.  Being a vampire, hate and lust were generally intoxicatingly sexy; not so much when one was suffering from a sudden affliction of love, and wanted nothing more than sickening sweet cuddles before a nice, hot romp in the sheets.  He wanted to lie about and do nothing with Buffy, to just be comfortable.  They were always either fighting, or fucking.  That had worked well with Darla, and to some extent, even Dru, but that was not what he wanted with the Slayer. 

Where else was he supposed to go in California?  Los Angeles was a haven for demons, he'd heard; it had some of the best nightclubs and drinking spots all around.  'And besides,' he rationalized, 'since I was on my way here anyway, I might as well return the umbrella.'

That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

Spike looked skyward, and noted with some malcontent that it was nearly dawn.  He was taking a big chance by being here, Angel would be less than cooperative, he was sure.  And Cordelia probably didn't live in her place of business.  He looked at the doors of the Hyperion thoughtfully before turning for the nearest manhole. 

He'd heard about a club here in L.A, some time back that served a mean Bloody Mary and provided live entertainment.

* * *

"Christ, did you see 'im?"

"See who?"

"It's William the fucking Bloody!  Just there!  Nursing that scotch!"

Generally speaking, Lorne didn't like vampires.  There was just something more sinister about a human face with a more-than-averagely-wicked mind underneath.  That was fine, because on a whole, vampires didn't pass through Caritas very often.  They came by once in a while, got a Bloody Mary, hissed at a few customers, and left.  He didn't so much mind them, as if he had a choice between having vamps, or not having vamps, he'd choose the latter.  Still, they usually had money to spare, and that was always welcome at Caritas.  (Though God knows how they'd gotten it.  Lorne often wondered why Angel couldn't take a leaf out of their books regarding cash flow and investment.)

Then again, it was mostly moot because Caritas didn't exist anymore.

Lorne closed his eyes and tossed back another Seabreeze.  It just didn't pay to be pacifistic or generous these days.  Open the club to tone-deaf ensouled vamps, get it destroyed by way of Chevy, gang violence, and firebomb, in that order.  On the upside, he did have free and luxurious accommodations indefinitely, and was able to play on Angel's guilt until the end of time. 

He'd parked himself in The Red Room sometime after midnight, having tired of listening to silence and the sound of Cordelia and Angel sleeping in the next room.  The Red Room, while offering no sanctuary spell, had a lower history of violence than even Caritas, owing mainly to the large, angry Grappler demons that owned, operated, and bounced the joint. Everyone underground in L.A. knew Lorne purely from force of personality, and as a somewhat legendary anagogic, no one was going to harass him if all he was trying to do was get a few drinks. 

Idly, Lorne turned to the side to look at the two bloodsuckers, fully vamped out, whispering to one another and pointing to a small, dark booth in the corner.  He followed their line of sight to see a bleached-blonde man staring at the stage performer disinterestedly, a neutral expression on his face.  He was dressed in a black duster, a dark blue shirt, and leather pants.  Lorne snorted.  'Vampires, you'd think they'd never heard of polyester or something,' he thought. 

"Last I heard, he was in Sunnydale, plotting to kill the Slayer!" cried the first vampire.

The smaller one, with mousy brown hair, scoffed.  " Hadn't you heard?  About him?  It's awful!  I hope it's just a rumor!"  He leaned in closer, whispering, "I heard that he got nipped.  You know, can't hurt humans anymore!"

"You right bastard!" said the other in a hush.  "You're fucking me!"

The brunette shook his head, adding, "No!  Really!  I heard it from Dennis, you know that idiot, wanders down into Sunnydale for the thrill of it sometimes?  Christ, he needs to go back on his Prozac.  Anyway, said that Will the Bloody was actually helping the Slayer!  That he couldn't hurt humans anymore!"

Lone reacted to that.  A vampire - that couldn't hurt people?  That was rich.  Angel had a soul and he could still hurt people if he had to, or if Cordelia was in danger.  Still, the green demon took one more look at the vampire in question, noting his passive expression.  There was no hunger in those eyes, no plotting.  He was just sitting there, enjoying a drink and some music. 

'That,' Lorne mused, 'is definitely worth wondering about.'

He paid up and started stumbling out. 

Angel would just die if he knew his grandchilde was in town.

Continue on...