Chapter Text
She has a headache; a skull-throbbing, head-splitting, God-she-wishes-it-would-just-go-away headache. THX versions of thunder-and-lightning are flashing behind her eyes, casting her world in flickering shades of white, then black, then white again. A world that's frequently plummeting into spotted grey and then rocketing back into too-sharp clarity the next; dizziness capturing her in a sickening thrall. Her limbs are all but buzzing from pins-and-needles, the sharp, stinging sensations painful and distracting. Sandpaper coats her tongue; the rough dryness causing her to cough weakly, again and again.
Coughing even now, she staggers awkwardly, desperately colliding her shoulder into a door frame as she pauses to catch her breath. Panting dryly leaves her doubled over, the grey spots behind her eyes swirling against the fabric of her sky blue dress. Her neck aches bitterly, the torn skin in desperate need of an antiseptic wash and bandage and her arm's not doing much better either. Already the flesh has darkened to a nasty red-brown shade, skin peeling back as it exposes a collection dry blisters.
She doesn't know who it was who left the incinerator door open and burning freely and she doesn't know who it was who left her lying next to it, arm pressed against the metal side. Doesn't know and doesn't really care. What she does care about is staying conscious long enough to get the hell out of here. And if she can do that, if she can stay conscious and get out, then she'll care. She'll care about the incinerator, she'll care about who dumped her there like she was yesterday's garbage, and she'll care a lot about the rage she's gonna direct in their direction.
Because she is not yesterday's garbage. She's Cordelia Chase. The best-ever thing to come out of Sunnydale. And right now...
... she's going to be sick.
Staggering again, with one arm wrapped around a bile-churning abdomen and a second hand holding the side of her neck. Sometime between exiting the school's basement and finding herself here in Giles' street, the wound had begun weeping again -- dribbling blood that will undoubtably stain her cashmere cardigan beyond repair.
Her memory is like swiss-cheese, full of holes, and even though she's knows that that's because of the blood loss it doesn't stop her from cursing the vampire who did this to her. Damn vamp's and their we-don't-care-about-your-accessorising-problems-after-we-bite-you mottos -- don't they know that chokers are so last season?
Mind ablaze with the latest -- or rather, latest in the real world's -- Gucci scarves that she's so going to be buying when she gets out of this twisted Never Never Land, it takes her a moment to realise that she's finally made it. A ragged exhale is torn from her throat and for a terrifying moment she thinks she might even fall to her knees and kiss the ground like some B-grade horror-flick actress who's just caught sight of the hunky hero who's come to save her.
Giles. Hunky hero. Her brow furrows and nose wrinkles in classic 'eww'-style and gratefully the knee-falling urge passes. Still staggering -- but staggering with a goal in sight so that's okay -- she all but collapses against the heavy wooden front door, cheek pressed against the rough surface. Sanctuary. Finally. She prays -- yes, prays -- that she's not gonna faint again. She's already done the passed-out, swooned-right-over trick twice since leaving the high school and she doesn't want to do it again. Not only is it dangerous, it's tacky.
A loud crash pierces through her relief and she jerks away from the door instinctively, her oven-baked arm scraping across the wood by accident. Hissing in pain she takes a step to the side, peering in through the window cautiously. For a moment she sees what she wants to see -- Giles standing near a wall, a lamp smashed on the ground, the Librarian's clumsiness having gotten the better of him once again. Then she sees what she doesn't want to see -- Giles against the wall, near a smashed lamp, and Anya holding him there. Demon-faced, bad-wish-granting, apparently-very-strong-and-bad-ass-Anya.
For not the first time in her life, she wishes for better friends.
Backing away, she trips over a potted plant, landing awkwardly. Tears smart in her eyes and she sniffles. It's just not fair. Not fair at all. She'd come here for help, for saving, and now it's all going bad. Again. Her arm hurts and her neck hurts -- Xander, it was Xander who bit her! -- and her heart hurts and --
-- there's another crash from inside the apartment --
-- and she clambers to her feet in time to see Anya -- horrible, no-friend-of-hers-now, demonic Anya -- standing over the fallen body of Giles. Giles who is now hurt too. She sniffles again. Hurt and dead and she is so sick of this place already.
"I wish Buffy Summers had come to Sunnydale," she whispers under her breath, the sandpaper in her mouth causing the words to rasp against her teeth. Speech has never seemed so painful but the wish makes her feel just a little bit better. Not a lot -- it's gonna take so much more than a handful of words to make her feel better now -- but a little bit.
And right now, that little bit is everything.
It takes her the rest of the night to get home. She'd fainted again, somewhere near High Street, and the keeling-over thing is so getting tired. Or maybe that's just her. God knows she'd love to go to sleep.
Dawn's spilling over the horizon, dazzling her with its brightness as she all but crawls up the curving driveway and across the threshold of her home. As the double doors thud shut behind her, a choked cry wrestles free from her throat and at its exclamation, she realises that she's still saying her wish. Or trying to. As has been, it seems, since she left Giles' apartment.
"I wish... Buffy Summers... had... come to Sunny... dale."
The gasped utterance, again, makes her feel that little bit better and she sinks to the floor. Everything is still hurting and she's just gonna lie here and cry and wait for one of the help to find her. They'll find her and then everything will be better again.
They'll call a doctor and get her arm and neck all healed. They'll call her father back from his business trip and he'll buy her something nice and expensive to make her feel happy again. They'll make her something to eat and drink and maybe they'll even call the retreat that her mom's gone to and her mom will come back -- her Epstein-Barr all cured -- and her mom will organise a nice trip to Aspen or the Bahamas or somewhere equally exclusive and nice for her.
Everything will be better again.
It has to be.
She doesn't know how long she lies there, curled on the not-really-polished floorboards in the foyer, crying and waiting for salvation. She watches the shadows shorten as the sun continues to rise and eventually it sinks in that no-one's coming. No maid, no Daddy, no Mommy. No freshly squeezed orange juice or blue box from Tiffany's or airplane tickets to Hawaii.
Nothing's getting better. Again.
In a daze -- pain, dizziness, disbelief -- she gets to her feet and slowly makes her way through the house. On the kitchen counter there's a sheet of paper, a note carefully transcribed in Lucy's -- the housekeeper's -- precise printing. A reminder that Lucy will not be in tomorrow -- which would now be today -- as she has a family funeral to attend. And as she stands there, the sheet of paper drifting absently back onto the counter top, she can almost hear Lucy telling her this yesterday morning before she'd left for school. Of course, she's sure that Lucy had said it was a family christening she was going to, not a funeral, but the affidavit before her says otherwise.
Pins-and-needles return to accompany the chilled gooseflesh that's swiftly covering her arms and legs and as she hugs herself, she realises that she needs food. Blood replacing food. She took Home Ecc -- surely they covered this topic? What with the school being on the Hellmouth and all.
Opening the fridge she grabs a container of cottage cheese, some celery, and a carafe of orange juice -- some vitamin c couldn't hurt, right? -- and heads for the stairs. She has to sit down before she even gets halfway up but that's okay; that gives her a chance to drink some of the OJ and thereby lighten her load.
She's just tired, that's all. Tired and running a few quarts closer to zero than she knows is healthy. Damn Xander. First he cheats on her, now this. Her fist slams into the marble banister of the staircase. It's just not fair.
The burst of petulant -- but justified, damnit -- rage helps. It helps her to get to her feet again, and to get moving once more, and before long she's in her bedroom. Her safe, expensively designed and decorated, no-vamp-ex-boyfriends-in-here bedroom.
Which just happens to reside over the Hellmouth.
The not-so-sudden but suddenly-really-terrifying realisation causes her to stumble back against the doorjamb. She lives in Sunnydale. A Sunnydale that has given rise to the control of vampires. Forget about Xander -- and Willow! Willow bit her too! -- being a vampire, forget about this being a Buffy-free-zone -- that's just icing on the cake. The cake itself is way more freaky. Sunnydale is now -- really and truly -- Sunnyhell. Home to vampires and demons and monsters-that-should-really-stay-hidden-underneath-beds.
Her home. Their home.
She pushes herself away from the door, dumping her small food cache on the bed and stumbling into the ensuite. The bathtub has never looked more inviting but she RSVPs it a polite but firm unacceptance as she turns on the shower, strips, and plunges herself under the spray.
Their home. Her home.
The bites on her neck start bleeding again as the water pressure massages the torn flesh and a couple of the blisters on her arm crack and split from the same. She ignores them and she ignores their pain. She has to think, she has to plan... she has to live.
Her home.
And living on a Hellmouth has suddenly become a huge gamble. One that she's not really sure she can even participate in, let alone consider betting on. She's rich, not stupid, and the odds are so not in her favour. Her former-self -- in this reality -- has no doubt stayed here because they, she, doesn't know any better but she does know better. She's lived in a better world. A world where, granted, her popularity and her heart were coming out with the short end of the stake, but still a world where she was reasonably safe. This world is for the reasonably dead.
Their home.
She shuts off the water and leans her forehead against the cool, wet tiles.
"They can have it."
Noon has come and gone before she's on the road and that's just not good. Now that she's made the decision to relocate she wants to be gone already. Relocated into a nice hotel with bellhops and valet and room service and big, big windows that let in heaps of sunlight. And she wants this relocation to happen before another night can arrive.
Is that too much to ask?
Her father's BMW cuts a mostly quiet path through the mostly deserted streets and that's a good thing. If what the groundskeeper said was true -- that 'students' aren't allowed to drive -- then the last thing she needs is to be pulled over before she can even leave the city limits.
Sunlight glares off the fenders of abandoned vehicles in the street and she readjusts the sunglasses she's wearing to cover the black circles under her eyes. Her hair is pulled back into a tight but flattering braid, a high-necked, long-sleeved, skin-tight and all-black -- chic, if depressing in colour -- jersey covering the white bandages on her neck and arm, and designer -- black again, of course -- jeans are clinging to her legs. She's even wearing sensible shoes. Three-hundred dollar shoes, yes, but sensible, black-leather, less-than-two-inch-heeled shoes nonetheless. Her whole outfit screams Faith-with-a-credit-card, but she's confident that she's more Hepburn than Goth.
She's almost free of Main Street when she catches sight of a slightly familiar form. Blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, one shoe missing -- what's up with that? -- and shirt torn, the guy is a walking wreck. For a moment she considers flooring the accelerator, peeling away from him and the oh-so-blood-red-vivid reminder of why she's leaving this place as fast as she can. Considers it, savours the idea, and then slams on the brakes as she comes parallel with his stumbling form. Her suitcases in the trunk thud against each other and her handbag on the backseat shifts dangerously close to the edge of the upholstery.
The box on the passenger-seat beside her thankfully stays still, its contents untroubled by her sudden stop. Crosses, vials of holy water, even some garlic -- her other-reality-self may have been stupid enough to live here, but apparently she was smart enough to keep herself somewhat protected.
She doesn't roll down the window -- sunlight or no sunlight, she's not giving anyone or anything a chance to get in this car -- but she does crack it just a little as she honks the horn so that the bleeding figure turns her way. Eyes widen comically in her direction and she frowns back at them through the darkly tinted windows.
"What the hell happened to you?"
Larry -- gay Larry, who's going to die at Graduation when the Mayor turns into a snake but she doesn't know this because it hasn't happened yet, and now won't happen, not in this reality, because the Master has already ascended to the surface and upstaged the Mayor -- gapes at her through the sliver of open window, blood trickling down his cheek as he comes closer to her car. "Cor-cordelia?"
"Bingo," she quips lightly, fingers tight on the steering wheel.
"But you're dead!" The jock stutters, "you're dead!"
She frowns some more. "No I'm not."
"Yes you are." A trace of fear steals across his features. "You were."
A hand leaves the steering wheel to caress the jersey-covered bandages on her neck and realisation dawns. "You did it. You dumped me there." She looks at him through car window. "You left me to burn?" Anger rages through her tone.
"Yes! I mean, we were going to... but then we heard something, and Oz said we should just leave you and get back to the Library, and then Giles -- "
"Giles is dead," she mutters vaguely, mind churning with images of Oz. Oz who, sort of, is her friend. Oz who, like her, had been cheated on. Oz who, like Larry here, had tried to incinerate her. "Where's Oz?"
"But... it's daytime... it's sunlight... so you can't..."
Impatience rises. "Look, retard, I'm alive." Her hand delves into the box beside her, removing a cross which she grips tightly in her hand and waves next to the glass. "See, no sizzle-fest."
"Oh. Okay." The jock blinks a little. "That's good then."
"Just super," she agrees. "Where's Oz? I need to see him." Which is true in a way she's only just realised. If she's gonna survive in this new big-bad world of monsters then she's gonna need some protection. And Oz is, was -- sort of -- her friend, and more importantly, he's a werewolf. So she needs to grab Oz and pull him into the car and take him with her. Werewolf protection against vampire's -- it could work. She has a Prada belt that could act as a leash... werewolves can be trained, right?
She's interrupted from this train of thought by Larry shaking his bleeding head, sorrow on his features. "Oz is dead."
"Dead?"
"Yeah. Vamp's got him."
"Oh."
A silence develops between the two high schoolers and she looks at the digital-clock on her dashboard. Two-thirteen-pm. Time to go. Larry must see her gaze.
"You leaving town?"
She nods, eyes caught now on the idling RPM gauge.
"Good idea. I'm thinking about doing the same, now that that Slayer-chick's dead and all."
Her gaze ricochets to Larry's. "Buffy? Buffy's here?"
"That her name? Blonde chick, handy with a stake?" She nods. "Yeah, she was here. Killed a heap of vamps too. She certainly had the moves."
Past tense; she closes her eyes. "She died?"
"Master got her. Right after she staked Harris' dead butt."
"Xander," she whispers, throat dry.
"Yeah. The factory was quite the stake-fest. I dusted a couple myself before I ran." The jock looks ashamed. "I probably should of stayed and fought some more but after Oz checked out, well, he'd gotten that Willow vamp before he went and there was really only the Master and a couple of freshly-turned vampires left... the few people still alive were heading for the hills so I..."
"You did the right thing," she murmurs absently, not knowing or even caring if she really means that.
"Maybe."
Another silence deepens and after a moment Larry lightly slaps the roof of her car.
"Glad you're okay, Chase." A quick, tight and slightly embarrassed smile is sent her way. "Sorry 'bout the whole disposing of your body thing."
She waves an absent hand, dismissing the apology like she's dismissed a hundred other things, people, in her life. "No big." And it's not. Big is Buffy dead and Giles and Oz and Xander and Willow all gone. The entire group. Finito. That's big.
"Yeah, well, see ya round." With a final salute, Larry walks away, head downcast and forehead bleeding, one shoe still missing and his shirt torn. The lone white-hat survivor of a massacre that should never have happened in a reality that should never be.
"Yeah," she mutters softly. "See ya."
She won't, of course. She's out of here. A designer bat, straight out of Sunnyhell. She looks at the clock. Two-nineteen-pm.
Time to go.
This time she actually makes it out of Main Street and onto the Boulevard before slamming on the brakes again. The box beside her slip-slides on the seat and she winces as some of the holy water vials clink against each other. A quick perusal reveals none broken -- thank God -- and she berates herself furiously about her suddenly dubious driving abilities.
Speaking of, she thinks then, why did I just stop?
Looking up, she sees -- delayed emotions of shock, fear, anger flooding her nervous system -- a small child standing no more than a foot away from her fender. A child she had almost run down. "Ohgod..." The urge to hyperventilate rises but before she can give her body leave to panic, the child suddenly bolts, heading off down the alley.
"Hey!"
Without even thinking she turns off the ignition, heartbeat racing triple-time as she electronically locks and leaves her car in the street, racing after this mysterious urchin who, a moment ago, had almost redecorated the front of her car with a kid-shaped dent.
"Wait a minute!"
The alley, bathed in patches of sunlight and even larger patches of shadow, is littered with garbage but nothing big enough to hide a child. A child who has suddenly vanished into thin -- she skids to a stop and turns in a circle, confused -- vanished through the still swinging metal door of that building. Bewilderment passes and she dashes forward again, catching the door before it can stop banging shut and simply BE shut and following the errant child.
Inside it's dark, all the windows blacked out and boarded up, and adrenaline changes sources. No longer shock-induced, the epinephrine fuelling her body now is completely and utterly fear-driven. She's in the Bronze. Oh shit.
Feet cased in lead -- instead of three-hundred-dollar designer leather boots -- keep her standing in the side entrance to the club, eyes wide as she stares at the trashed hang-out. Cages dangle from huge hooks in the ceiling, barbed wire wrapped around one of the posts for the upper floor. A foul, deathy smell hovers in the air with the fading remnants of cheap perfume and bad cologne and her nose wrinkles automatically. Geez, shop at Elizabeth Arden already.
What had Harmony said about the Bronze in this reality?
"Nothing," she whispers sotto voce, "Harmony said nothing, only that I shouldn't joke about the Bronze and that Willow and Xander were dead. And she said nothing because two seconds later she was out the high school doors and running for home."
Something crashes across the room and she bites out a strangled scream, eyes just catching a flash of disappearing blue -- was that the shirt the kid had been wearing? -- and she realises that a chair's been knocked over. Oxygen suddenly scarce, she pants a little, one hand on her heart which is thundering so loudly in her chest that she can barely hear herself think.
Run. Get the hell out of here. Run, run, RUN. When Harmony said nothing what she probably meant to say was that the Bronze is now the Master's lair. The vampire's playpen. Home to a lot of bad things which will really, really hurt her if she's found here. Her car-keys cut into her palm and she stares down at them, wide-eyed. Just run, Chase, she tells herself firmly. Turn around, leave, run back to your car with your box of crosses and holy water and let this demon-infested town rot.
A small thud makes her jump but the childish and definitely infantile "ow!" that follows it causes her to lurch forward without thinking, feet almost tripping over themselves as she once again tears blindly after this stupid kid. This kid who's probably gonna get her killed. Act I -- the street. Act II -- the lair.
Backstage and down the staff-only stairs, her breathing harsh as she moves quickly. Downstairs is even more decrepit than up and she only just manages to withhold a squeal of disgust as a rat crosses the hallway ahead of her. She stops for just a moment, dizzy, and takes a deep breath. Spots dance behind her eyes and she knows that she can't do this, not really. She doesn't have the energy. The food she'd found in her kitchen and the vitamin tablets she found in the pantry have helped to pick her up a little, helped to get some iron back in her system, but it's not enough. In all honesty, she probably needs a transfusion of some kind. A yucky needles-and-all blood pick-me-up. And... she's so not gonna think about blood while standing in a vampire's nest.
The sound of glass breaking propels her forward regardless of common sense and she bursts into a room just in time to see kid-sized Nike's disappearing out of a window, the kid having chosen to take the next Act back to the streets. Angry -- both at herself for risking her life to save the child and at the child in question for risking its own in the first place -- she stands there for a moment, hands on hips and features frowning. Damnit!
With an exhale that's more fury than relief -- damn kid almost got her killed and didn't even let her save them! -- she turns to leave. At least, she tries to reassure herself, the Master isn't here. Larry said that he left the Master in a factory and the only factories she knows of are on the other side of town.
She's barely exited the room when she hears a chink-chink sound of metal on metal and her breathing catches. Ohgod -- she's not alone. The corridor stretches before her -- to her right, freedom; a path to upstairs. To her left, another staircase heading down into unknown horrors and terrors and --
"Bu-buffy?"
-- her mouth drops open in shock. "Angel?" she whispers, body trembling as she darts to the left, stumbling down the stairs and bursting out into a room with a cage a second later. "Angel!"
Her knee bangs against a discarded... something... but she ignores the brief flare of pain, all but skidding into the cage itself and dropping down beside the chained vampire. Angel, his chest a distorted Picasso of burns and gashes, flinches away from her, eyes narrowing.
"Who are you?"
She ignores the question, eyes flicking over his chest, tongue clucking an absent disapproval. "These look nasty," she murmurs, withholding a disgusted 'eww' as she raises her gaze to his. "Angel, can you walk?"
"Who are you?" he repeats. "How do you know my name?" He growls out the questions and, for the first time, it crosses her mind that Angel might not be Angel.
She rocks back on her heels, fearful curiosity overpowering the previous display of concern. "I'm Cordelia," she snaps regally, automatically, following with, "who the hell are you?"
The vampire looks at her in sudden confusion. "What do you mean 'who am I'? You just..."
"Just answer the question, Angel," she responds sharply, "or should I say," an eyebrow arches, "Angelus?"
The vampire looks dumbfounded. "How did you... I've never told..." With wide eyes, he swallows hard. "Angel, my name is Angel."
She nods with relief, purpose fuelling her motions once again as she leans closer. A Vampire with a Soul -- so much better than a maybe-trained werewolf. Curious hands reach above his head to grip the chains and give an experimental yank. Nothing happens. "Damn," she mutters, looking down into his wide-eyed gaze. "How's your vamp-strength?"
He shakes his head automatically. "I've tried before... I can't break them." She frowns, eyeballing the chains distastefully. "You... you know I'm a vampire?"
She rolls her eyes automatically. "Well, duh. Of course I do."
"But you're human."
"Yes."
"So why aren't you running away?"
A fresh frown in place, she finally leaves the unyankable chains alone. Leaning back, she looks at him properly, a touch of bewilderment to her voice. "Why on earth would I do that? You have a soul."
"Well, yes, but..."
"But what?" she asks, exasperated now. Twenty questions would be fine if it were helping them get out of here. But this is just --
"But how do you know that?"
They've never met. Finally the penny drops. In this reality, she and Angel have never met. She's never seen him in a crowded Bronze and made a self-assured comment about oxygen and ambulances. He's never driven home with her after an attack of zombie-hands. She's never seen him evil and he's never seen her date Xander. A clean slate -- huh.
"Long story," she glosses quickly. "Look, we've got to get out of here. Do you know where they keep the keys for these things?"
He shakes his head, confusion still present on his features. "Not here," he answers unhelpfully and she sighs, standing and looking around determinedly. With slow, obviously painful, motions, the vampire also starts to rise and she helps him without thinking, her good arm tightening around his waist to keep him steady.
He flinches in surprise and when she looks up at him, he sends her a weird look. "I don't understand... why you're doing this?" he asks and she smiles.
"If you could look in a mirror, you'd know why," she answers absently, flirtation automatically kicking in, and when they both glance at his chest, she shrugs. "Well, not right now -- obviously. But on a good day..." her voice trails off as she spies a collection of rusted axes and the like near the wall opposite the cage. "Hold that thought," she mutters and she leaves him standing gingerly as she dashes across the room, selecting the largest and unrustiest one she can find.
"Here," she says, handing it to him.
He stares at it, then her, eyebrows raised.
Rolling her eyes, she puts her hands on her hips. "Look, I'm no Kate Winslet alright? A, that was a movie, and B, the only thing she had to worry about was encroaching hypothermia. I'm seeing spots and am so not about to get rust stains on my manicure. Just do your vampy super-strength thing already and break the chains so we can get the hell out of here."
When he just keeps staring at her, she exhales sharply in exasperation.
"What? In case you haven't been keeping up with current events, Soul-boy, I'm sort of waiting here!"
"Who are you?"
A grin emerges, the curiosity and wonder in his voice amusing. "Cordelia Chase."
She gestures to the chains.
"Now break."
It takes Angel at least four tries to break the chains holding him to the wall -- an easy fifteen minutes or so -- and then there's another delay -- ten minutes worth -- as the two of them stumble upstairs and into the Bronze. Her bad arm and blood loss, Angel's obviously weak condition -- like a couple of war-torn province refugees they make their way to the side door she'd entered through. Once there, however, Angel balks.
"What now?" she snaps impatiently, her head spinning as another headache asserts itself in her skull.
"Daylight," the vampire responds a little sharply himself, "I can't go out in the sun."
"Who's asking you to?" When he looks at her, she rolls her eyes. "The alley is in shadows and my car has tinted windows but if it makes you feel any better," spying a discarded blanket in the corner of the entrance, she grabs it and thrusts it into his hands, "then here -- you're very own sunscreen. SPF-fabric."
Without saying a word, he takes the blanket.
She rolls her eyes again at his silence, pulling open the door and stepping outside. As she heads towards the car -- which is in sunlight and will have to be moved closer to the alley -- she's gratified to hear him also exiting the Bronze. Obliquely glancing back, she sees the vampire following at a more cautious rate, all but clinging to the shadow-bathed building wall.
Depressing the unlock button on her car keys and throws herself into the drivers seat, banging her bad arm in the process. Tears smart in her eyes, making her vision swim, and with a curse towards the pain she starts the engine, cursing even more when she sees the past three-pm time on the dashboard clock. Driving a little erratically in her pain and frustration and anger, she jerks the car to a stop at the alley entrance, leaning over to open the door for Angel.
As she pulls back she shifts her box of vampire protection to the backseat and gestures that he get in. He pauses, still clinging to the shadows.
"Tinted windows?" he asks, and she nods.
"The darkest money can buy and the state will legally allow," she responds truthfully.
Still he hesitates and she sighs tiredly.
"Look, Angel, I know it's still sunny out and for you that's a bad thing. But... for me it's a good thing and I really don't want to have to spend the night in this town." She arches an eyebrow. "Do you?"
"No."
"So get in."
He looks up and down the brightly lit street, as if searching for something, or someone. "Buffy -- she was here."
Surprise flits across her features, and it's tempting to say 'of course she was', but she schools both the expression and the words back with difficulty. "Buffy... came to see you?" she asks hesitantly.
Angel nods and then shakes his head. "She was looking for the Master... I offered to help her but..."
"But what?"
"Her cross... I pulled away..." Angel's voice trails away but that doesn't matter. She can picture what happened. Buffy leaning up against Angel, all close and personal and her breasts pushed up against his chest, smiling coyly as she dangled a cross necklace in his face. "I tried to... she wouldn't..."
"The Vampire Slayer didn't want to pal around with a vampire?" she summarises, ignoring Angel's suddenly surprised again look as she muses, "well, that's a shocker."
"I should go find her, help her..."
"Red light, Soul-boy," she restrains him sadly.
"What? Why?"
"Buffy's dead."