Home Before Dark - Part Five
by Debbie Nockels
COPYRIGHT: January 2002
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the characters from BTVS or ANGEL. They're owned by Joss Whedon (who needs to treat them nicer), MutantEnemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, David Greenwalt, the WB, UPN, Fox, etc.
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������ "Well, this is exciting, isn't it? Going straight to the source of the evil."
������ Buffy stared around her in confusion. She was in an elevator, standing behind Angel and someone she didn't know; an older, gray-haired man who was attractive without being at all handsome. He had deep lines bracketing his mouth, and a friendly smile - and, she saw with a chill, the left side of his neck bore the unmistakable marks of vampire fangs, still crusted with blood.
������ "So, what's the big plan, Angel? Destroy the Senior Partners, smash Wolfram & Hart once and for all?" this unknown man asked genially.
������ "Something like that." Angel kept his eyes trained on the indicator over the doors, watching the numbers flicker by. She could feel his impatience to have the trip over with. Impatience and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on, something cold and determined. He moved slightly and she saw he wore a long metal gauntlet on one hand. She frowned, hoping this one wasn't anything like the Glove of Myneghon. The last thing needed in an elevator was a lightning-spewing weapon.
������ "Angel, what's going on? How did we get here?" Buffy reached out, gaping with disbelief when her hand went through Angel's arm as if it wasn't there. She tried again; same result. "Angel?" He gave no indication that he'd heard. She leaned toward the other man. "Hello? Can you hear me?" Again no response. Okay, this was . . . interesting. And more than a little bewildering. What was going on? Just to see if she could, she pinched herself.
������ "Ow!"
������ Holland glanced at Angel. "Now tell me, just what do you think that would accomplish? In the end, I mean," the older man asked genially. Lights flashed, strobe-like, as the elevator descended.
������ "It'll be . . . the end." The expression on Angel's face sent a chill up Buffy's spine. The end? End of what?
������ Their companion looked amused. "Well, the end of you, certainly; but I meant in the larger sense."
������ "In the larger sense, Holland, I really don't give a crap," said Angel evenly.
������ Holland? Was that the other man's name? Wait a minute; Angel had said something about someone named Holland. Yeah! He'd been someone high up in that Wolfram & Hart place. He'd also been one of the group Angel had shut in the wine cellar with Dru and Darla, which accounted for the puncture wounds on his neck. Buffy knew only two people had survived that ordeal, and neither of them was named Holland. So that meant. . . . Her eyes narrowed. That meant this man was dead. So what was he doing here? What was she doing here? For that matter, where was "here?"
������ The man - Holland - turned to Angel admonishingly. "Now I don't think that's true. Be honest. You've got the tiniest bit of 'give a crap' left; otherwise you wouldn't be going on this kamikaze mission."
������ Buffy's head snapped around. Kamikaze mission? "Angel, what�s he talking about?" she demanded, forgetting for the moment that Angel couldn't see or hear her. She swore under her breath.
������ Holland mused, "Now let me see, there was something . . . in a sacred prophecy . . . some oblique reference to you. Something you're supposed to prevent. Now what was that?"
������ "The apocalypse," supplied Angel sardonically. It was obvious that he knew Holland's seemingly faulty memory was all pretense. Of course it was also obvious that the dead lawyer wasn't really trying to fool him; that it was all a game he was playing for some reason of his own.
������ Holland snapped his fingers. "Yes, the apocalypse. Of course - another one of those. Well, it's true; we do have one scheduled. And I imagine if you were to prevent it you would save a great many people." He turned toward Angel, earnestly. "Well, you should do that then. Absolutely. I wasn't thinking."
������ Then he faced forward again. "Of course all those people you save from that apocalypse would then have the next one to look forward to, but, hey, it's always something, isn't it?" He shrugged, and again that friendly smile flashed out.
������ Buffy set her jaw. Holland reminded her in many ways of the late, unlamented (by her anyway) Mayor Wilkins of Sunnydale - always ready with a smile and a quip or a homily, while he planned the deaths of thousands of innocent people. So what was this man's game? What was he up to, and how did it include Angel? The elevator jerked, startling her, then began to pick up speed. Buffy looked up. The numbers were flashing by too quickly to read.
������ "You're not going to win," Angel stated quietly, with determination.
������ "Well . . . no. " Holland looked faintly surprised, as if Angel should have known better. "Of course we aren't. We have no intention of doing anything so prosaic as winning." Then he laughed, genuinely amused, and for the first time Angel glanced in his direction.
������ "Then why?"
������ "Hmm? I'm sorry?" The polite incomprehension on Holland's face made Buffy want to hit him, it was so patently false. "Why what?"
������ "Why fight?" asked Angel.
������ "That's really the question you should be asking yourself, isn't it? See, for us, there is no fight - which is why winning doesn't enter into it. We . . . go on . . . no matter what."
������ The face he turned to Angel left no doubt that he believed every word he was saying. "Our firm has always been here, in one form or another. The Inquisition. The Khmer Rouge. We were there when the very first caveman clubbed his neighbor. See, we're in the hearts and minds of every single living being. And that, friend, is what's making things so difficult for you."
������ His voice softened with what appeared to be real compassion. Angel's eyes flickered, and Buffy sensed a tendril of doubt creeping into his mind. Holland continued, "The world doesn't work in spite of evil, Angel; it works with us. It works because of us."
������ "Don't believe him!" Buffy said, once again trying to grab Angel's arm, and failing. "He's lying! Don't let him get to you."
������ With that the elevator came to a screeching halt. The doors opened. Buffy stared. The scene outside the doors displayed, not the nightmarish scene she'd begun to expect, but a bright, sunny day. On the other side of the street a homeless person pushed a loaded shopping cart across an open plaza. Behind the pleasant, garden-like area rose a huge building with "Wolfram and Hart" carved over the enterance.
������ "Welcome to the home office," declared Holland.
������ Angel stood stock-still. "This isn't. . . ." Buffy felt his confusion, his doubt.
������ "You know it is," Holland said him, again with that air of gentle reproof. "You know that better than anyone. The things you've seen . . . the things you've, well, done. You see, if there wasn't evil in every single one of them out there - "
������ A sudden yell caught Buffy's attention - and Angel's. Two people in the plaza were arguing, angrily and loudly.
������ " - why, they wouldn't be people, would they? They'd all be angels."
������ The glove dropped off Angel's hand, hitting the floor of the elevator with a metallic clank as he walked outside, moving like someone in a dream - or a nightmare. Buffy hurried after him. As the doors began to close she heard Holland call out, "Have a nice day."
������ Angel slowly walked along the streets of L.A. Buffy, at his side, watched him observe everything he passed: a young woman, obviously a prostitute, and a potential customer having an angry disagreement; a woman yellling at a young girl, probably her daughter; a homeless man with a brown bag under his arm shuffling aimlessly down the sidewalk, muttering to himself, ignored by everyone.
������ Even though she knew he couldn't hear her, Buffy said, "Angel, you know this is only a part of the truth. Yes, people get angry and they say and do things they shouldn't; but there's also love and kindness and friendship." She stopped in despair. She didn't know exactly what was going on here, but she was convinced that she was witnessing something Angel had experienced. She could literally feel his hopelessness, his desperate need for reassurance, something she was unable to give him in her current state of . . . not really being there. It was like being a ghost.
������ Or like dreaming. Buffy considered that as she trailed Angel. That made more sense, that this was a dream. It had the familiar trademarks of being in the middle of something but at the same time being apart from it. And if this was a dream . . . then she was afraid she knew where it was heading.
������ Angel turned into the entrance of the Hyperion, Buffy right behind. As they entered the lobby she heard Cordy's voice. "Hi, you've reached Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless. Leave a message and we'll get right back to you." Then came the beep of an answering machine, and a woman's husky voice.
������ "You did it, didn't you? You bastard." The words were slurred. "You made me trust you. You made me believe. No, it wasn't you . . . it was me, right? I couldn't take the heat..."
������ Expressionless, Angel walked over to the counter where the answering machine sat. The voice grew thicker, with pauses in between words. "That's what they're gonna say. Then you're gonna feel all bad - or you won't care. But then . . . then I won't care either. I won't feel a thing."
������ Buffy frowned. This didn't sound good at all. She hadn't a clue as to who the woman on the phone might be, but it was certainly someone Angel knew . . . and from the sound of it, someone Angel had let down, just as he'd done with Cordelia and the others.
������ Angel turned down the volume on the machine, then headed for the staircase, his face still frozen, devoid of expression. Buffy caught up with him on the stairs. "Angel, listen to me! You have to hear me! What Holland said back there isn't true - and down deep inside, you know it. Angel, please hear me!" But she knew he didn't; despair still emanated from him in almost visible waves.
������ Remembering what he had told her that evening, she didn't follow him into his bedroom but waited just outside the door. She watched him take a few steps inside, then come to a sudden stop. "What do you want, Darla?" he said.
������ Buffy braced herself. Sure enough, a woman stepped into her line of vision from whatever corner of the bedroom she'd been hiding in. Buffy stared. The last time she'd seen Angel's sire, Darla had been dressed in the plaid uniform of a Catholic schoolgirl, with her blonde hair in a blunt cut, reaching almost to her shoulders, and bangs across her forehead - a simple, demure style to match the unsophisticated persona.
������ No trace of that schoolgirl could be found in the elegant young woman now before her. The figure formerly concealed by a white blouse and pleated skirt showed to good advantage in a slinky red dress that hugged her slender form like a second skin. Her hair was artistically casual. For the first time Buffy realized how beautiful Darla was. Even the burn scars on her face couldn't detract from that. She swallowed.
������ Darla didn't say anything, just watched Angel, her attitude wary, alert. Turning his head slightly but not looking at her, Angel held up a gold ring Buffy hadn't noticed before. "You want this?" Carelessly he tossed it to the floor. Darla scurried over. In a flash Angel whirled around, grabbed her arm, and sent her stumbling toward the wall, following after.
������ "Or maybe what you really want is this!" It was the first trace of real emotion Buffy had seen from him since they'd left the elevator. He pushed Darla up against the wall and gently brushed the hair back from her face. "That may be what you really want. Isn't it?" Then he kissed her, softly. Darla didn't react except to stare at him with suspicion. He kissed her again, a little harder, and Buffy looked away. Even though she knew this encounter would ultimately end on a positive note, the sight of Angel kissing someone else was more than she could stand.
������ Darla pushed him forcibly away. "Don't play games with me." Her silky, cat-voice struck Buffy with a jolt, sweeping her almost five years into the past.
������ ("I made him. There was a time when we shared everything, wasn't there, Angelus? You had a chance to come home, to rule with me in the Master's court for a thousand years, but you threw that away because of *her*. You love someone who hates us. You're sick, and you'll always be sick. And you'll always remember what it was like to watch her die.")
������ ("Come on, Buffy. Take it like a man.")
������ ("Angel?!!")
������ Angel's voice brought her back to the present. "I'm not playing. I just want to feel something besides the cold." The desolation behind his words wrung Buffy's heart even as Angel pushed Darla onto a table, lowered himself above her, and began kissing her.
������ Darla kissed him back, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. Buffy turned away as Angel helped her strip off his jacket, still kissing her, but the unexpected sound of Darla laughing yanked her around again.
������ Angel pulled back as Darla pushed him away and stood up. "Why are you laughing?" he demanded.
������ Darla kept laughing and didn't answer. Without warning Angel struck her, hard. Buffy gasped. Darla staggered across the room, out of Buffy's sight, and she heard the sound of glass shattering. Buffy hurried inside, noticing only vaguely that this was more than just your standard hotel room - it was a spacious suite. Darla lay sprawled on the floor of a second room, surrounded by glass shards. Angel had deliberately sent Darla through a glass door? A door that led to his bedroom, she noticed at second glance. Maybe it was an accident, Buffy thought wildly. Maybe Angel hadn't intended his blow to be that forceful.
������ Her eyes flew to Angel's frozen face. Or maybe he just hadn't cared. Buffy rubbed her arms, shivering.
������ Angel slowly walked toward Darla as she rolled over and looked up at him, visibly stunned. "Don't you feel the cold?" He reached down, grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her up.
������ "What are you doing?" she demanded breathlessly, a thin trickle of blood running from the crack that had opened in her lip. A slowly reddening bruise next to it showed where Angel's blow had landed.
������ "It doesn't matter," he murmured, stroking her face. "Nothing matters - none of it." He kissed her again, and again Darla responded, but with far more agression than before. Kissing frantically, they fell onto the bed, tugging at each other's clothing.
������ There came a bright flash of light. Buffy blinked. The scene had suddenly changed. Angel, now fully dressed, sat at the foot of the rumpled bed, pulling on his shoes and socks. Darla stood at the side, wearing only a sheet wrapped around her, hair tousled.
������ "You're not evil." Darla stared at Angel with incomprehension. "I - I don't understand. Was I . . . was it . . . not good?" Then she gave a short laugh. "Well, I don't accept that. You cannot tell me that wasn't perfect. Not only have I been around for four hundred years, but I used to do this professionally. And that - was - perfect." She grabbed Angel by the arm and tried to drag him back onto the bed. "We'll just go again!"
������ Angel pulled his arm free and stood up, backing away. "No. No, we can't. You know we can't. We're finished." His voice was gentle; the words, final.
������ Anger swept over Darla's face. "Finished? Why? What, because you suddenly decide? You know, an hour ago you wanted this. You weren't tricked into anything. I didn't seduce you. You wanted it!"
������ "Yeah," admitted Angel, watching her with something very like compassion. "And you were right, Darla, it was perfect - it was perfect despair."
������ Darla stared at him in disbelief.
������ "And you were the reason. You've always been the reason. You were the thing that made me what I am, and . . . I thought -" Angel faltered, searching to put tangled emotions into words. "I thought if I could save you, I'd somehow . . . save myself, but - but I was wrong. And when I failed - "
������ "Stop it!" Darla cried. Angel ignored her.
������ "When I failed, you saved me. And I have to thank you for that. There's nothing I can do for you now, Darla. I can't even hate you."
������ "You knew this would happen, didn't you? You made me trust you! You made me believe!" Darla accused him.
������ Angel's eyes flickered, as if her words touched some chord of memory. Hastily he turned to leave. "We're done. Let yourself out."
������ Darla raced after him, stooping to pick up a sharp splinter of wood. (A remnant of the door frame? Buffy wondered.) "Where are you going?" She raised the stake. Angel turned swiftly and caught her wrist on the down swing.
������ "You did me a favor tonight," he said evenly, still with that hint of compassion. "Now I'm going to do one for you. Get dressed and get out. Because the next time I see you I will have to kill you."
������ Speechless, Darla glared after him as he walked out of the room.
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������ Buffy's eyes flew open. "What - ?" Pushing the hair out of her eyes, she sat up and looked around her, momentarily disoriented. Where - ? Oh, yes. She was in a bedroom at the Hyperion Hotel; it was - she craned her neck to see the luminous dial of the clock-radio on the nightstand - 3:07 A.M.; and she'd just woken up from a sound sleep.
������ And from a most extraordinary dream, remnants of which still chased one another through her mind.
������ Reaching over, she switched on the bedside lamp, then arranged the pillows behind her. Leaning back into their softness, she reviewed her dream. She was convinced that it had shown her the events pertaining to Angel's epiphany. His stark hopelessness still resonated in her heart. ("It doesn't matter. None of it matters.") God, no wonder he'd grabbed at the first opportunity he saw to generate a warmer emotion. That it happened to be Darla was mere chance. Come to think of it, maybe he'd been lucky that it was Darla. What if he'd run into Cordelia instead? Knowing Cordy, she probably would have staked him if he'd tried to come on to her, especially after everything he'd put her through beforehand.
������ Something niggled at her memory. Buffy frowned. What was it Angel had said to her earlier that evening? "It wasn't about sex. It was about losing myself . . . forgetting." Ohmigod, had Angel actually been trying to really lose himself with Darla? As in, losing his soul?
������ A cold chill swept over her; then Buffy relaxed back into the pillows. No. Angel had told her, emphatically, that he knew being with Darla couldn't cause him to lose his soul, and she believed him. No, as he'd told Darla, he was only trying to feel something besides the freezing cold. Briefly she thought about the many times she'd used Riley to push back the memory of cool lips on hers . . . gentle hands holding her close . . . of looking up into deep brown eyes. She hadn't realized at the time that's what she was doing, but it was.
������ Suddenly Buffy jumped up. Out in the hallway she hesitated, trying to remember where Angel had said his room was. Oh yeah, the corner room at the end of the hallway. Turning left, Buffy went up to the closed door, hesitated briefly, then tapped on the door.
������ Angel opened his eyes and realized that, contrary to his expectation when he'd gone to bed that night, he actually had fallen asleep. He'd fully expected to lie awake all night, torturing himself with thoughts of Buffy. Just as his fuzzy brain began to comprehend that something had awakened him, the door to his suite opened and a white figure padded in.
������ He shot upright. "Buffy?"
END OF PART FIVE
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