Story: That Seasonal Spirit (chapter 4)

Authors: Pat Kelly

Back to chapter list

Chapter 4

Title: Four

Four

"Follow-up: stalk any ex-girlfriends lately?"

Veronica could switch from sarcastically entertaining (if you weren't in her line of fire), to unrelenting, in the snap of a finger.

"I wasn't..." It was quite the puzzler, but here Angel was, a vampire, and he was somehow sighing. "I was protecting her. Doyle had a--"

"--vision. I got the scoop. Very 'Medium,'" she enlightened him. "But see, when you don't tell your ex," There was the second, deliberate use of that word, "you're coming into town to be her pale knight in neutral-colored armor, it kinda feels less like protection, and more like, yeah, stalking. And here we are again, full circle."

He walked around her to get to the car and inspect the trunk for any scratches or chips in the paint.

"I didn't want things to get complicated."

"For you, or for Buffy?" She mildly accused, turning around.

"If the only person you've loved in 243 years realized she was in love with someone else while you were in a Hell dimension, so you got out of her life..."

He trailed off a bit, rubbing what he perceived to be a smudge with his thumb, but then faced her and went on as if he hadn't.

"...until some, higher power decided you had to go back and see her, how would you handle it?"

"First, the time-tested, 'rebound lay,'" she answered. "Would I like myself in the morning? Doubtful, but..."

He narrowed his eyes at her, and her error flashed neon. Wouldn't be the first time her overconfidence made her step in it.

"Ooooh. Youch. Forgot about that fine print." She rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed. "While it's true that Cher and 'Carmen' deserve full credit for what small, 'gypsy knowledge' I currently possess, still wouldn't've pegged the nomadically unkempt as being so stiff."

And she stepped in it again. Her dad taught her to never insult a man's sexual deficiencies unless there was a really good reason. At this point in time, Veronica had none.

"Sorry." She held a beat, and it didn't look like he believed her. "What? I am. They put ya behind the cosmic eight ball, gave you a raw deal...etcetera, etcetera, etcetera."

She empathized, she did. "Doesn't get you off the hook for--"

"I'm not evil," he insisted for the third time that evening before she could accuse him.

He was getting rather annoyed at people jumping to that conclusion.

He then suspiciously asked, "What is it? The hook."

"Finding out whether vampires can eat solids." She dangled his car keys magically from her hand. "So how ‘bout you just save me the effort and extra-strength chloroform I'm trying to stockpile for a rainy day, and make this easy? Wouldn't wanna complicate unnecessarily." She harkened back to his earlier term.

"Giles has a bell on standby--let's earn you your wings."

Vampire and detective stared one another down. She had her bag of tricks strapped around her shoulder as usual, but he could have had his keys back before she even opened it. They both knew that. But Veronica, once she accepted a case, never walked away. Especially one that came from her girlfriend.

Earlier, during the walk to the Summers' home, Buffy mentioned how over the past, couple days, it felt like she was being watched. By default, Veronica's investigative instinct thought of Angel, because it was always the ex. One phone call later, plus a canvas of the area while Buffy showered, and she had confirmation.

Angel was going to face the music. Right after she answered her cell, whose ringing made her jump, thereby ending the stare-down. Was that smugness on his face? She refrained from comment, because she fished the phone out of her back pocket, looked at who was calling, and remembered what she hadn't done.

"Crap."

She pressed "Talk" a tad reluctantly, and closed her eyes tight. "Hi, honey. Guess who's coming to dinner?"

When her eyes reopened, she took a moment to look smugly back at the undead Irishman. He was locked in.

In all honesty, Angel didn't understand Veronica's attitude towards him. It began last year when he was still living in Sunnydale, and apparently hadn't changed. If anything, he was the one more entitled. She won; he lost.

Being with Veronica though, being able to escape the Hellmouth, showed Buffy that life existed outside darkness. It was something she needed to see. Something he couldn't have shown her.

Not to say that Neptune was Mayberry, or that the world Veronica worked in (which exposed humanity's uglier side more often than not) didn't have its own darkness, but you couldn't compare.

And when the two were together, they had fun in spite of both towns' flaws. His and Buffy's relationship wasn't driven by fun--they were drawn to one another's misery, which very rarely did they try pulling each other out of. They just curled up and let it envelop them.

That was depressing.

Why wouldn't he get along with the person who knew Buffy better than he ever would, and knew how to make her happy? Oh. Yeah. Those were a pair of good reasons. And maybe any other guy wouldn't, but he wasn't any other guy. Buffy's well being had been paramount to him before they'd even met, and now? Buffy was known to laugh regularly, thanks to Veronica. He bet it was a great sound.

Well, perhaps not *now*, now.

Veronica hung up. "Willow and Giles sang like canaries. Ratted you out. Then logic seemingly told her, if they knew, I had to know. Two-faced bastard." She hated when logic worked against her. "We-we could wait until the Tryptophan kicks in. I'm suddenly not in any rush to be deep-sixed."

"It's a, weird experience." He was speaking of being literally six feet deep.

Something she found weird in itself, and her cockeyed look said so. She shook it off, internally debating about actually taking it slow. But that would've worsened the situation.

"Damn it. Hitch up your slacks and move those getaway sticks, Lestat." She wasn't going to do the "one step forward, two steps back" thing. Not with Buffy. "We got some esplainin' to do."

As they walked up the block, Angel chose to ignore the literary reference. He was too busy returning to his suspicions.

"You weren't out here just to catch me."

"These weren't red a minute ago..." She quipped, showing off her hands. "You're right. I also wanted to haul you in so I'd have front row for the interrogation/ass-kicking. Hasn't gone exactly according to plan, but everybody's got a dream. Blame it on my less adorable qualities."

He didn't question the validity for a second, but there was more to it.

"Why else?"

It wasn't insecurity. Her motive wasn't to get proof that Buffy loved her by making the pissed off slayer dust her once boyfriend. She didn't doubt Buffy's feelings; she didn't think Buffy was going to have an abrupt change of heart and run into his arms. However, she did think--

"I get Buffy. Always have. Being able to meet at eye-level, a deep affinity for mid-90s dance mixes, seething hatred of the word, 'kafuffle'...whatever the cause, the effect?"

"What?" Angel asked after she seemed to be waiting.

"Uh, I get her?" Her fingers snapped in front of his face. "Little attention? Thanks," she sighed, shaking her head.

"So *anyway*, everything from favorite color, food, and CSI, to why she'll never set foot in a Tarzhey ever again...all those mysteries have been long-solved. But...then there's the Slayer.

"Who's a total, Lynchian enigma." She stopped, turned to him, and pointed down at the section of sidewalk on which she stood. "Help. My confidence's been worked over by a lead pipe, and kneecaps? On deck."

She swallowed her pride in a deep breath. "Please...at least get me off square one."

Bingo. She thought he knew a part of Buffy she didn't. What else could it have been? Truth was, her guess was as good as his. And it was a guess.

"I fought alongside her, but she wasn't always...there. Neither was I. We didn't talk about it much," he said. "Took the pressure off."

Believing she was getting the runaround, Veronica began walking again, forcing him to match speed.

"Yeah, ignorance? Didn't take. The bliss was temporary," she replied to that, seeing the gate to Giles' complex coming up ahead. "If that's what you're offering..."

He put a hand on her arm, and they stopped again just inside the courtyard.

"For most people, even vampires, being alone is a choice. For slayers, it isn't that simple. They were created to be alone. They weren't part of the world, weren't meant to be. Buffy's different. She's trying to have something the girls before her didn't grow old enough to know they wanted."

"A life?" Veronica was angry at the universe on her girlfriend's behalf. "Tonight...you saved it. Didn't you?"

He didn't say anything, nor did he have to.

"Then I owe you," she told him.

"Love her and we're even," Angel said without sentimentality. "If you wanna know what it's like for her, if you wanna help her, ask."

She was skeptical.

"Buffy trusts you, Veronica. More than she ever did me. She's probably wanted to tell you--"

"--but that woulda meant going wherever slaying makes her go, and what if I wasn't ready to travel?" She finally had it click. "Idiot."

She spent the last, three years asking people she didn't even like, questions they *didn't* want to answer, but when someone she cared about *wanted* to be questioned...idiot. Buffy had to hate keeping a part of herself, however unpleasant, hidden from Veronica. Duh.

"You're not an idiot," said Buffy, having seen them out the window, and come out. "Just, impulsive sometimes. Idiotically."

She was ready to be mad, but then she saw Veronica there, all not dead.

"You are talking about missing my Thanksgiving, right?"

"Hi, Buffy." Angel wanted nothing more than to skulk away.

Him the hazel-eyed blonde was mad at. "Hi. Get inside. There's blood in the turkey pan."

Thankful for small, delaying mercies, Angel hurried to the door in a way where he tried to make it appear like he wasn't. Prior to crossing the threshold, he looked at Veronica, quizzical.

"'Getaway sticks'?"

"If you're gonna be a dick, learn the lingo," Veronica shook her head at him. "Amateur."

She went up to her girlfriend, sporting "the Face" that had been her father's downfall since age four.

"When I came back you weren't there. Mid-'happy moment,' you weren't there," Buffy out-pouted her. "Then the moment? Not so happy."

"So one-to-ten, an exhibition game of tonsil hockey would...?"

That was a trick.

"You don't have your tonsils." Like Buffy wouldn't remember the nitrous oxide incident. "But bicuspid lacrosse? Seven."

And the ref blew the whistle...and a long, minute and forty-three seconds later, he called time out, after which they walked hip-to-hip in the direction of the door.

"Made you a plate," Buffy said.

Veronica's response? To slap her ass. "That's my Bertha."

Then she noticed Buffy's arm. The arm with the hole.

"And why hasn't that been cleaned, disinfected and bandaged already?"

Oh no. Buffy had no idea how this became about her.

"Uh...I love you?"

"You don't leave open wounds--stop me if you know this one--open," Veronica ranted, pulling her inside.

It wasn't new. "You close them, so your girlfriend can relax, satisfied that you're capable of taking care of yourself in her absence." She was a woman on a mission. For a first-aid kit. "Get your arm up."

Buffy wasn't hearing the end of this. But that was okay. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

 

________

 

Naturally, once the grub tapped out, everyone had excuses to avoid being assigned a task. Xander and Anya went to have the much-discussed sex. Willow rode back to Neptune with Weevil, anxious to resume, first thing in the morning, her top secret project with Mac, that their friends were beginning to doubt even existed. It kept her mind off of Oz, so, whatever worked.

Angel took his licks and skulked back to the city, but not before dropping Faith and Dawn off at home. The thirteen-year-old conked hours ago. Even Giles escaped to his visiting, British girlfriend's hotel. He'd known she was flying in--to save him from the "horribly Puritanical, horribly American holiday."

Which was unfair and incredibly convenient, as it stuck Veronica and Buffy with the aftermath. Not that they minded the solitary togetherness, but they were limiting themselves to the dishes. Any broken windows and/or furniture remained his home-improvement dilemma.

Veronica had dug out his "White Album" LP--"Glass Onion" played. The record would be returned to its rightful spot after the last of the dishes was away, him being none the wiser. There were some traditions learned from Lianne Mars that she always followed. Having the Beatles on while doing cleaning of any kind, was one.

"Kay, switch," Buffy said, stepping left as Veronica passed behind her and to the right, relinquishing the towel and discreetly cupping chest in a single motion.

The slayer looked over at her, eyebrows up. Veronica rolled up her sleeves, tied her hair back, and was getting ready to tackle the sink when she met the look.

"What?" She asked with an exaggerated, "I don't know what your problem is, but..." expression.

She flexed her fingers on the offending hand. "I told you, I think I have serious nerve damage. I can't predict what it's gonna do." She picked up the sponge, though her eyes went to Buffy's lower half. "Just be thankful you chose form-hugging pants which aren't easily de-zipped. ‘Cause otherwise..."

She whistled.

Buffy smiled, and threw her hip into Veronica's. Taking the newly-scrubbed fork twenty seconds later, while she dried, she seemed to concentrate a little too hard.

"If you're trying to bend it with your mind..." Veronica teased. "Some things? Best left to David Blaine."

"Wait," Buffy hadn't even heard, "if the dish ran away with the spoon, where was the fork?"

"Think about it. Even if she volunteered for the good of the rhyme scheme, no way was the cow, at any point, gung ho about her moon-jump," Veronica "explained."

"Maybe she needed a little," As she brought her arm up in a jabbing motion, she made a spit noise with her lips for effect, "help."

It all seemed so clear now.

Buffy drew in a breath, placing the utensil in the appropriate drawer. "She was ass-forked?"

"It was the moo heard 'round the world," Veronica nodded sagely, grabbing the scrub brush and going to town on the casserole dish. "Hey, always worked on Yosemite Sam."

Buffy started giggling. Harder and harder.

The detective didn't quite get it. "I'd kill at the Improv, I know--"

"No," Buffy shook her head, laughing still, "what...what was our cartoon we watched all the time?"

"Um, Gem? Or...Josie," Veronica recalled.

Then, bing. There was the funny.

"Gotcha, Pussycat." She giggled herself. "Talk about a red flag. And we can't forget the Snorks--you liked Casey Kelp a bit too much."

"Two words, Marsipan--'April O'Neil.'" Buffy didn't want to go there, but she was forced to.

Veronica ignored that, though her eyes widened slightly. She committed herself to that casserole dish, to hide the shame.

"We Marses are a frugal clan, but we're frugal with priorities...the prime? Keeping housework as simple, and automated, as possible. So skimp on a dishwasher? Hah."

"But Giles' phone? Still has a cord attached. Plus an actual dial," Buffy reminded her, as if that was explanation enough for the lack of dishwasher. It was.

Next thing Veronica knew, her rear was towel-whipped.

"And ya wonder why the guards separated us in the showers," she sighed deeply.

"What?" Buffy copied her girlfriend's previous tone. "I think I have that same 'nerve damage' thing...what if it's like an epidemic?"

Veronica stuck out her tongue. "Get your own. How ‘bout a nice Asian Flu?"

She smirked, but then found herself in a moment. An appreciative, genuinely grateful moment that ended with her hugging her best friend.

Buffy was surprised, but of course hugged her back. "Your hands're wet."

"So much ribaldry--how's a girl to choose?" Veronica grinned widely, weighing the options before deciding to refrain.

She tightened her grip, and spoke again. "I'm asking, okay? We don't have to talk about it now, and maybe you can't explain now anyway, because something tells me it's...complex, but when you're ready, so am I."

Breaking off the embrace, she tapped the end of Buffy's nose. "The day you scare me, Dumbers, is the day Jimmy Hoffa shows up saying he spent the last thirty years on a desert island talking to a volleyball."

"Veronica..." Buffy was about to argue that, however sweet.

"Buffy..." Veronica dared her to. "Have I ever dealt in anything other than cold, hard fact?"

She took the smile as a "no."

The slayer folded like laundry. "Okay. And I will. Explain it. When I know what the hell to say."

Veronica took her hand.

"Feel the same about me and Aggie." The detective identified as much as she could, though she'd already explained her alter ego. "But if I go tilt and lose this level-head of mine, you're allowed to cool me down."

That was her way of saying she needed her girlfriend.

"So...open books?" Buffy wanted to confirm.

Veronica nodded. "'The Never-Ending Story,'" she said specifically, dropping an anvil. "Too subtle?"

"Think I got it," Buffy responded, moving in to kiss her. "Haulin' long. That's us."

What was sort of scary, was how important this was to both of them. Angel and Buffy were like a melodramatic, Shakespearean romance that was doomed to end before it began. It was easy to get caught up in the idea of it--vampire, slayer, forbidden, intense, powerful...yadda yadda yadda.

With Buffy and Veronica, it was more, down to earth. Whatever that meant.  But they made each other feel good, which was a whole different kind of powerful. They didn't want to lose that, so, open were their books; they were far too invested. Neither female was probably conscious of just how far, hence the scary if they knew.

And the sex was...their business. Nyeah.

"Does this mean I," Kiss, "get to tag along on more cases?" Buffy asked.

"If I get to tag along," Kiss, "on more patrols," replied Veronica. "And seeing you in that sun dress...I think I got a fever. Possibly of a hundred and three."

"God. No more sororities. Marjorie," Buffy spoke the name with distain, "couldn't take a hint. Flirting with *my* girlfriend while I'm standing right there. I wanted to shove her face through--"

"--a glass onion?" Veronica smirked, shrugging helplessly. "I'm quite the catch."

She wasn't being humble whatsoever.

"Funny how she lost interest once I got her dying, den mother fired for growing hash."

That was still a sore spot, but she tried to smile it off, and kissed Buffy again.

Her cell phone rang. "Stay puckered. These?" She pointed to her lips. "Coming right back."

She answered--it was Wallace. "Tell me you ate a Turducken."

"A what?" Buffy wondered. "Oh! Ask him what a ricer is."

They never did find it. Next Thanksgiving, perhaps.

 

________

Back to chapter list