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The blood’s seeping through her shirt, crimson against white cotton.
“I’ll get some bandages,” Buffy says, “Hydrogen peroxide might save that.”
She’s ruined too many clothes patrolling. Dirt, blood, goo of various demons.
Angel sheds her jacket, and looks down at the spot nonchalantly. “It’s just a shirt.”
She isn’t like anyone Buffy’s met before — showing up at just the right time like she has some sort of sixth sense. Mysterious, in a weird, compelling way. And when Buffy turns around with the first aid kit, she’s standing there with her shirt balled up in her fist, nothing above the waist but a red bra. She braces herself against the kitchen counter, shoulders flexing, drawing Buffy’s eye to an intricate tattoo on her back.
Angel turns at the exact right time to see her look down at her feet in a panic, face flushing.
She should apologize, right? But… she took her shirt off intentionally. On account of the giant gash on her chest. Totally practical. It’s not like Buffy’s intruding or anything.
“It’s really not that bad,” she says.
Buffy’s still looking at the floor, split between not wanting to make eye contact with her and wanting to know her reaction. She’s probably just as stoic as ever. She can almost picture it, that smug face, probably crossing her arms, looking way hotter than she has any right to considering she’s most likely following her around for whatever reason. And considering that a year ago, Buffy probably would’ve made fun of her behind her back, what with her razor-cut hair and bare face. There’s something about it on her that Buffy can’t quite put her finger on, though. Every time she starts to think these thoughts her brain wants to shut down.
“Buffy?”
“Yeah?”
She meets Angel’s eyes, and huh, bingo. Slightly raised brows, that seemingly permanent half- scowl… arms crossed just under her chest. Score one for Buffy. Well, if she weren’t blushing from head to toe.
Her hands fumble with the kit, barely getting it onto the counter without spilling the open container. She digs inside, pulling out the bottle of alcohol, gauze, and bandages. Angel steps closer, practically right up against her.
“Nice tattoo,” she says, running out of things to think that aren’t Angel, and the fact that she’s standing right here, close enough that her knee brushes up against Buffy’s when she winces as Buffy cleans the wound with alcohol. She stares at Angel’s shoulder, focused in on a patch of freckles.
She clears her throat. “Lucky you came along,” — thinks — “and how did you happen to come along?”
“I live nearby. I was out walking.”
“So… you weren’t following me?” Buffy says, embarrassed that she almost sounds disappointed by it.
The wound is nowhere as bad as she thought. Buffy was worried it was going to need stitches with how much blood there was, but it just looks like a few scratches, not deep at all. She got lucky.
Angel cracks a half-smile. “Why would I do that?”
“You tell me. You’re the mystery girl that appears out of nowhere.”
Light. Conversational. Normal.
Buffy covers it with gauze, and grabs one of the big bandages. Angel pulls her bra strap to the side, and Buffy can feel her heart pound as she smooths the edges of the bandage down, starting at the top, down the sides, and ending just under the edge of her bra.
She looks up, stopping at Angel’s chapped lips without really meaning to, and it feels like she can’t breathe. This is the feeling right before a kill, when her body’s in fight or flight, and she has to wonder, maybe, there’s a third answer.
“Maybe I like you,” Angel says, so nonchalant, tilting her head like it’s nothing — like Buffy’s hands aren’t dangerously teetering towards intimacy.
“Maybe,” Buffy says, barely a whisper.
She hears the lock click open, and jumps back like she’s been burned.
God, what is she doing? Letting her guard down when the Three could still be lurking outside. She pulls her mom into the house, locking the door behind her again.
“Hi,” she says, chuckling but confused, “What are you doing?”
“I thought I saw…” Buffy shakes her head. None of the explanations or excuses brewing in her head sound sane. “I missed you. But you must be beat.”
She doesn’t even have a half-baked explanation for the half-naked woman in their kitchen, so she just starts walking them towards the stairs.
“Go get cozy. I’ll bring you some hot tea?”
“That’s sweet,” Joyce says, pausing on the third step. “What’d you do?”
“I—”
The floor creaks before Buffy can finish her half-thought. Angel stands in the hall — fully clothed, and thank goodness for that.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Hi,” Angel says, waving politely.
“Um, Angel, this is my mom. Mom, this is Angel. We… ran into each other on the way home.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you’re…”
“School!” Buffy’s lips move before her brain can catch up. “We go to school together. She’s… a senior!”
Joyce looks Angel over, eyes lingering on her leather boots and jacket. Buffy’s worried she isn’t buying it, but after a moment she just nods. “Well, don’t stay up too late. It is a school night. And I’m taking you up on that tea.”
“Okay,” Buffy says, calling up after her as she turns the corner atop the stairs, “Goodnight!”
Real smooth, Summers. Now she’s blushing again, leaning against the banister.
“So I should probably…” Angel starts, shuffling her feet and angling towards the door.
“No—” Foot, meet mouth. “I just mean… you shouldn’t. You’re hurt, and they could still be out there. My mom won’t mind.”
It takes her a moment to consider, but she eventually nods. “I can take the couch.”
Her and Willow always shared; her heart flutters at the idea, but she’s not bold enough to suggest it, and she doesn’t want to wonder why that is. So she just asks, “Do you want tea?”
Angel shakes her head. She always seems to say so much while saying so little.
“I’m more of a coffee gal too,” Buffy says, chuckling, “My mom loves the stuff, though.”
They stand there for a second too long, awkwardness seeping in, until Angel clears her throat. “You should get some rest.”
“Yeah. You too.”
Angel shrugs her jacket off, hanging it on the wall, and Buffy gets a glimpse at her tattoo again — totally, fully unintentionally, and her eyes definitely don’t linger longer than necessary.
“What does it mean?”
“Huh?”
“The, um, bird.”
Angel looks over her shoulder, almost like she’s forgotten the ink on her body. She meets Buffy’s eyes again, back to stoic — lost in thought.
“I don’t know yet,” she says, after a moment.
Her brows furrow, but Angel answers before she can even ask her question — how does she keep doing that?
“It meant something to me before. I think it means something different now, I’m just… not sure what.”
“Oh,” she says, not sure what else to say. Angel’s bangs fall in front of her face in the same way they always do, just barely in front of her eyes so that Buffy can’t quite read her expression.
But Angel smiles, and it’s sweet, the way her lips turn up. She braces herself against the entryway into the living room, hooking her thumb in the pocket of her baggy jeans; hand on her hip outlining her curves. “Goodnight, Buffy.”
She beams back at her — not too wide — “‘Night.”