Pretty Boys


“Hello, Lover,” the man seated across from Buffy said, his Irish accented voice light and playful. “Thought you'd never get here.” His eyes sparkled with mischief and drink, and Buffy had all she could do to keep from falling off of her stool. Messy brown hair, full sensual lips, and fathomless dark eyes peering out from beneath a prominent brow. Buffy had seen all of these things before, but for one thing. He was smirking. Angel did not smirk. Angel looked longingly. Angel gazed, thoughtfully, off into the distance. Angel frowned. Angel stared meaningfully from across a dark room. Angel never ever … ever smirked.




“Well,” Buffy started, willing her voice not to crack and squeak like the naive school girl that once loved this man. “Here I am,” she finished, for lack of anything better to say. “Sorry, to keep you waiting?” she continued, her words sounding more like a question than anything.




“Aye, well, I passed the time,” Angel said, holding up a mostly empty glass.




Buffy swallowed hard. Glancing at her own glassful of pink bubbly, she suddenly did not feeling at all like drinking. She simply smiled, not knowing what else to say. Angel smiled back … no, he didn't smile. He smirked again, as he polished off his drink and gestured for the bartender to bring him another. Buffy just watched, silent.




This was supposed to be her hideout. She'd driven off the edge of the planet to this out of the way hotel to find some damn peace and quiet. Buffy wanted to be alone with her thoughts, so that she could sort out her life and get back on track. She had deliberately left Sunnydale, friends and enemies alike, so that she could think. She certainly did not want to be faced with strange, bizarro versions of everyone she'd ever met.




His drink re-filled, Angel slid off of his barstool and walked around behind Buffy, so that his chest touched her back and his breath tickled her ear. “You know,” he breathed, his voice husky. “I'm not much in the mood for dancing,” he paused, chuckling quietly. “At least, not this kind of dancing.”




Buffy had to almost physically bite down on her tongue to keep from shrieking at the close contact. It was not the close proximity or the obviously sexual suggestion that frightened her. Instead, she was frightened by the warmth pouring out from Angel's skin and the fact that she could feel his heart … beating?




“Maybe, we should make ourselves scarce? Whaddya think, Lover?”




Oh God. Angel had a pulse! He was a living, breathing human being. Something she knew for certain, he had not been in over 200 years. And yet, here he was drinking, smirking, and looking to score … with her, evidently. Who was this man and where was his brooding, more predictable, undead counterpart?




“But, Sweetie,” Buffy said, the pet name sounding funny to her ears, as she'd never actually called Angel anything but Angel. “I just got here?” She had no idea if that were an acceptable excuse, but she was grasping at straws. She had no idea who this man was, even if he happened to look exactly like a vampire she knew very well.




Angel had stepped out from behind her, his dark brows furrowed and a frown on his face. This expression was much more easily recognizable. Angel frowned, a lot. “Just got here?” he repeated her feeble excuse. Taking another drink, one that emptied his glass, his frown vanished and he laughed, gruffly. Angel hardly ever laughed. “Ah, well, I suppose we should try t' keep up appearances.” Shaking his head, he placed his empty glass on the bar. “I'll leave now, and you can hang around a while then come up t' my room. Maybe, no one'll suspect.” Backing away from her, he winked and smirked again. Angel did not smirk, and he never winked.




Buffy took a deep breath to calm herself and accept what had to be the truth.




That was not Angel. And, Cordelia had not been Cordelia. And … her eyes instantly snapped to the dance floor where the platinum blond man was dancing with the woman who'd accompanied him down the stone staircase. She's not real . Drusilla had said those words only moments earlier, before she had disappeared, seemingly, without a trace. Not real like him, and you, and me.




That was not Angel.




Cordelia had not been Cordelia.




But was Spike Spike?














The song was totally unfamiliar to him, but a waltz was a waltz and he and Cecily turned around the floor with the ease of a couple who'd been dancing together for years. But, then, they had been dancing together for years, hadn't they?




His memory was fuzzy, but, of course, there had been a waltz played on the day of their wedding. A lovely spring afternoon, bright but not too sunny. The string quartet had played a slow song, simple to dance to, as he was no great talent. He had managed to guide his bride deftly around the floor and didn't step on her feet even once. His mother and Cecily's parents had clapped appreciatively after the song had ended. Luckily, he hadn't embarrassed either his old family or his new one. He had led Cecily off of the dance floor and … toasted to the rest of their lives.




Hadn't he?




Why then did the memory seem, somehow … wrong?




“William,” his wife's voice interrupted his thoughts. “Is something the matter?”




“No. No, dear,” he stammered. “I was just remembering … remembering our wedding day.” He smiled sheepishly, as though his lady wife would reprimand him for some reason or another. Clearing his throat, he hastily adjusted his spectacles in a nervous gesture that seemed completely natural.




Cecily smiled, her brown eyes understanding. “Waltzing to that slow, awful song,” she chuckled. She too shook her head. “Honestly, it was as if someone had told the band to play the slowest, most boring song they knew. Maybe they thought we didn't know how to dance!” she said, laughing louder.




Lowering his eyes, he was careful to avoid Cecily's gaze. He felt sure she would see the truth if she only met his stare. “Um, yes,” he mumbled. “Preposterous.”




The song ended only seconds later, saving him from any further discomfort. The other couples on the dance floor began to disperse, as the band seemed to be taking a break. Awkwardly, he followed his wife towards the bar. Only one other person, a woman in a scandalous red dress, stood ordering drinks.




The bartender quickly brought Cecily a drink. “Pink champagne on ice, for the Lady,” he said. “And for you, Lord Pratt?”




“Bourbon,” he replied, automatically.




His wife laughed again, “Oh, William,” she said. “Since when do you drink bourbon?”




Taking a full, long drink of the amber liquid, he felt as a man in the desert would feel had he found a freshwater oasis. The smoky liquid ran down his throat, warming his entire body. But … Cecily was right. He hated whiskey in all it's forms. Especially bourbon, vile and corrupt like the bloody colonials that drank the stuff. He set down the glass. He didn't like it. He didn't like it. He didn't. “Of course not, my dear,” he said, nervously running his hands through his brown curls. “Of course not.”




Cecily shook her head depreciatingly. “Come, William,” she said, motioning for him to follow her as one would motion to an obedient puppy. She didn't even turn to see that he was following. Why wouldn't he?




Moving to do just that, he was suddenly stopped by a small hand grasping at his arm. Turning he was confronted by a set of green eyes belonging to the blond woman and her completely unladylike red dress. “Spike?” she said.




He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing. “Sorry?” he said, having no idea what this woman wanted.




“Look, Spike,” she went on, oblivious to his bewilderment. “I don't quite know how to explain this, but something is very very wonky here.”




She seemed as though she were going to continue, but stopped short as he pulled his arm from her hands. “I'm very sorry, Miss,” William said, “but have we met?”


TBC