A/N: Back from vacation, illness and exams... Sorry for the wait on this chappie. I made it longer to make it up to you all. :)

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Angel was standing on the second story balcony when she found him. Cordy could tell from his posture, held tilted slightly down, hands tucked into pockets and shoulders slumped forward, that he was miles away. This was her Lost Angel, one of a dozen faces she’d learned from watching him for the last six months that he’d been working for her father. It was one of her favorites, because she could watch him without him realizing how deeply she was in love with him.

She out a silent sigh as she slid her gaze from the form of his black clad legs to broad shoulders tight under his red velvet shirt, up to the firm line of his jaw and the black glitter of his faraway eyes. She longed to touch him, kiss away centuries of pain and replace it with what he needed, anything he needed.

But she was young, and knew it. Her fantastic wardrobe and $300 hair cut weren’t enough with this one. It was going to take time, and grace, and patience enough to show him she was serious.

Cordy came and stood next to him, rubbing her arms at the breeze that was blowing in through the open French doors. The city glittered below the hilltop mansion, sprawled out as a constant reminder of her father’s obligations and her own by extension. She was silent for a moment, alternating between views.

Finally, unfortunately, she broke the silence.

“Fred got up okay, and Dave took her home. She didn’t remember anything.”

Angel was motionless at her words, then shifted slightly and looked at her.

“It’s after dark. Dave’s armed, right?”

Cordy raised an eyebrow.

“What kind of question is that?”

“The kind I have to ask.”

“Yes,” she said dryly. “He was armed. Just like always.”

“Good.” Then he turned to look back down at the city.

She followed his eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

“Beautiful,” he agreed. “But not safe.”

“You’re right. But where’s anywhere that’s really safe?”

He shot her a look, one of those looks that he gave her when she said something all grown-up, looks that seemed to happen more and more lately. For a moment, she was the sole focus of those endless dark eyes, and her heart stopped. She managed to give a small cavalier smile, and he studied her for a moment more before releasing her from his attention.

“Maybe,” he said.

She let out her breath quietly.

“But things aren’t quiet. Dave should’ve taken somebody else with him.”

“He took Mario.” Mario was an ace with a pistol; he was a good choice, and they both knew it.

Angel grunted, actually grunted, and Cordy had to stifle her laughter.

“Yeah,” she said with only the barest hint of humor to her voice. “So I’m gonna leave you to your brooding, and go find Dad. Maybe call Buffy. You know, stuff. Enjoy your view.”

She began walking away.

“Cordelia.”

She paused and looked back at him.

“Yeah?”

“Tell Buffy I said thanks. And that I’ll be calling her soon with that info she wanted.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll give her the uber vague message about your demon friends.”

For just a moment, a light came into his eyes. The corners of his mouth twisted a bit, the closest thing she’d ever seen to a smile on his dire face.

“You’re a piece of work, Cordy.”

She flashed him a brilliant smile.

“You know, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever used my nickname.”

“What? Cordy?”

“Yeah. I liked it.”

“Oh.”

It was so cautious, the way he spoke, the most hesitant word to have ever come out of his mouth. Cordy felt suddenly certain, and chose her next words with a deliberate dash of evil.

“Don’t forget to enjoy the view,” she threw over her shoulder as she once again walked away.

He enjoyed.


*


“Oh my God!”

Spike felt something akin to panic rush through him at Buffy’s words. He stepped in front of her with his arms as a shield.

“Buffy. Love. This is your Watcher, Rupert Giles,” he said softly, trying to sooth her.

“No,” Buffy said, shaking her head.

“That’s Ripper. He’s…”

She stared at him, her words trailing off as she recalled words her mother had spoken in the last days, when the tumor had begun to confuse her memory.

“Buffy, Giles here’s from London. Just came in. He knew your mother in secondary school in England. That’s all.”

But Buffy was gone, lost in memory…


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Two Years Ago…

“Rupert, Rupert, I’m sorry. Hank… swept me up. Swallowed me.”

Buffy’s hand had tightened on her mother’s at those words. The nurse was gone to get another drip bag, leaving Buffy alone with her for a moment.

Her mother’s eyes fluttered open and caught sight of her with a rare episode of recognition.

“Buffy…” she whispered, struggling to raise herself up.

“Mom, no. It’s okay. I’m here. Just relax, okay?”

“Buffy you have to find Rupert. Tell him I’m so sorry.”

The nurse came in then, and attached the Morphine bag to the stand and turned it up. Buffy watched her mother fall back into artificial sleep.

Two weeks later, she was dead. Her nurse found her in the morning, and there was only silence from her father when they’d heard the news.

Buffy had run up to the room, still wearing the weapons she usually removed for her mother’s sake.

There she lay, like a sleeping angel. Her hair had grown back from chemo courtesy of her father, and the golden ringlets framed her relaxed face. In her hands was a bible, the only bible in the house that was read without blasphemous purpose.

There were tears running down Buffy’s face as she reached a shaking hand out to lift the book from her mother’s stiff fingers. As she raised it to press to her chest, a picture fluttered from the pages to land on the floor by the bed.

Tears dripped onto an unknown man’s face as Buffy bent to pick the picture up. It was an aging Polaroid of a happy, attractive, though slightly stuffy-looking man wearing wire rim glasses. There was a twinkle in his eye that indicated whoever was behind the camera knew more than one of his secrets.

Buffy flipped the picture over and found an elegantly penned note.

Joyce, darling. Just keep smiling that wicked little smile. All my love, Rupert.

“Buffy?”

Her father had come into the room silently, and Buffy carefully pocketed the photo as she turned to him.

He stood there with open arms, and Buffy fell into them.

Several weeks later, Buffy had been tearfully going through her mother’s belongings. There were shoeboxes full of memories: pictures, letters, tickets and little scraps of paper that kept Buffy in bittersweet reflection.

The box was buried behind a large stack of boxes at the very back of her mother’s closet.

Inside it, Buffy found a small collection of letters and a leather-bound diary.

She opened the diary first.

Dear Diary,

I left Rupert today. Telling him about meeting Hank was hard, but the right thing to do. The shock on his face, the pain, it hurt me to see it. But Hank told me I had to let him know about us, and he was right.

We’re meant to be, Hank and I.

She skipped ahead a couple of pages and read again.

Dear Diary,

Rupert is frightening me. He keeps calling up, saying horrible things about Hank and I, and I don’t know what to do… Hank says not to worry though. I know he’ll take care of me, of everything…

Buffy flipped forward through scattered years worth of similar entries. Rupert was no longer the focus, but her mother’s marriage and life were. There were glowing entries about her pregnancy and her own birth. The entries were sometimes hopeful, sometimes joyful, sometimes sad. Buffy cried when she saw aged teardrops on the pages her mother wrote about her parent’s death when Buffy had been barely a year old.

But slowly, gradually, the entries began to grow darker, the emotions in them turning from loved-filled scribblings on Hank to pages of questioning.

In the last section of entries, Joyce wrote words that chilled Buffy’s blood.

My eyes are open. Hank is… cold. When he speaks to me, the words cut, bleed me. I find it hard to believe love ever existed between us.

I’m sick. Everyday I feel it getting worse, creeping on my insides. I fear for Buffy…. She is so desperate for her father’s love. But he cares only for power and magick, and what others can give him.

Disturbed, Buffy skipped a couple of pages and came to the last entry.

I’m close to the end. Can taste it in the back of my throat, a sour taste. Buffy’s always close… it means so much to have her for whatever time is left.

Rupert, Ripper, all the men you are, my love! I sinned against you. On my death-bed I see how HE corrupted us, stole me by unnatural means. Such power, such power - it suffocated by brain.

He’s got me drugged now. Won’t heal me though he could. He doesn’t need me anymore, not when he’s got my baby. And she’s his even now.

Forgive me.

Buffy shut the book with a trembling hand. Then she sat on the floor and lost time.

Three days later, she was in her father’s office waiting for him to finish on the phone, and watching him with new eyes.

He finally hung up and turned to her with a smile. Buffy searched it for any sort of falsity.
She found none.

“Sorry about that Buffy. Work never stops, no matter the circumstances.” He came over and gave her a big hug.

“How’s my girl holding up?”

“I’m ok,” she said.

Then, unable to hold her question, she blurted out, “Daddy, who’s Ripper?”

Her father’s arm around her stilled, and he pulled back to look at her with a blank face.

“Where did you learn that name?” Some unknown instinct kept her silent about the journal and picture.

“Mom… She said it the day before she died. She was mumbling a bunch of stuff about him. Kept saying Rupert and Ripper over and over again.”

“Rupert,” her father said carefully, “Was an overzealous friend of your mother’s in college. She might have been mentioning him because she was afraid of him late in their friendship. Her mind was weak those last few days, sweetheart. She might have been reliving the fear. I’m sorry you had experience that alone, Buffy.”

Relief washed through Buffy at her father’s explanation, and she let her body relax into his hug.

“It’s okay, Daddy. She was okay when I talked to her.”

And then she let it go.

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The Present

Buffy’s mind slammed in on itself as the last of the memories played themselves out. As they did, she slowly backed away from the two men in front of her.

For the first time in a long while, shooting or otherwise killing wasn’t an option to solving her problems. So she did the next best thing. She shot out her hands and a stream of Latin, freezing both Spike and Giles in mid-motion.

She stood there for a moment, heart pounding a vicious rhythm in her chest. Giles was staring dead at her, awareness clear on his face despite the smell of alcohol that hit Buffy even across the room. Spike’s eyes were wide, unsuspecting and achingly blue, his lips frozen in mid-words. She reached her hand out and slid her fingertips down his cheek.

And then she ran.


*

Review please, my darlings!

Coming soon... Chapter 15: A Girl Named Annabel Lee...