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"Uh, Nina?"

This wasn't right. He knew the hotel — his hotel — like the back of his hand. He could walk the corridors blindfolded, even those in parts of the building that they had barely inhabited before the great move to the Law Offices of Wolfram & Hart. And while the Hyperion had managed to avoid sustaining heavy damage or infestation like a majority of the buildings in Los Angeles, hell wasn't nearly this well-kempt. Especially not where his former mailing address was concerned. The carpets were vacuumed, the floors had carpets, mirrors and glass polished to a glare-free shine...

Not only did he appear to be in the wrong hotel, but the wrong dimension, and that was a problem. A big one.

This was the last thing he needed, whether it be an actual case of dimensional displacement or some trick the Senior Partners were pulling on him in retaliation for overthrowing the Lords. Not that they needed an excuse to meddle in his life. They were the masterminds behind his newfound liveliness in spite of what the heavy glamour that hid his humanity from everyone had to say about him. Angel was alive, but it was important that everyone still believed he was a vampire.

It's like he told Wes; there's only one way to get out of hell. Act like nothing's changed.

Which was why he stared at what he could see of the buffet table across the way, but made no move to approach it. Eating actual food in public? Dead giveaway. (No pun intended.)

He should probably find shoes. Somehow, walking out of his room in nothing but a t-shirt and sweatpants had topped his list of poorly thought out life choices this morning.

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Again, knowledge Buffy shouldn't possess — not now, not ever — escapes him in lieu of believing he's interacting with something or someone wearing Buffy's face and not the Slayer herself. So when she notices his reflection and starts to catch on to the truth of the matter, he isn't bothered by it. He even shrugs, as if being a living vampire-no-more isn't that big of a deal.

"What, admiring the handiwork? Nothing you and yours aren't already aware of."

The look she gives him is 100% patented 'are you crazy'. "And winner of the 'i just got knocked on the head' award goes to...."

She presses the palm of her hand against his shoulder and swallows hard. His skin is warm. With her other hand, she grabs his wrist, fumbling around for a pulse point. Tears spring to her eyes as the reality of this catches up to her.

"I can't ever find it. In gym we had to take our heart rate and I couldn't--I blurted out 'I'm dead'. I never did find it."

She's still fumbling to find his pulse, his words forgotten in light of Angel's human running through her head. She is not going to cry over this. She is not going to cry.

But she is going to be teary.

In all fairness, Angel has be knocked over the head a few dozen times in the past few weeks. Wes has been chiding him for continuing to use powerful, primordial magics to heal those injuries when they were meant for Wolfram & Hart's medical division to use on demonic clients, not a human being. They were the quickest fixes around, though, the ones that did the job of ensuring that he looked as if he'd healed overnight from whatever was done to him, whether it be having his head slammed into the pavement or being run through with a sword.

Continuing to appear as if he was coming out on top was likely doing a number on his newly re-mortalized body and he knew it. (And he didn't really care.)

He's not looking at her face, doesn't see the tears. He would've smelled them if— well, she was figuring that out. Or stumbling back upon what she should already know. No, his eyes are on the hand encircling his wrist and fingers that are unable to find his pulse.

Angel sighs, his patience with this whole charade wearing thin, annoyance starting to bubble to the surface.

Grabbing hold of her hand, Angel lifts her hand instead to his neck, pressing her fingers to his jugular. It pulses as the blood pumps through it, full of the life he shouldn't have but does for reasons he can't even begin to explain to someone who isn't in the loop already. It had been hard enough taking the blame for the fall in front of a crowd of thousands and being praised as hero even though he was the one who literally damned them all.

The unwanted humanity is part of his own unique damnation.

"Always go for the neck. Bigger vein, stronger blood flow."

She's silent for a moment, letting the fact that she can feel Angel's pulse thrumming under her fingers soak in. After a moment, she blinks away the tears and nods, swallowing hard.

"Life lessons from an apparently former vampire."

She clears her throat and jerks her hand away from his neck suddenly, as if it burns.

"I should...sorry. I'll get back to the whole nursing gig."

It gives her something to focus on, crouching to dab ointment on the wound. "You should probably have stitches but since I failed cross-stitching in Home Ec, you probably don't want me doing it. I can bandage you up and we can see if someone else can do it for you."

It's about then that Angel loses his patience. He's been taking it one day at a time for far too long now and frankly, he's tired being messed with. He's tired of a lot of things — tired in general (he could sleep for a week if someone let him) — but being messed with like a rat in a maze was sitting pretty high towards the top of the list. He rises from his place at her side, moving away from her hands and her in general.

"Okay, I'm done. That's enough of whatever the hell this is supposed to be. I've had it with your games. You want something from me, you ask for it. Don't send Wes or put on your best Slayer face. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it face to actual face. Right here, right now. So, I'll say this once: Take off the mask."

Feisty and brazen as ever, demon or no demon. They can't hold him down, no matter how hard they try. And oh, how they've tried.

Edited 2014-03-09 17:26 (UTC)

Buffy takes a step back, hands up in the air. She's not looking to fight with Angel, particularly when he's human and hurt. He might be able to hold his own, but she's still the strongest slayer on record, particularly since Willow's spell. She's got more than her dose of slayer power working with her.

"Okay...I don't know what part of Crazy Town you've been living in, but this is my actual face."

Even to someone who isn't in the loop, it's obvious that Angel thinks she's someone else.

"Who do you think I am, Angel?"

The last thing Angel's looking to do is get hurt again, especially while he's fresh out of magical quick fixes and has to rely on good ol' human healing. He isn't thrilled about it, and had the left him at the Hyperion where he'd laid down the night before, he would be pushing through the pain and the blood soaking through his bandages and boarded the dragon to seek out that epicenter of power that wasn't the Lords. They were put down, but something was still out there. Something that wasn't Wolfram & Hart, if Wesley's word could be trusted.

Speaking of—

"A spokesperson. A child of the Senior Partners. Eve's sister — or brother, for all I know. A demon doing their dirty work. I could keep listing off the variables, but it all comes back to them: Wolfram & Hart."

God, his side hurts. Standing with it gaping open like that isn't doing him any favors, but stubbornly, he stands tall in spite of it, barely batting an eyelash in response to the urge to cry out. He's had practice. He's getting better at it. World's best actor, forever and always.

(World's most unbelievably stubborn idiot, too.)

"Either I'm speaking to a minion or I'm speaking to a Partner, but considering the lack of feline features... My money's on minion."

"Or, option C, you're speaking to Buffy." She considers him a moment and sighs.

"I don't know what's been going on in your world, Angel, but in mine, I'm no one's minion. Would this minion have all my memories? 'Cause we can take a detour down memory lane if that would help before we firmly plant ourselves in 'would you please let me look at that wound' place."

Angel takes a step back, bumping into the closed bathroom door, clearly not into the idea of letting her — it, whatever — near the wound that he's aggravating.

"You can't be, this— It's hell and she's not—"

But in spite of his pessimistic attitude, Angel's something of a closet optimist. He's an optimistic pessimist, prepared for the worst but open to the best. It can't and he knows the chances of this being Buffy are slim to none, but...

He sighs.

"Alright. Fine. You want to stake your claim to Slayer fame, then prove it. If you're Buffy, then you should be able to tell me what she said to me before she plunged that sword into my heart."

It's harsh, a cruel reminder for both of them. He brings it up, because there's no way they could know. Spike and Drusilla had been long gone by then, halfway out of town. The only ones in the mansion when he'd been sucked into that vortex had been himself and Buffy. If she really is Buffy, she'll be able to tell him that.

But she's not. So the cruel reminder is just another item on the list of the painful memories he must bear.

Is the way she goes sheet white and the absolute agony in her eyes any help at all in proving that she is who she says she is? Because that's her immediate reaction to the memory he recalls. She swallows hard, already mired in the pain of that moment. It's one that she's never gotten over. Years later when Xander told her that she didn't know what it was like loving someone that had to be killed, she had reminded him that she had loved Angel more than she'd ever loved anything and she'd had to stick a sword through his heart and send him to Hell. It was a wound that never healed. Her hand instinctively went to the bite scar on her neck, palm close against the skin, covering it, protecting a spot that is vulnerable after all of these years, one of only two scars on her entire body.

"I told you to close your eyes and you were so trusting. You had no where you were, what had happened and only half an idea of who you were, but you closed your eyes and I kissed you--" Pain is one of those emotions that rush in unbidden to strangle off words, to make breathing an impossibility and speaking more difficult. She pushes past it, taking a shaky, shallow breath to wrap up the memory. "I told you I loved you and I stuck a sword through your heart."

She whips around on her heel, turning her back to Angel, head bowed. "And you never knew it, but I left Sunnydale for two months after that. I quit being a slayer, I quit being Buffy Summers. I quit being the girl who'd given up the person she loved most in the world to save the world."

—except that she is, and he regrets his question instantly.

It's Buffy. It's really Buffy, and she's here. In hell. Or not hell? He hasn't quite figured that one out yet, but right now he's more focused on the fact that he just delivered and unnecessarily crushing blow to someone presently undeserving of it, regardless of having done so in the name of very justified paranoia and suspicion. He had to be sure, couldn't treat Buffy like Buffy if she wasn't Buffy, couldn't divulge things to the Partners that he would to an old girlfriend.

Slowly, he steps away from the door, approaching her from behind. He reaches for her hand, his fingers brushing the back of her palm. He finds it odd not to be struck by the sensation of hot on cold now that he actually has a body temperature. "Hey. I'm sorry, I shouldn't of— I had to know. Buffy, I've been through... I've been through things I don't even know how to start talking about. There's a reason I'm like this, a reason why I didn't believe you."

He swallows hard. Somehow, admitting this to her is harder than doing so in front of all the people he dragged to hell with him.

"I messed up."

Not hell. There's a part of her that understands needing to make certain, needing to be sure that she is who she says she is. There's also a part of her that wants to haul off and punch him. If he weren't very hurt, she might do just that but his fingers against her palm remind her that he is human and therefore a more fragile than she's used to.

She pulls away from him slightly and shakes her head.

"It's fine. I need to look at your wounds."

She's tightly coiled, all emotion pushed as far down as possible. Her shoulders are drawn straight and stiff, tension holding her back straight.

"Now that you know that I am who I say I am, why don't you go lie down on the bed. It'll be more comfortable and I can get you patched up."

And it will give her a second to herself to collect herself.

"You can tell me about it while I get you fixed up."

She's putting on a face, sucking it up and putting it aside to deal with later. He's seen her do this countless times before and is extremely guilty of doing it himself. Especially know. He could add Professional Bottler to his résumé in addition to a spectacular talent for hurting people, even when he's not intending to.

"Right."

He withdraws his hand and steps back, giving her the space she needs while he retreats to the bedroom, lying down on a bed that's far more comfortable and better smelling than anything he's been sleeping on lately. He probably reeks, too, and the clothes he has/had on haven't been washed in weeks, if that. When it came to survival, you tended to care more about not getting eaten than you did about what you happened to smell or look like.

No wonder Nina thought he was off his game. (She's right, he is. Very, very off.)

This time, he winces openly when he stretches his arm up over his head, to give her better access to the tear in his side. Perhaps it's because he's tired, or perhaps it's because she's seen him at both his best and his worse and knowing the truth means he doesn't have to bite back any of what he's gotten so good at keeping a lid on.

It takes her a few seconds to get it all together, to swallow down the pain of that memory he'd dredged up and gather up the first aid items she'd need. She carries everything into the bedroom, not worried right now about how he smells or what he's wearing. They can change the bed sheets. He can take a shower once she's had a good look at his wounds and she can get him clean clothing.

She sees that wince and bites her bottom lip. "I'll try not to hurt you," she promises as she crouches next to the bed, an antiseptic swab in hand. "This really could use some stitches." She wishes in this moment that she could give him some of her healing.

She sets back on her heels a bit, a half smile on her face. "I can get you a bottle of whiskey while you take a shower and stitch it up for you or we can bind it tight and hope it knits back together. Either way, you're going to have a nasty scar."

"I haven't scarred in over two hundred and fifty years. I think I'm long overdo for one."

A bad joke, but a joke nonetheless. His sarcastic side has really blossomed in the wake of the fall, Wesley usually on the receiving end of his quips and snaps, whether they're humorous or purposely harmful. There were things he said to his ghost liaison to the Partners that were downright cruel at times, but true nonetheless. And to be honest, he and Wes have both done far worse things to one another, things that their words will never outweigh. Wes took his son and he— Well, he tried to strangle the guy in the hospital, then got him killed by going after the Circle.

What's a few harsh words between ex-vampire and his friendly ghost?

"Let's go with the whiskey, shower, and stitches. Usually we go the magical route, but unless you've got some primordial creepy crawlies in the basement of this place, I think we're going to have to do without."

Edited 2014-03-10 03:03 (UTC)

The bad joke gets a twist of a smirk out of her. To some degree, she understands. She's got two scars and neither of them bother her much.

"Okay. Well the bleeding has slowed enough that it's not going to kill you. There's soap and shampoo in the shower. Do not put those clothes back on. I'll get you some pants and a bottle of whiskey from the bar."

She gets to her feet. "When's the last time you ate?" She'll probably grab him something like crackers as well. He can eat it after she gets him stitched up.

He sits up, mindful of his side. "Sunday, I think. Or was that Tuesday? Is today Tuesday? I don't know. The days sort of started bleeding together after the first few weeks, especially with the whole sun/moon, day-and-night thing. Please tell me that's not what's going on outside."

Angel should feel worse about the possibility of not being in hell than he does, but the truth is he's tired. He's wore out and exhausted, sore in ways he's never been sore before. Everything hurts, though some hurt considerably more than others — like his side and hand, that spot below his left shoulder blade where the She-Skip got in a good blow. It's his fault Los Angeles is in hell, but he's no good to them if his guts are hanging out.

Shower, whiskey, and stitches first, getting back to hell later.

He sees to the first part of that while she's getting the whiskey, washing off the grease, dirt, and various types of slime and goo off his body and out of his hair. The hot water feels good against his skin, turning his pale skin a deep shade of pink. Blood and grime mingle in the water at his feet and he washes until it runs clear. It's amazing how accustom he's grown to things like soap and shampoo, given that he grew up in an era where bathing wasn't something you did very often and certainly not the degree people did now. Yet it feels good to do so, and he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, hopefully looking less ragged than he did before. Although, he's willing to bet the bruises are more apparent now that all the dirt's been washed away.

"Buffy?"

"Nope. Not what's going on outside. It's...more space-ish, but we've got a sun and night and it seems pretty regular most of the time. I'll get you something to eat."

She steps out into the hall, shutting the door behind her and going several feet before she sits down on her heels against the wall. She pushes her hands into her hair, holding her head. Angel was human. Angel was here and he was human. He'd been in Hell and human. There's so much she's trying to deal with that she's not even sure how to cope with it. She's not even sure where to begin. The last time she'd seen Angel, he'd killed Giles. He hadn't been himself and she knew that. She's not sure how she feels about that. After all, she'd certainly contributed to him not being...him. In any case, it doesn't sound like it's happened yet to him and she's not sure what to do with any of that. If she's very honest, she's not sure what to do with any of this. It's going to require a good deal of her own brooding to work through it and right now, she doesn't have time for that. Right now, Angel is hurt and seriously injured and she's about to sew him up like he's Mr. Gordo losing stuffing.

She pushes herself to her feet and heads down the hall to gather up what she needs: whiskey, pants, sandwich. A book entitled Stitches for Dummies wouldn't hurt, but she didn't think the library had that. She could insist that he call the clinic, but after what he's been through she doesn't expect him to trust anyone. She's proven (rather painfully) that he can trust her and she's not going to let him down. Not right now.

She's just stepping back into the room, letting the door close behind her when he steps out of the bathroom. She swallows, momentarily speechless at the sight of Angel in a towel. Somehow, she'd forgotten how beautiful he is, even with the bruises and the injuries, he's beautiful. She used to think that his name was apt. She still does. After a moment of staring (quite ungracefully probably) she recovers, giving him a sheepish smile.

"Pants." She holds them up. They're scrub pants, but they'll do until he can pick something out on his own. More importantly they'll be comfortable to sleep in and shouldn't rub against anything. The bruises on his skin are far more apparent than they had been, but there's really no reason to comment on them. She knows why he's got them even if she doesn't know how.

"Also whiskey and a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich. The restaurant didn't have much in the way of takeway right now and I wasn't sure what you liked so you got my favorite."

She moves to set the whiskey and the sandwich on the nightstand before walking up to him, clothes held out. There's a white undershirt as well, but it won't be any good to him until she's gotten him sewn up. She looks up at him, eyes holding his with that look of wonder that she so often wore as a teenager around him. She'll stop gawking eventually, but right now his humanity and his reappearance in her life is far too fresh.

Angel doesn't mind the staring. It's a good sort of staring, ogling even. And being ogled, openly and shamelessly, is preferable to the hateful, malicious stares he receives day in and day out from all those out to get him. All those who blame him (rightfully so) for the predicament they're all in.

Scrub pants are definitely ideal in this situation and far more comfortable than the dozen or so pairs of jeans he's been cycling through since he raided that one clothing store downtown. The extensive wardrobe he'd had upstairs in the penthouse had been taken out along with the rest of that floor when it was grazed by the wing of one of those flying, faceless, plane-shaped... things. He hasn't really tried to identify them yet, just knows that they stay the hell away from the building — or did, before someone blew it up — after he sent the dragon up there to grab himself a snack or two.

He disappears back into the bathroom long enough to exchange the towel for the pants. Having got blood on the towel, he drops it in the trash. If this really is a full service hotel, there's more where that came from.

"At least you didn't bring me potatoes," he says in an effort to break the ice when he reemerges, reaching out to take the rest of the clothes from her. His fingers brush against her own and he makes no move to draw back. "Pretty sure no one even knows how to make cál ceannann like I remember it anymore."

Ogling was always preferable to being glared at. She could understand that. She didn't have a whole city angry at her, but there was a gang of slayers that weren't happy.

He could pick up pretty much anything he wanted later. He might have to start small, but he could add to it, particularly if he didn't have to worry about it getting ruined.

When he comes back into the room, she's sitting on Dawn's bed, organizing the things she'll need to stitch him up. She looks up when he comes back out of the bathroom and smiles. She may not understand why potatoes were a thing with the Irish, but she knew they were linked. "I'll mark those down on the do not want list." She swallows hard when his fingers brush against hers. It's an entirely unfamiliar feeling and yet, even warm, he feels like Angel. There's that tingle-tangle that races through her body, that feeling that has always raced through her in his presence, like pressing her tongue to the active end of a battery.

"Uhm...you can ask the kitchen for Carlie Simon...but you might have better luck finding a disco door?"

Her misunderstanding and mispronunciation gets a warm chuckle out of him, likely the first laugh that hasn't been bitter or at the expense of his enemies in well over half a year.

"Cál ceannann," he repeats for her, slowing the words down and drawing out the broadness of the vowels. "It's a type of mashed potato with kale — white-headed cabbage. I'm sure they've got an English term for it by now, but I haven't really had a reason to look into that."

Not when he's been on a strict liquid diet for the past few centuries. He does remember liking peanut butter, though he doesn't dare think back to the day in which he discovered that he did. That had been his first brush with willfully altering time and tampering with the memories of others for the greater good of it all. The last thing he wants is to further sour whatever's going on here by taking a trip down a memory lane only he has access to.

Although, in some ways, experiencing that one day had better prepared him for life as a demon fighting human being. He already knew what his limitations were going into it, thanks to that day. If only he'd clued into the whole suddenly human thing before he leapt off the top of that building. That would've saved him a few months worth of excruciating pain and hallucinations.

The pile's set aside for later, after she's done sewing him up. Grabbing the whiskey, he pops the bottle open and sits on the edge of the bed with his back to the headboard. "I should warn you, I didn't have the best tolerance for this stuff when I was alive." He was completely blitzed with Darla turned him, having stumbled out of a tavern with drunken ambitions of robbing his own father blind.

What a winner of human he'd been.

Edited 2014-03-10 16:12 (UTC)

She's pleased to have provided it. In fact, that may have been part of the point. Sure, she couldn't have pronounced it the way he could, but she might've been able to make a better stab at it than 'Carly Simon'.

Oh. Sorry, she got lost in the whole listening thing. It takes her a moment to respond. "I don't...know? I mean, maybe if you explained what it was to someone they could fix it?"

Yeah, it's best not to tell her about that. If she ever finds out she will punch him and be incredibly hurt that he didn't consult her, that he messed with her memories, that he's the only one who remembers that day.

"Low tolerance is good. Drunk is kind of what we're going for here." She wants to hurt him as little as possible. She hesitates before going to the other side of the bed and sitting down next to him, legs stretching out along side his. She might as well be some what comfortable while she waits for him to get drunk.

Everyone has their less than heroic moments.

"Drunk is what got me killed and turned in the first place," Angel says by way of distracting himself as he takes the first swig. It burns. He forgot how much good alcohol could burn like that, as it has a different sort of effect on the vampiric palate. "What sober man tells some strange woman in an alley to show him the world?"

You died in an alley, remember?

Wow, so distracting just became depressing. All the more reason to take another good swig.

"Got me dead and vamped, got me kicked out of my house. This stuff and I," he shakes the bottle at her, "a good history, we do not make."

Edited 2014-03-11 01:16 (UTC)

Buffy makes an O with her lips, the sound just barely slipping out. She isn't sure how to respond to any of that. She knows virtually nothing about Angel's human life. She takes a deep breath then responds quietly.

"If it makes you feel better, at least this time you're with someone who can literally sit on you and hold you down to keep you from making any horrible decisions."

No, that wouldn't be awkward at all.

"Good point."

He's starting to feel it, the weightless, sluggish feel of alcohol settling into his system. His body is unaccustomed to it, so it's only natural that it would start taking hold within the first few shots. Angel sets the bottle between his legs, drags his hands down his face. The broken one doesn't feel as resistant to the movement as it did before. That's a good sign, because being sewn up without anesthesia is going to hurt, unusually high tolerance for pain or not.

"I'm just going to go ahead and throw out a blanket, all purpose apology for anything I might say or do."