The Last Cut is the Deepest

TITLE: The Last Cut Is the Deepest 1/13
SERIES: Scratch – ht/alw/always.basiamille.com/fanfic/scratch/
AUTHOR: Ducks, Born Again Angel Ho
EMAIL: ducksfanfic@yahoo.com
DISCLAIMER: Did you forget to take your meds?
RATING: NC-17 for language and sexual content
PAIRING: B/A
TIMELINE: Two years after "Chosen"/"Home"- this story takes place a few weeks after the events of "Scratch", May -June 2005.
SPOILERS: Entire B/A saga is fair game, up to and including Season 7/4.
SUMMARY: B/A are back together, determined to give their relationship
another shot. Naturally, it’s not that simple. Just as things start to come
together (literally *g*), an old "friend" returns to throw a monkey wrench
into the works. Buffy and Angel are forced to face some things about
themselves and their relationship they were hoping to avoid.

Chapter One

Michael Laslow had worked for Wolfram & Hart for each of the ten years since he graduated from college. First in Cleveland, then Toledo, New York and Miami, and finally, the brand new, state of the art complex built in Los Angeles in 2003. During his tenure with the firm, he had seen a great many disturbing, terrifying, blood-curdling and soul-shivering sights – including some of his bosses, co-workers, and many of their clients. For the first few years, he’d gone as far as to regularly patronize a witch doctor for an elixir to stave off the nightmares.

But none of that could compare to the sheer, skin-crawling horror of his current employer’s behavior over the past several weeks since he and the headmistress of the Slayer School single-handedly destroyed a portal well on its way to swallowing the entire city.

Like this afternoon, for example. Currently, his intrepid, much admired, widely respected and frequently lauded boss was busy his office, working on his short game... whistling the chorus from ‘Ode to Joy’.

Absolutely horrifying.

Now, it could safely be said that Michael had spent a good portion of his time and energy since he began working for Angel trying to get the vampire to... loosen up a little, for lack of a better term. Or at least do something other than sit in his office twelve to twenty hours a day, glowering at the endless river of files he insisted on reading from the archives. He’d tried every holistic remedy he knew of to promote harmony within his working environment – flower arrangements in his office, aromatherapy, as well as a little burbling Zen fountain on the desk. He’d suggested spa treatments, vacations, long, full-speed night drives up the coast in Angel’s utterly disused Maserati. He’d referred him to mystical call girls and therapists, incredible plays and stage shows, parties, private screenings of the most popular and acclaimed movies... everything and anything Wolfram & Hart’s extensive resources and connections could provide. All for naught.

However, a full fortnight of dusk ‘til dawn outings fighting monsters and chasing down dimensional anomalies had the vampire chipper as a spring morning. An ironic logic Michael found utterly insensible.

But, alas, he had been told when he took this position that Mr. Angel was... eccentric. An anachronism. A walking dichotomy. A vampire with a soul, a sometimes short, vicious temper, and a distasteful dedication to doing the right thing ay coy cost, with a treasure chest of pharmaceutical-worthy neuroses and strange habits. Michael had just never quite expected... this.

The whistling moved closer to his desk. "Michael."

The assistant glanced up and fought the urge to grimace at his brightly smiling boss. Had he ever truly thought it was a good idea for the vampire to be happier?

"Sir. How was your game today?" he inquired politely.

"Well, I’m no Tiger Woods, that’s for sure. But I have eternity to improve, so... I forbear. Did you take care of that errand I gave you earlier?"

He had to waste more energy on not sighing or rolling his eyes, but rather, keeping the conciliatory tone he liked to think made him invaluable. "Exactly as you requested, Sir. Calla Lilies this morning – four dozen, freshly picked. Two dozen red roses and the mineral wateringring her lunchtime training, and the six dozen sterling roses for tonight."

If it was possible, Angel’s smile grew bigger yet. "Excellent. You’re the best, Michael." He began to turn away, but stopped. "And you got the tickets..."

Michael held up them up: first balcony for opening night of the Bellina International Ballet’s production of 'Giselle' – his boss’s favorite. He handed them over with a flourish.

"Remind me to give you a raise," the vampire fairly chirped, and strolled back to his office. "No calls for a while. I have some things to take care of."

"Yes, Sir. Of course," Michael replied to the closing doors. It was 4:30, and that meant that for the next few hours, Mr. Angel would be busy on the phone, chatting with his paramour.

Who was, of all gs, gs, a vampire Slayer. Named *Buffy*. A haughty little snot who liked to treat Michael like he was a fungus growing on the rug outside her vampire’s door. Which suited him just fine, considering he didn’ t like her a great deal more than she did him. Her snide remarks about his suits, his hair, his shoes, and his sexual orientation grated like fingernails on a chalkboard each time she came to visit. She dressed like a dime store trollop, and gallivanted in and out of Angel’s offices as though she had some inherent right to do so, and her lover wasn’t one of the most feared and powerful beings in this dimension.

Michael had a very difficult time believing that this particular... *person* was the heroine whom his truly legendary boss was so besotted with.

But then, he supposed he wasn’t paid to judge the company Mr. Angel kept, but rather to keep his affairs in order. Which he accomplished splendidly.

He sighed and hit a key on his phone console, instantly reaching the purchasing department. "This is Laslow. Add a box of Godiva truffles to the flowers I ordered this morning, would you? Also... champagne. The ’52 Moet should do nicely. Two bottles. Have them chilling in the limo when it collects Mr. Angel and huestuest."

He hung up. Michael Laslow had a job to do, and come ensouled vampire manic upswings or snotty, smart-mouthed demon hunters, he would do it.

"Good afternoon, Michael."

He glanced up and remembered that there were people he liked a great deal less than Mr. Angel’s girlfriend. "Good afternoon, ma’am."

"What kind of mood’s he in today?" the newcomer asked.

"A very fine one," Michael reported reluctantly.

"Great. This is so much more fun when I get to ruin a good day. Buzz him, would you?"

~

"So Vi says, ‘What are we ever going to use Calculus for in real life? We’re Slayers, not physicists!’ Which, really, I couldn’t argue with. And Will goes off on this whole tangent about how understanding cogents and signs could make the difference between enjoying a nice Sunday night Matthew McConaughey marathon and bowing down before the God of Hell Demons, who’s gearing up to flay you with whips of fire for all eternity. I swear, if she had been a teacher at Sunnydale, I might actually have gone to class once in a while."

Angel smiled to himself as Buffy babbled about the details of her day. It brought to mind happier times when they’d first known each other, when she would show up at his apartment before patrol and do the exact same thing. Funny that the characters hadn’t really changed that much.

Buffy was always wound up with unspent energy at this part of her schedule – between her freshman weapons class and her nightly training patrol with the seniors -- so he had made it his habit to call her and let her enthusiasm and verve wash through him before his own day really began. She was better than coffee for that.

Of course, today was different. Today – or rather, tonight – they’d both cleared their schedules to go out on their first real date. They had been spending nearly all of their rare and precious free time together over the past couple of weeks... but were usually training Slayers, hunting, or putting out any number of other mystical fires that continued to spring up here and there around the city as the result of the Convergence that sparked their reunion. There hadn’t been any time yet just for them.

"You got Faith to take your patrol tonight, right?" he reminded her. Buffy had a great many important responsibilities at the school, and no Michael to keep her schedule straight for her. He’d given her a leather Dayminder to help with that, but the last time he’d seen it, it was sitting in the top drawer of her desk, acting as a catchall for her unpaid bills, hastily scrawled notes, and unread correspondence. Organization was just not his beloved’s forte. She was very much a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-high-fashion-pants sort of woman.

"Please. Did you really think I’d flake on something this important? I had to buy a new dress!" she responded, as if he’d suggested she forgot to breathe or something.

"And I’m sure that tedious chore really put you out," he chuckled. "I remember how shopping is one of the great banes of your existence."

"No, the shopping I like. It’s the credit card statements that give me headaches. I think we might have to start selling the girls into slavery to pay some of the bills."

He frowned. "Buffy, I’ve told you... if you need money..."

"No. Angel, I’m not going to take your money. It’s not like we’re starving."

Of their many old and ongoing issues, money was one of the only spanking new ones. He had it, and wanted to share it. She didn’t, and refused to take charity, even from him. In a twisted way, he enjoyed the normalcy of this particular disagreement.

"The girls need decent weapons. That so-called "shelter" you live and work in is collapsing around your ears – Xander can’t keep duct taping it together forever. And what about books? Supplies? Computers? Ie moe more money than I can ever use. Let me help you guys. Think of it as an endowment. You can name the dungeon after me or something."

Buffy laughed. "We don’t *have* a dungeon. Look, can we not argue about this tonight? We’re supposed to be on our very best First Date Behavior: no spitting, no swearing, and absolutely no arguing about money."

"Fine," he relented, "But you know if I write Robin a fat check, he’ll have it budgeted, cashed and spent before you realize what hit you. Educators are like that."

"ANYway... you still haven’t told me where you’re taking me tonight."

"That’s... sort of the operative definition of surprise."

"But how will I know what shoes to wear?" she complained.

Before he could respond, the intercom buzzed. "Damn it. I’m going to have to tattoo the meaning of the words ‘no interruptions’ on Michael’s forehead."

Buffy snorted. "He probably wants to water the plants or something. He’s made getting on my nerves part of his job description. Dink."

"Buffy...” he chided half-heartedly “Be ready at 7:30, okay?"

Giving in to a sudden urge to channel Faith, she purred, "I was born ready, sailor."

He chuckled as he hung up and tapped the intercom key. "Yes, Michael?"

"I’m sorry to interrupt, Sir," his assistant apologized.

‘Sure you are,’ Angel thought, but didn’t say. "It’s fine. I thought you cancelled my meetings this afternoon?"

"I did, Sir. But... Miss Morgan is here to see you."

Ah. Of course. There was nothing in the universe that could burst his Buffy Bubble quite as quickly and thoroughly as a visit from the Senior Partners’ hottest and deadest young flunky.

"Tell her to make an appointment," he snapped.

Which, naturally, Lilah took as her cue to march right in, pour herself a drink, and ease into her favorite chair.

"You know what the worst thing about Hell is?" she opened.

"The tacky outfits?" he grumbled.

"I see you’ve been working on your sense of humor. Nice. Actually, I was thinking air conditioning, but I guess the moment’s gone now."

"What do you want, Lilah?"

She gave him a smirk. "Oh, right. Wouldn’t want to make you late for your date." She gulped down her drink before she went on. "The Senior Partners have a job for you."

His posture went rigid. Every now and again, his otherworldly "bosses" gave him some morally ambiguous hoop to jump through just to remind him who really ran things around here. It was never anything so heavy that he could out-and-out say no: "borrowing" artifacts from questionable "owners", obtaining rare texts (with Gwen’s help, oftentimes) ostensibly for Wesley’s library, recruiting specific candidates for employment, and an occasional run to another dimension for one seemingly meaningless delivery or another. Small potatoes, really, considering some of the possible consequences of selling your soul.

He was ever wary, nonetheless. He didn’t labor under any illusions – there was a catch to everything involving the Senior Partners. And when the job was done, he unfailingly assigned a seer to monitor the situation for possible consequences. His experience with Billy had taught him at least that much.

"What is it?"

The deceased lawyer gave him her patented, 'I hate you and love nothing more than to watch you squirm’ smile as she steepled her fine fingers under her chin. "They’re expecting a VIP to pop into this dimension in the next couple of weeks. You’re doing the meet and greet."

"Who?" Angel always made sure to get the important questions answered first, even though he knew that ultimately, he couldn’t say no, in spite of any posturing he made to the contrary. Connor’s happy life and Cordelia’s ongoing care made sure of that. The Senior Partners were well aware of their purchase on his proverbial short hairs.

As if she could read his thoughts, Lilah asked, "Does it really matter?"

"Yes, it does," he informed her, "I only run your bosses’ errands if I know exactly what I’m getting into." It might be an impotent gesture, but he made it nonetheless.

She regarded him with a mocking expression of respect, but her true nature shone through her sardonic words. "Not that it makes any difference. We both know you’ll do it, whatever it is. Otherwise your shiny little world could all come crashing really painfully down all around you, couldn’t it? Anyway... you and I both work on the Need-to-Know. The partners don’t think either of us needs to know the exact identity of this guest. We just need to make sure he’s... taken care of."

"So it’s a man," Angel observed.

"You’re so much quicker than you look – which, in your case, is a good thing. Yes, he’s a man – a very important one who could prove to be an invaluable addition to our team."

"Whose team?" Angel asked, fairly certain he already knew the answer. Why would the Senior Partners assign him to anyone who might actually make his job easier?

But Lilah surprised him – a rare occurrence. "Oh, I think you’ll find he’s a key player in your future, too, Angel. This visit should serve to teach you a few things you don’t seem to want to learn."

He squelched the flash of panic that ripped through his chest. What the Hell was that supposed to mean? "Is that something the partners thought you ‘needed to know’?"

"Sometimes I make it my business to know things that aren’t on the official agenda," she replied evenly. "Just be ready. Yl gel get a call when he arrives."

As she rose to leave, he asked, "What exactly do they want me to do to ‘take care’ of this ‘VIP’?"

Wesley’s ex-lover paused and momentarily flashed a smug grin over her shoulder. "They said to follow your gut. If it’s not spilling out all over the floor, that is. Have fun tonight. Send your pet Slayer my regards. And try to get her to eat something, would you? She's so... bony. That just can't be healthy."

Then she was gone, leaving Angel to struggle with the dark fear that something truly diabolical was about to happen to his only recently lightened reality.

~