The Soulmate Series

Homeward Bound (Chapter Forty-Nine of Soulmates)


Los Angeles, California.

It’s not very far from Sunnydale, just a couple of hours by car. It’s amazing how far Angel has traveled to get here.

Not a minute after Willow drives off with Xander and Cordelia, Angel has everything figured out. He’s disappointed and not a little hurt, but he isn’t surprised. He’d anticipated her move from the moment he told Willow about his use of the Thomas Murphy identity. Though he’d hoped that it wouldn’t come to this, it has, and there’s nothing he can do but deal with the practical difficulties, minimal though they may be, that attend Willow’s actions, then he can set about finding his love and making things right between them.

First things first, however: the need to converse with Buffy and Giles. How to handle what he knows...should he go to them with the news that he’s just seen the three drive off? Or should he ask where they are and be as surprised as Buffy and Giles are that their friends are gone?

“Buffy.” Angel’s voice is even, but full of suppressed emotion, exactly what she expects from him.

“Hey,” she replies, half-smiling, eyes weary. She fought a tough battle and he knows that it was hard seeing classmates fall. Their names and lives might be meaningless to *him*, but it’s important to remember that’s not the case for Buffy.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Just another day at the office,” she quips weakly. This one took more than a bit of the wind out of her sails.

“Where are the others?” He’s going with Plan B.

Buffy looks a little surprised. She hasn’t thought about them yet. While rationally Angel understands that she’s not running at full capacity, his emotions are another story. He’s furious with her for not being more concerned about Willow. She could have been drained or burned or... It’s a good thing he actually *knows* what’s happening with her or Buffy would pay dearly for this lapse.

“I... I haven’t seen them.” She looks around, her brow creased with burgeoning anxiety.

“Let’s go find Giles.” Angel helps Buffy stand and they head off in search of the Watcher. It doesn’t take long to find him; he’s standing by as Wesley, that ridiculous toad, is loaded into an ambulance. How on Earth did that posturing imbecile escape death today? Doubtless he hid somewhere and only came out when the battle was over. Any injuries he sustained were probably caused by him tripping over his own feet. Angel wishes he could find a way to torture and kill the man himself. His callous attitude towards Willow is something Angel can neither forgive nor forget.

“Giles, have you seen Willow and Xander?” Buffy’s voice is high and breathy with worry.

Giles, too, seems to be thinking of them for the first time. Angel could snap his neck without a second thought. The man looks around with increasing alarm, scanning the dwindling crowd of students for the faces of his charges. They are, of course, not there. Angel already knew that. Still, he pretends to the same level of fear and agitation.

Buffy speaks, trying to allay their fears with a hypothesis. “Do you think maybe Willow’s with Oz?”

Now that’s a question Angel both can and will answer. “No, I saw him drive off right after the explosion. He was alone.”

“Oh God. Do you think something happened to them? Could they be...?” Buffy can’t finish her question. There are tears brimming in her eyes. Giles, too, seems overwhelmed by the terrifying possibility that victory has come at a price too high to bear.

Angel, moved by a measure of compassion, decides to allay their fear, at least in one respect. “Willow’s not dead. I still have my soul. Besides, I would feel it if she died.”

“Well, that’s one positive aspect of the bond,” Giles says. His tone is dry and distracted. Angel fights the ridges that threaten to form at the man’s dismissive words about the bond he shares with Willow. It’s a sacred thing that Buffy’s Watcher takes so lightly. Another transgression Angel will neither forgive nor forget. But now is not the time for retribution.

“We have to find them, “ Buffy says, her fatigue seemingly forgotten. Angel’s proud of her attitude, though a part of him does feel a bit guilty for putting her through this. She just saved the world. By all rights, she should be resting right now. But Angel’s interests are best served by keeping up the pretense, so Buffy’s needs will simply have to be sacrificed.

Time to lead the Slayer and the Watcher around by the nose for a bit. The hunt is on.

Later, of course, the *true* hunt will begin.

He had left the mansion that night, knowing it wouldn’t be his much longer at any rate. His only regret had been the necessity of burning the sheets. But they were the past, and what Angel had needed to focus on was the future. So perhaps it was all for the best. He’d breathed in the scent of their first coupling as it turned hot and ashen. That is something he will always carry within him.

Time to find his love. For that he needed help, the kind of help not readily available in Sunnydale. With the money at his disposal in his other accounts, however, it wouldn’t be hard to get wherever he needed to go. Thomas Murphy was no more, but Patrick Collins departed for New York the very next night.

Hotel rooms. Angel’s well-used to them. Though rarely has he shared one with a specimen as unprepossessing as the pudgy-faced man with unruly strawberry blond hair tapping away at the keys to a laptop computer perched precariously on the nondescript table in the corner.

“She’s either being really careless for some reason or she’s nowhere near as talented as she made you think.”

Money buys experts, but it doesn’t necessarily guarantee their tact.

Angel decides he’ll forgive this insult to Willow’s intelligence, though. Alan, after all, is one whose services he is going to require for a bit longer and might even need again in the future. “So you’ve found her?”

Alan chuckles.“Oh yeah. No big deal. Not like she covered her tracks real well. I thought you said she was some kind of genius or something.”

“She probably figured I wouldn’t have help.”

Alan’s voice becomes a near mumble, as if he’s forgotten that he’s talking to someone besides himself.“Oh. Well in that case, she did a good enough job. What she did would have been more than enough to keep *you* from tracking her down.” There’s a moment’s pause as he remembers that someone else is there, realizes he might have overstepped. “No offense, man.”

“No offense taken.” Angel almost laughs. If Alan knew just *what* his newest client was, he wouldn’t be so blasé about insulting him. Still, the buzz is that Alan is the best of the best, so Angel’s willing to allow him some liberties in terms of respect.

“So anyway,” Alan gets back to business, “Here’s the short version, leaving out all the technical stuff you wouldn’t...I mean that doesn’t matter anyway.” A near-miss at being insulted all over again. Angel lets it slide once more. Alan continues. “She and her friends went to Portland, ditched the Mercedes, and then she bought a Saturn using the name Kristen Estridge. From there they went to Boise, Idaho - why would she...? - but yeah, a couple more name changes - a pretty basic attempt to muddy the waters - some account transfers, blah blah.” Alan’s mumbling again, but a sharp look from Angel seems to remind him to enunciate. “Okay, anyway, now she’s Mary Easton, her friends are David Easton and Elisabeth Jackson, she’s currently driving a Jeep Cherokee, and they’ve settled down in a rental in Vegas. Doesn’t seem like her kind of place from what you’ve told me... oh well, she probably figured you wouldn’t look there.”

Alan has a point. Of all the cities in the world, Las Vegas would be the last place on Earth Angel would figure Willow would visit voluntarily. The noise, the crowds, the gambling...none of it is the sort of thing that would appeal to her. Oddly enough, though, it’s a place he might actually have considered looking for that very reason. He’s guessing she allowed Xander and Cordelia to influence her in making the decision to relocate there. She’d have done better to stay in Boise. Quite honestly, he’d *never* have looked there. Well, not without Alan’s help.

He’s starting to believe what he’s hoped all along was true - this last rebellion was just that - one last stand before capitulation. Willow wanted to be found. He just needed to go about it the right way, to set the best possible stage for their reunion.

For two more weeks, Angel had stayed in New York, plotting his next move, wondering what the best approach would be. Thanks to Alan, he knew every move Willow made. He knew they left Vegas almost as soon as Willow and company got back into the Jeep and left for Salt Lake City, still using the same names, a move that only confirmed to him that she wanted to be found. He wondered how Cordelia would manage in the conservative Mormon paradise. Not successfully, he figured, since three days later, they were in Los Angeles.

And, thanks to what happened next, it hadn’t been four more days before he was as well. Because, after finally risking opening up the bond again, Angel was hit with a wave of something he’d never expected. Pain.

Now he understood what he’d felt back in Sunnydale - by sharing Faith’s blood through his own body, he had transformed his bond with Willow into something far more than it had been before. He makes a few calls. There are books waiting for him when he arrives at the house he’s bought for himself in the City of Angels. He studies...and learns...

“Cordelia.”

She’s surprised to hear his voice and spins around, nearly knocking over a display of crystals. Probably hadn’t expected to see him in the middle of The Psychic Eye.

“Angel. I guess maybe I shouldn’t be so shocked. Willow’s suddenly getting better, and that could only mean one thing.” She has regained her composure and stands, arms akimbo, a sour and disapproving expression on her face. “I’m guessing you tracked me here for a reason, so why don’t we just skip the polite chit-chat I really don’t feel like making the effort to have and get to the part where you tell me what your latest evil plan is, since I assume you have one or you wouldn’t be here.”

He smiles, oozing treacle as his mind is awash in images of Cordelia’s agonizing and brutal death. One day she will go too far. When that happens, all the love he feels for Willow will not be able to stop him from bringing his visions to vivid life.

“Why don’t we go have a cup of coffee and talk?”

Cordelia humphs and looks annoyed, but she leaves with him nonetheless. A few doors down, there’s a desperately hip, pseudo-coffee bar - twice as expensive as Starbucks for a brew that smells rather pedestrian, but Angel’s not going to jib at the price. He has more than enough cash for a bizarrely-named concoction of coffee and foam and an over-priced pastry that’s probably been sitting in the case since the place opened many hours ago.

They are soon seated at a table, the aggressively disinterested hostess attempting to give the impression that they’re fortunate to be served here at all. Seems like the Melrose attitude Angel remembers is now spreading to the San Fernando Valley. Oh, the joys of Los Angeles.

“So, Angel, am I going to hear what you’re after?” Cordelia says the moment the hostess is out of earshot.

“What makes you think I have an agenda?” He’s toying with her, enjoying what little torture he’s able to inflict.

“Oh, maybe it’s just the fact that you’re a rapist and an asshole?”

Angel struggles to keep his true face from emerging. He’s pretty sure that Ventura Boulevard isn’t ready for vampires. But he’s had enough of Cordelia’s mouth. Time to remind her that he *is* a demon, and one with whom she’d do well to mind her manners.

“Do you really think insulting me is such a good idea? I’m a demon, Cordelia. Remember that. It means that I’ll do whatever it takes to get back what’s mine. If that means sacrificing you and Xander...” Angel lets his words trail off. Her widening eyes tell him she’s *finally* gotten the message. Frankly, he’s almost glad it’s come down to this. He’s this tired of playing polite games and watching his words. Time to lay the cards on the table. Time for truth.

One more bit of impudence, though it’s delivered in a rather subdued tone. “How dare you call Willow ‘yours’. After what you did to her?”

“I’m not going to justify myself to you. You have no idea what happened between Willow and me.” He holds up his hand as she’s about to speak. “We are not going to have this discussion in a public establishment where you can create a scene. Besides, it’s a moot point. Whatever you think about my feelings towards Willow, we both know she needs me. Quite literally, her life depends on me.”

Cordelia’s eyes light up. Insolence returns. “It won’t be that way forever. As soon as we figure out...”

“Ah, so that’s why you were at The Psychic Eye?”

She seems stricken, as if she’s just given away a secret. If she were any stupider, she’d be a potted plant. Any sense and she’d have known by a quick glance around that Psychic Eye is hardly a real source for magickal aid. It’s a trendy crystals and incense boutique where those long on money and short on depth can pay far too much money for the trappings of unconventional spirituality and act the part before their like-minded (or *lack*-minded) fellow sheep. There is no chance of Cordelia finding anything even remotely relevant there, let alone helpful.

If she knew anything, or if Willow was in any shape to help with the search, she’d have gone to Pan Pipes or International Imports if they were still around, or perhaps to one of the botanicas in Highland Park. She’d at least have found people who knew what she was talking about, and who’d tell her the truth: there’s nothing to be done.

But here they are - Sherman Oaks. Not exactly a hotbed of true occult practitioners, at least none who are going to admit it. Real magick has no place here in this sterile enclave of conspicuous consumption.

“But right now Willow *does* need me.” Angel smiles indulgently, but his eyes are cold and Cordelia is wise enough to be afraid. He can smell it. He reaches out through the bond again, feeling the ache in Willow’s bones and the weariness that lingers as well. They’ve been apart for quite a few weeks now. While his proximity has dulled the pain, she needs contact to truly be healed.

“Yeah,” Cordelia concedes rather grudgingly.

“So why don’t we go see her?”

“I’m guessing you know where we live?” At last Cordelia evidences some sort of capacity for reasoning. It’s a bit of a shock.

Angel merely nods. They get up and he pays the check, leaving a generous tip for the nonexistent service. Then they walk outside onto the crowded and noisy sidewalks. It must still be a shock to her, the bustling streets after dark. Angel pays little heed to the chatter and buzz. He watches as Cordelia gets into the Jeep and he gets into the Porsche of which he’s already rather fond. Just a few minutes from now, he’ll see his love again. His heart almost beats again; he’s never felt so alive.

He’ll never forget the moment he laid eyes on her for the first time since Graduation Day. She was pale, too pale, and her eyes were shadowed. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Being near her made him realize how very much he loved and needed her, even more than he’d remembered.

“Willow.” As conversation-starters go, it’s not terribly eloquent, but it *is* innocuous.

Cordelia and Xander have wisely decamped to a back bedroom, though not without a few choice words from Xander, the insulting sobriquet ‘Deadboy’ figuring prominently in them.

“Angel.” He can’t decide whether it’s nervousness or insolence that has Willow mirroring him. The emotions he can feel through the bond are tangled, obscuring her motives.

“How have you been?” He’s all non-threatening softness now, his manner gentle, movements slow, voice low - the wounded vampire with a soul who once hung from Buffy’s neck like a high school ring on a dime store chain. While it won’t convince her, he’s sure it will at least keep her off-balance.

“You pretty much know how I’ve been.”

“Yes.”

“So why did you ask?”

She surprises him with the question. Not the least because it’s asked with those wide, guileless eyes that he now realizes were the first thing about her that he fell in love with centuries ago, when the vision of her face was the only thing that kept him whole in a world of torment.

“To be polite.”

She snorts, not so weak that she’s not still brave. His presence is working its magic as well, he can feel. She’s stronger already. Still, though, she won’t be back to herself without touch, he’s learned that much from the crumbling volumes he’s been reading so avidly. He stands away from her. No accidental brush of skin on skin, not yet.

“How did you find me?”

What to say? Honesty maybe? After all, he’s ensured that nothing she can do will get to him now, even if she does learn his names. She’s good. Alan is better. There’s always someone cleverer than yourself. The trick is making sure they’re on your side.

“Thomas Murphy isn’t my only name and you got very little of my money, I’m afraid.” He looks at her, watching as shock quickly fades into an ‘I should have known’ expression. A part of Angel wants to tell her that he’s sure deep down she *did* know all along when she made this last stand of adolescent resistance to the inevitable, dooming herself to quick failure because she knew it would happen anyway, no matter what she did.

She recovers. “I kind of meant tracking me down.”

“You’re not the only computer expert in the world.”

Her back is up now. “Well, if I hadn’t been in pain, I could have done more. You’d never have found me.” She’s adorable when her competitive spirit takes the fore.

He can’t help but chuckle and she colours in anger, so he does his best to stifle his mirth.

“You should be glad I *did* find you. The pain would only have gotten worse.”

Logic is her implacable foe on this topic and she says nothing, going to sit on the nondescript sofa. They certainly have not been spending his money with any liberality, at least not on furniture or the apartment itself, an unprepossessing ground floor unit in a security building about half a mile from The Psychic Eye, though Cordelia’s shoes looked suspiciously new and expensive.

“Nice place,” he says, his eyes letting her know that he’s thinking this apartment might actually be a step *down* from her parents’ living room.

“We’re trying not to waste money,” she says defensively. “I wasn’t up to managing investments or anything.”

“Makes sense.” Actually, he admires her. Most teenagers with five million dollars in their hands would spend like there was no tomorrow, only to find themselves destitute and in quite a predicament when tomorrow actually came.

“Angel, I...”

Time to get down to brass tacks. “You need me.” She’s about to protest, but he cuts her off. “You need me. You will *always* need me. This bond between us...there’s no breaking it. If you don’t believe me, I have books, you can read them yourself.”

She bursts into tears. It is then that he allows himself to touch her. He goes to her, takes her into his arms. She doesn’t resist. There’s no point.

A heated argument with Cordelia and Xander followed, the word ‘rape’ said often enough to elicit a display of ridges and fangs, but reason prevailed and tempers eventually cooled. Bags were packed, a few more insults exchanged, and they all followed him back to the home he’d bought in San Marino. The large grounds of his new mansion and the exclusivity of the neighborhood were appealing to him. Beverly Hills and Santa Monica were too full of nouveau riche and paparazzi to suit him. He wanted a quieter, more genteel life and was sure Willow would share his preference.

Amazing what you can find in Los Angeles. Imagine an agency with staff trained to serve clients with ‘special requirements’. If only such a thing had existed in Sunnydale. It would have made life much easier upon his return from Hell. The most challenging part had been finding persons willing to live outside of West L.A. and Beverly Hills. Of course, that news only makes Angel more sure he’s chosen the right locale. Living in close proximity to unsouled vampires and other demons is not to his taste, and if the trendy addresses attract them...well...best to live in less fashionable climes.

The servants seemingly vanish into the woodwork as Angel guides his love and her two annoying companions through the house and grounds, showing them where the billiard room, library, and music room can be found, with a stop at the kitchen for Xander. Anticipating their arrival, Angel has already laid in a stock of Twinkies and Cheetos and other junk food appealing to the undiscerning anti-palate of the obnoxious boy.

He shows them the tennis courts and the rolling lawns, watching as Cordelia tries her best not to show how impressed she is with it all. It puts her in her place, that’s for sure. Xander can’t manage to hide a thing. Hate Angel as he may, he can’t help but gape at the grand gardens and he stares back at the house, obviously stunned that this is now his home.

Taking them back to the house, he leads them upstairs to their rooms, where the servants have already unpacked the few things they’ve brought with them. Willow, of course, shares his bedroom, though the small sitting room attached to it has been fitted for her exclusive use. It’s bright and airy and she can open the curtains and gaze over the lush grounds during the day. There is a computer and shelves full of books she’ll no doubt want at hand rather than having to always go downstairs to fetch a volume she desires.

Her eyes are blank and her emotions distressing as he shows her all of this. Too much, he supposes, to expect gratitude and pleasure right now. Though he’d hoped...oh, how he’d hoped...

It’s been six months since that day. Six months of ebbs and flows, of good times and bad, and even of days where he can almost feel Willow allowing herself to love him.

He’s done his best to make that so, even giving in to her ridiculous whims and starting a detective agency so she could fight evil again. He has to admit, that was a pretty good idea after all. It’s his fight, too, though he’d put it aside when finding Willow had taken all his attention. There’s something ennobling in doing good for those whom no one else can help, in beating back the forces of darkness. Despite Cordelia’s ‘help’ and Xander’s ‘fighting skills’, Angel and Willow have managed to save more than a few innocents from the depredations of creatures beyond their understanding. He’s glad he caved in and started the agency for her.

She still researches the bond, still chafes at the ropes and chains, but she’s becoming resigned, and that will turn to acceptance soon enough.

He turns to where she lies beside him, still half-asleep. Reverie has made him needy. He strokes the soft flesh of her arm, rousing her from slumber. She knows when her eyes open, when she can feel his desire through the bond. She gives in, allows his lips to claim hers, his hands to roam over her body.

There’s never going to be a time when Angel doesn’t find glory in the smoothness of her skin, in the taste of salt as he licks her shoulder, in the way her nipples pebble under his fingers. She’s sensation in its most addictive and enchanting form.

His mouth moves down her body, taking one of her breasts inside. He suckles, like the child he can never give her, the one that will never take her attention away from him. Her groan causes him to smile at his work as instinct and lust make her back arch and her eyes glaze over. His fingers work deftly to ready her for what’s next.

Her legs part wide as he moves between them. He can smell the moisture pooling between her thighs even as his fingers confirm its presence. Her body is ready to welcome him, to unite with him.

“I love you,” he says as he slides inside her.

She says nothing, but her body sings a song of pleasure and cries pour forth from a tongue that won’t yet turn them into the words he longs to hear. It’s alright, though. Angel can wait. They have eternity, after all, and he knows the truth. He knew it the first time he was ever inside her on that day when his mind was still damaged by Hell’s torture and there was little else he knew besides this one thing, eternal and true.

He is home.


The End.