Title: Baby Doll
Author Restive Nature
Disclaimers: I do not own any of the characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series. They belong to the almighty Joss and I just play with them for my own amusement before putting them away neatly.
Spoilers: Buffy Season Three "Amends"
Chapter Three
New York, New York
"I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you," Angel wondered as he glanced back and forth between the photo and Dylan.
"Well," she smiled slightly, "it’s been ten years, and I do clean up well." Angel simply nodded. All this time that he’d known her yet hadn’t. But at least the words he’d spoken earlier that she’d smiled over, he knew where that came from now. His hand gently flipped the pages of the photo album back to the front page. He studied the photos of the funeral. He searched his brain for a moment and thought back to that fateful day.
"Your grandfather?" he didn’t really need to ask, but she nodded anyway.
"Everyone always thought it was morbid to take pictures of a funeral," she scoffed. "I think it was worse of my mom to take a picture of me after that little spill."
"It certainly made me wonder," he smirked. He flipped back to that page again, looking down at the little girl he’d met under sadder conditions.
"My mother was hassled over that," Dylan recalled wistfully. "Apparently, the printer’s were a little overzealous and called the cops on her. That was a bad year."
"I can imagine," Angel agreed as he finally closed the cover and laid the album on the coffee table before him. "But on the other hand, if he’d turned a blind eye…" he trailed off suggestively.
"I know," Dylan nodded. "Maybe the guy saved somebody. Maybe not." She rubbed her hands gently over her lap, as if trying to warm suddenly cold fingers. "Oh, can I get you something to drink? I have tea, or coffee. Hot cocoa maybe?" Angel wasn’t really interested in a beverage, but he sensed immediately that she needed something to do.
"Tea would be nice, thank you." She gave him a tremulous smile and rose gracefully from her chair. She moved to what he knew had to be the kitchen and he followed after her sedately. He watched from the doorway as she moved about, setting a teakettle to boil on the stove. She took two large mugs from a cupboard, and from another, sugar. She added spoons, then began setting out box after box of different teas. Angel chuckled and moved to the opposite side of the island counter she was at. He picked up the first box she had set out; noting absentmindedly that it was Dru’s favorite kind.
"I know," she smiled shyly. "I have a lot of tea."
"So you really didn’t mind the tea parties then?" he joked back gently. He gauged her reaction and was pleased to see that she wasn’t overset by the reference to that dark time.
"No," she laughed. "They were fun. But Dru kept forgetting that drinking two pots of tea in one sitting caused certain problems." Angel thought a moment before making the connection. The idiosyncrasies of the human body. They were silent as they waited for the water to boil. Once it had, she gestured for Angel to chose a flavor, which he did at random. She chose her own and while the teas steeped, she returned the others to the cupboard. Finally, she loaded up the tray. Angel took it from her and they returned to the living room.
"You know," Dylan commented as her spoon clinked softly against the mug, the sugar swiftly dissolving, "I used to drink tea with my grandpa every morning when I was there during summer vacation." Angel didn’t need to clarify which of her grandfather’s she was referring to.
"That sounds nice."
"He used to make me peanut butter and jelly toast sandwiches," she grinned. She brought her mug to her nose and inhaled. She blew across the surface of the liquid, then took a small sip. She let the mug settle in her hands in her lap and stared down dreamily. "I don’t think I’ve had one since then."
"Some memories deserve to be treasured and looked back on with fondness," he leaned forward. He knew that very well first hand.
"He was making one for me when he died," she confessed softly, still staring down at her mug. Angel cocked his head to one side. He recognized the look in her eyes immediately.
"You blamed yourself, didn’t you?" Again, it was more a statement than a question. She simply nodded.
"I was angry for a long time because of it," she sighed. "Well, not really angry. Hurt of course, and mad at myself. I said a lot of things and lashed out at almost everyone." She winced at remembered pain. "After the coroner took the…body, I told my grandma that it was her fault. That if she’d gotten up to cook like other grandma’s, then he’d have been fine." He didn’t reply. She looked him straight in the eye for her next confession. "I told her that she should have been the one to die."
*New York, 1989*
The little girl ran. She had been running for blocks and blocks now. Her chest was hurting from the exertion of her running. But more than that, there was a pain in her heart. A tight, squeezy feeling. As if someone had wrapped a rubber band around it that was gradually getting smaller and smaller. The girl stopped a moment, wrapping her arms around a street lamp as she gasped for breath. But as she panted, silent tears streaming down her face, a melange of memories overwhelmed her, causing the tears to fall faster. The wrinkled face of her beloved grandfather. Smiling down at her as he teased her for her hair sticking up at odd angles. He’d called her ‘cowlick’. She’d frowned and whined. It was all part of their morning routine. A special time just for them in the morning. But then, the strange coloring in his face. His mouth pinched gaping open and shut, like a fish she’d once seen at the pet store.
The little girl remembered getting up from the table, just as her grandfather clutched his left forearm. The next happened so swiftly, but the little girl would see it forever in her mind’s eye. He started to fall; she took one step forward. But he was on the floor before she could move forward. She stared at him, unable to move, caught in the kaleidoscope of swiftly moving events. She watched as the ruddy coloring faded from his cheeks, to be replaced by a motley gray. The fingers, digging into his own arm had gone lax and his head lolled to the side. The little girl had slipped to her knees then. She’d crawled forward, hesitant, not understanding why her grandpa was on the floor.
She’d reached out one tentative hand, then snatched it back, fearful. She’d whispered something to him, a plea to get up. But he didn’t respond. The little girl was scared. Unconsciously, she’d begun rocking back and forth on her hands and knees, a small, quiet keening building in the back of her throat. Finally, the scream emerged. "Grandpa!" She’d screamed it over and over again until the din finally woke her grandmother. The little girl didn’t register the slap of the old woman’s bare feet as she ran into the kitchen. Or the shocked gasp. All she knew was the grasping arms trying to pull her away from the macabre scene. And then she fought. Her grandpa needed her. Once her grandmother had managed to subdue her flailing arms by locking her in a strong grip, she’d used her only defense left. Her voice and words.
"It’s all your fault!" the little girl screamed. "Why couldn’t’ you get up and make breakfast? He should have stayed in bed. It’s your fault. Why couldn’t you be a normal grandma? It’s all your fault!" The older woman didn’t’ respond, just sat on the floor, her only grandchild locked in her embrace. She’d averted her face, but the girl felt the warm splash of tears on her head. She renewed her struggles and finally, the woman could hold her no longer. The girl scrambled away, to huddle in the corner, nursing her sudden resentment so she wouldn’t have to focus on her beloved grandfather.
She didn’t care that the older woman struggled to her feet, or that she was calling an ambulance. The girl watched the rest of the morning unfold. The paramedics arriving, checking over her grandfather. Then another man arrived, dressed like her grandpa did when they went to church. And finally, the paramedics gently lifting grandpa onto the rolling bed and taking him away from her forever. She’d tried to run after them, but her grandmother had latched onto her again. She heard the vehicles pull away and screamed out her rage. She’d yanked her wrist free and venomously spat out those hateful words again. "It’s all your fault!" And then she’d run from the house, determined to find her grandfather.
But now, wrapped in silence around the lamppost, she felt worse. It wasn’t’ grandma’s fault. It was hers. Grandpa wouldn’t have been up if it hadn’t been for her. She always had to have her peanut butter, cherry jelly toast sandwich. And only grandpa could make it. It was her fault and hers alone. And that fact alone pushed her to keep running. She was a bad girl. A wicked little girl to have said such things. And so it was in her mind that when she heard the police siren, she became scared. She was convinced that they were after her. She’d run away after killing her grandpa. So she did the only thing she could, she ducked into an alley and hid.
She was scared in the dingy alley. And she knew it wasn’t safe. But she was more scared of the disappointment she would be sure to see on the faces of her family. She couldn’t go back, so she went forward. Deeper into the alley, until she finally came to the dead end. Except, it wasn’t. There was a door. Curious despite herself, the girl tried the handle and the door creaked open. With one last shuddering glance at the coolly dark alleyway, she slipped inside. The door shut and she was encased in a musty grayness, neither dark nor light. She listened, but heard nothing now. Moving carefully she stumbled forward, looking only to find a quiet place to hide away. She never noticed the other occupant in the abandoned warehouse.
*****
"You know," Angel broke into her reverie. "I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone scream as loudly as you did."
"Well what did you expect?" Dylan scoffed. "I was a kid and there was this freaky guy staring at me, not two inches from my face." Angel grimaced. Compared to his life now, he’d been very anti-social then.
"I suppose that was what made you run away?"
Dylan sighed. "That was part of it. I just wanted to be …away… for a while."
"I know that feeling," he agreed. "It’s just too bad you didn’t get very far." He could recall now with crystal clarity, following after her as she ran. She’d stumbled and taken a header straight onto a cinder block, knocking herself into oblivion.
"I don’t know whether my mother was more freaked out by my running away or than by the scars I ended up with."
"Probably both," Angel shrugged. It was the way most parents were.
"I know she was glad that you were there and took me to the hospital," Dylan commented quickly. Angel’s head snapped up in surprise. Her mother had been a wailing mess the last time he’d seen her. Flying into the emergency room, hair flying everywhere, not paying attention to the doctors until she’d ascertained that her child was alive. Then she’d rounded on him, thanking him profusely for saving her child. It was a lot for him to handle then, especially with the scent of blood invading his senses. He’d extricated himself as quickly as he could and left. His duty was done.
"Really?" he finally murmured.
"Yep," Dylan confirmed, a small smile on her face, remembering. "She kept going on about ‘that wonderful Good Samaritan’ who saved her baby." There was a small chuckle. Angel looked down at his now clenched hands.
"Good Samaritan," he mumbled, then snorted softly. "Yeah, that’s me."
Chapter Four
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