If I said I was writing something short, LotR, movieverse, would someone beta it for me?

Yes.

Elena, just for you, I'll dual workshop the piece I'm working on.

(setting is early S7/4, post Slouching/Selfless, and I've linked to the LJ places before, but what the heck)

A stack of bills was really not the liveliest of Friday night dates. Buffy glowered at the to-be-paid pile. Somehow, this wasn't how she'd pictured her adulthood. Dawn was spending the night with a thoroughly-investigated and seemingly harmless friend from homeroom, Willow was taking a nap, having worn herself out studying up for the new semester, and the only sound was the quiet scratch of a ballpoint pen in the checkbook. If anything, it was how she'd pictured life in a convent, but without the religion part. Still, she had silence, poverty, and chastity down pat; maybe there was a wimple in her future after all.

"Stupid life," she muttered.

When she'd finished the routine emptying of her bank account, she turned her attention to the pile of coroner's reports and obituaries that Willow had left for her. Nothing, nada, zip. Three cancer deaths, one electrocution, a couple of heart attacks, and a handful of miscellaneous accidents, none of which screamed "supernatural". She'd kind of hoped that she could at least have a cathartic night's slaying, but it looked like another one of those slow patrols she'd dreamed about, back when she'd had a life.

Things must have gotten bad if she found herself more than half-hoping for an upswing in demon activity. There was the Bronze, but things always seemed to go badly there, and besides, if there was anything more pathetic than sitting at home alone on a Friday night, it was sitting somewhere else alone on a Friday night, especially if your job description put you firmly in the uncool grown-up camp.

What she really wanted was to leave Sunnydale. Not for long, just a weekend somewhere where she didn't feel like somebody's middle-aged parent trying too hard to be hip. And if she could figure out a way to get down there, she knew just the place. Her dad owed her big time; if she was lucky, she could maybe even guilt him into taking her shopping. All she needed was a car. She picked up the phone and dialed a number before she could change her mind.

"Harris residence, this is Xander speaking."

"Of course it's Xander speaking. Last I checked, you're the only person who lives there." Buffy hoped she'd managed glib. She gone for glib, but she was worried it had just ended up sounding mean.

"Oh, hi Buffy. What's up? Not planning on killing my ex again, are you?"

"Xander..."

"Sorry, it's just still kind of a sore spot. What do you need?" The strained friendliness of his voice didn't bode well for her request, but she decided she needed to forge ahead anyway.

"Your car."

"You want me to drive you somewhere? Be wheel-guy?"

"Actually, I was kind of hoping to drive myself."

"Buffy, no offense here, but you're not exactly what one would call safe when you're operating a motor vehicle. In fact, I think somewhere on you, there's a little warning label just like there is on cold medicine. Why don't I just drive you to where you need to go?"

"Because I need to go to L.A."

"And this comes up at 7:28 on a Friday night because? Hold on. Look, I know he's been on your mind, but you're not planning on seeing--"

"Angel?" Xander would think that, and to be fair, the thought had crossed her mind. "No, I'm not. I was thinking more of the handsome older guy I dimly remember calling 'Dad'."

"That would be the same one who's bailed on you the last dozen times you've tried to get in touch with him?"

Ouch. Xander must have paid attention to D'Hoffryn, because he was definitely going for the pain. "Yes, that one. He's kind of the only dad I've got, and I miss him."

Xander's voice lost the sarcastic edge. "I get that, but wouldn't it be better if you gave the guy some notice?"

"Why? So he can find something more important to do? His secretary said last time I called that he'd be in town for a while. I'll leave him a message."

"If--and this is still a big if--I let you borrow my car, you'll promise to bring it back intact, right? No scrapes, bumps, or demon parts?"

She had him; he was going to loan it to her. If it wasn't for him being Xander, she could have kissed him. "Cross my heart and hope to, well, not die, but hope to something."

The long-suffering sigh on the other end was music to her ears. "Okay, I'll be over in a few."

"Thank you."

"Just remember, you owe me big time."

"So noted."

After leaving the promised message on her father's voice mail, she went up to her room and threw together a weekend bag. It took her longer than expected; none of her clothing seemed right for whatever it was she wanted to do, not that she was totally sure of what that was. Buffy finally resorted to closing her eyes and grabbing clothes at random. After one last wistful look at the closet, she grabbed the key to her father's place from her jewelry box, and went to wake Willow and let her know she'd be on her own for the weekend.

"You know where Dad's number is, right?"

"Yep. And I know the number where Dawnie's staying, and I know that I should get in touch with Xander in case of emergency."

"You sure you're going to be OK while I'm gone?" She couldn't keep the worry out of her voice.

Willow smiled at her and nodded. "Peachy keen."

Somehow, despite all the last-minute things she found herself doing and then checking to make sure she'd done, she managed to be on the road by a little after 8:00, and in L.A.--car intact, nerves shot--by 11:00. The entry light was on, but the inside of her dad's place was still dark. Buffy swallowed her disappointment and let herself in. When she turned the lights on, she found that he'd left her a note saying he'd had to go off, so she should go and do something fun. He'd also left a neatly-folded stack of cash for her to fund her fun. He hadn't changed a bit.

Los Angeles, on the other hand, had and it hadn't. Or, rather, she was belatedly realizing that she had even less of a clue about where to go for fun here than she did back home. Luckily, she still had a pretty good idea where to find trouble. With a little luck, she'd run across the former when dealing with the latter.

The cheerfully-ample supply of cash allowed her to leave Xander's car in the safety of the garage. Even if she'd been secure in the knowledge of her driving ability, she really didn't want to risk taking it into the area she'd lived in that summer she was Anne, and a little bit of neighborhood improvement for old-time's sake was kind of her first stop.

It seemed quieter than she remembered, or maybe her head was even noiser now than it had been back then. She walked down the street, watching and listening for something, anything. When a shrill scream followed closely by an inhuman roar pierced the evening air, she lifted her head in silent thanks. Now that was a little more like it.

***

The grip was unwieldy, the blade dulled with alarming rapidity, and Wesley very much suspected the thing would corrode in a vacuum, all of which re-enforced his decision to find a better supplier of cost-effective weaponry.. Still, it would get the job done, albeit nowhere near as quickly as he'd hoped. He swung the axe again, hitting the Ghr'zaki square in the neck.

It barely broke the creature's skin--though one would think he'd struck a mortal blow from the noise it made; it sounded like nothing so much as an outraged schoolgirl before it rounded on him, letting loose a low, rumbling growl from its fetid mouth. Wesley grimaced as he hefted the axe to swing again; thank heavens this wasn't a paying job. Perhaps thinking of Lilah would aid the blow.

A blur of motion interrupted the swing. He barely missed whoever had decided to join him. If it was a contractor hoping for more work, he'd be sadly mistaken. Of course, he didn't have anyone working for him who was quite that small. After a moment's thought that it might be Justine come to bother him for whatever reason, he realized it was too small to be her. Too strong, and more than a little too blonde as well.

Well, wasn't this an unpleasant surprise? He dropped back, letting his useless weapon clatter to the ground as he watched the festivities. She fought as well as he remembered, though with a touch of eager recklessness he had always associated more with Faith. It proved her undoing--the Ghr'zaki caught her mid-kick with a lash of its tail and she went down. Taking advantage of his unobstructed view of the demon, Wesley pulled his gun and fired twice.

To say it was more effective than the axe was something of an understatement. The Ghr'zaki fell harder than the Slayer had, and unlike her, it wouldn't be getting back to its feet in this lifetime or any other. He put the gun away and turned to where Buffy was struggling to her feet.

"Here."

He held out his hand. A flash of fear passed over her so quickly he thought he'd imagined it, then she accepted his assistance. He watched her closely as she dusted herself off, her face settling into a mask of annoyed bravado. Interesting.

"What are you doing here, Buffy?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Considering I both live and work in Los Angeles, no, I don't expect you should be. Do you make a habit of jumping into other people's fights?"

"Thought there might be someone in trouble."

"As you've no doubt gathered, you were mistaken."

It wasn't that he held grudges so much as kept them carefully tucked away and coddled until such a time as they either became full-fledged resentment or collapsed under their own weight. He hadn't even realized there were still some left over from Sunnydale until her face flushed with an embarrassment that filled him with vicious satisfaction. He held her gaze until she started to squirm.

"Sorry." Her apologetic grin was almost enough to erase whatever grievances he was clinging to, and her next words enough to obliterate them entirely, though it may have had something to do with the fact that she sounded entirely in earnest, and more than a touch crestfallen. "I leaped without looking again, didn't I? Guess I was kind of spoiling for a fight."

Buffy shifted uncomfortably as he continued to look at her. "You're hardly dressed for one," he observed.

"This?" She looked down at the filmy shirt and tight denim skirt. "Okay, not exactly the number one seller in the Slay-and-Play department, but hey--" she moved one leg to the side to demonstrate-- "slits, so no mobility impairment, and yeah, the heels on the boots are a little high and narrow, but on the plus side, wood."

"Slaying with stilettos?" He had to admit, there was something entertaining about her attempts to justify an outfit Cordelia wouldn't have been caught dead in.

"Hey, don't knock it. You never know when a pair of knee-high boots is going to be the difference between life and death, and stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you'd laugh at me if you didn't think it was rude to laugh at someone who's already made a complete fool of herself in front of you."

"Well, it isn't the most plausible of explanations for your attire, Buffy."

He didn't quite expect her to blow up, but she did. "Fine. You want to know why I'm dressed like this, why I'm in L.A.? I trying, strange as it may seem, to not be an adult for once, to find something to do where I don't have to play bad cop or voice of reason or pay bills, but apparently, I'm failing utterly and behaving like an idiot in front of--"

He interrupted her rant. "In front of the laughingstock of the Council?"

Confusion reigned supreme among the expressions that crossed her face. "No, that's not what I was going to say."

"Wasn't it?" Yes Wesley, do go on and see if you can re-open old wounds. His ability to pull insult from apology astounded him at times.

"Actually, all that got cut off was a pronoun. There weren't any value judgments. Why do people keep assuming that anything I say or do is somehow me being judgey and inhuman? My discomfort wasn't even about you personally."

Having managed to find her high horse, she seemed disinclined to climb down from it. Moreover, her dismissal of his person stung more than the assumed assumption had. Negative would have been better than negated. He turned to head back to the car, not bothering to grab the useless piece of metal that had started the night as an axe.

"Wait." He stopped and waited for her to continue. "I've made a huge mess of this."

"I see you're more given to understatement than you used to be."

"Look, I know this got off on the wrong foot--probably because it was firmly wedged in my mouth, as usual--but I really was just trying to help."

"Don't you ever find that it's more trouble than it's worth?"

"All the time, but it's still my job."

Even, it seemed, on her days off. Kind of put a crimp in the whole get-away-from-it-all plan. Too bad, because she'd really been looking forward to de-rusting her social skills for a change. During the less stressful portions of the drive down (all five or so minutes of them), she'd even entertained thoughts about boys of the still-breathing uncomplicated kind.

The thought occurred to her--before she could stop it--that Wes fit at least the first of those qualifications. And there was the advantage of not needing an introduction.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Might as well at least try and salvage some of her weekend. If nothing else, she could talk openly about what exactly it was she did around him.

For a second, it looked like he was going to refuse. Then he smiled. She wasn't willing to call it a nice smile--it was a little too calculated to call nice--but it was the kind of smile she hadn't gotten from anyone over the age of eighteen and under a hundred and fifty in way too long.

"I can't say that it's something I'd ever pictured myself doing, but then again, that's sort of par for the course these days. I'll join you for a drink."

She smiled back at him, a little sheepishly. "Of course, you'll have to suggest a location. I'm kind of not as up on L.A. as I thought I was. "

"I know just the place, but it's a bit of a drive." The voice held a little of the same calculation as the smile, and a bit of a challenge as well.

"Are you offering to chauffer? Because I could always call a cab, but I'm thinking carpooling makes more sense."

"I'm parked right around the corner. Shall we?"

A little voice that sounded an awful lot like her mom's sounded in her head, reminding her about taking rides from strangers. Or maybe it was candy--the voice wasn't too clear on the matter. She paused for a moment, wondering if this was really the best idea in the world, then shrugged a little. Wes wasn't exactly as stranger, even if he was kind of strange, and considering she'd even thought about going and seeing Angel, this wasn't even her worst idea of the night.

"Sure."

The car wasn't quite what she'd pictured--she'd thought something a little more Giles-y, a little less large and imposing.

"It's easier to carry armaments in a large vehicle, Buffy," he said off her look.

The bar, on the other hand, was a little closer to what she'd expected. It was loud, dingy, and rough. The sort of place the Bronze sometimes looked like it wanted to be, depending on which band was playing and how many vamps were in the place.

They settled into a booth in the back corner, which was darker and dingier than the front, but far enough from the bar and the jukebox to allow for conversation, provided they sat next to each other and talked in fairly loud voices.

"Beer?" he asked.

She drew a twenty out of her roll and handed it to him. "A pitcher, something domestic and mediocre, please." Her experience with microbrews had left her a little wary of anything that didn't have catchy ads with scantily clad women or large animals.

***

As unappealing as your standard American pilsner was, it had the advantage of being cheap, plentiful, and virtually indistinguishable from water unless you consumed a fair amount of it. Wesley went up to the bar, ordered a pitcher of the least offensive of the selection, and carefully made his way back to the booth with it.

Gingerly, he set it down before placing the two glasses next to it. Buffy was watching him with an expression that seemed to mix equal parts caution and curiosity.

"Can I ask you something?" Her brow was furrowed in concentration, an expression that should have looked ridiculous, but was closer to charming.

"Go right ahead."

"What happened to your glasses?"

"Nothing, really. I still keep a pair at home. I simply got a prescription for contacts; peripheral vision is somewhat important when you're fighting on a regular basis."

"Oh." She frowned again. "They suit you."

"What? The contacts?"

"Mmm-hmm. You have nice eyes." The look on her face showed quite plainly that she hadn't intended to say that. He was tempted to go about discomforting her just to see the various changes on her countenance.

He poured the drinks and changed the subject. "Will you be seeing Angel while you're in town?"

Buffy took a hasty gulp of her beer before answering. "Nope. We kind of agreed that we wouldn't get in each other's way unless the world was ending. Which it probably is, but if I did decide to pull the apocalypse card, I'd probably end up spilling everything that's happened in the last year, and that would be bad."

He raised an eyebrow and waited for her to continue.

After a long pause, and several more swallows of beer, she did just that. "I made some bad relationship decisions. And some bad life decisions. Actually, pretty much ever decision I made between coming back from the dead and a couple of months ago? Bad. With a capital B."

"I've made a few of those myself," he admitted.

"You won't tell Angel, will you?"

"It's unlikely--we're no longer working together. Besides, you haven't actually told me any of the specifics. I somehow doubt things were as bad as you claim." Her eyes widened and she turned an interesting shade of bright rose and drained the glass. "Oh dear, they really were that bad, weren't they?"

"Probably worse. Definitely worse. Sleeping with the enemy worse." She flushed again as she said it, looking like she wanted the booth to swallow her where she sat.

He let his arm brush against hers as he refilled the glass. "Well, was it worth it?"

"Some parts. On the whole? No, it wasn't, and it didn't have the prettiest of endings." She sipped her beer, more slowly this time. "But I'd be lying if I said that I didn't get anything out of it."

"For example?"

An unexpected and possibly alcohol-influenced grin split her face and she held his eyes for a second before answering, "Laid on a regular basis?" She groaned and covered her face with her hand. "I really didn't mean to say that," she muttered from between her fingers.

He hadn't quite imagined the conversation taking this sort of provocative turn, but then, he'd never imagined they'd be having a conversation of any nature in there first place. It was strange to realize they had more in common than just a nominal alignment and a somewhat convoluted history with Angel. They had a nominal alignment, a somewhat convoluted history with Angel, and, it appeared, a taste for disastrous entanglements.

Which, when he thought about it, was actually somewhat more than he and Lilah had in common outside of the bedroom, as recent events had proven. He was poking at wounds again, but at least this time it was a fresh one, and one he'd had no one to blame for but himself. And, if he felt like seizing the opportunity, one he'd be able to pay back in a way that might actually cause Lilah to have second thoughts about playing him again.

Of course, it could also cause her to make good on her Mrs. Robinson threat. Wesley wondered which would upset Angel the more: him sleeping with Buffy, or Lilah seducing Connor as a result. He supposed there was only one way to find out.

He gently pried her fingers from her face, letting his thumb brush her cheek as he did so. "I didn't mind. Honestly."

"Is this flirting?"

"I haven't ruled out the possibility."