The Trip

Hank Summers laughed.

The sound was loud, imposing, it bounced off of the walls of his study and echoed in his ears, but it was nothing short of being completely joyless and hollow. Tears begun to stain his cheeks and one hand clutched his now aching side, while the other held its vice like grip on the piece of paper.

There it was right here in front of his face, spelled out clearly in the most bold, official looking type he’d ever seen…

His only daughter, his little girl, the ‘Bitsy Lizzie’ who would wrap her arms around his legs every morning before he left for work; the carefree mall going Buffy who had one foot towards the Gap and the other wrapped around his gold card, was married.

Elizabeth Summers-Quinn, wife of Liam ‘Angel’ Quinn…

Married.

Legally.

Hank put the license on his desk as the laughter turned into a mere humorless chuckle, and brought a hand to his head in an attempt to stifle the sudden wave of nausea that overcame him. How could she do this? Married at seventeen to a jackass like Angel no less! Buffy was going to ruin her life and more importantly, his! The Hollywood Press, were already having a field day with this:

‘ACLAIMED DIRECTOR’S DAUGHTER WEDS BOYFRIEND NEARLY TEN YEARS HER SENIOR IN SECRET CEREMONY’, headlines screamed from the far corners of Los Angeles all the way to New York. Cameras, paparazzi, and irritating reporters had swarmed upon the Summers home the second the news was leaked. Hounding his family non-stop, they all tried to keep the scandal going, thus making a buck off of his private hell.

Hank cringed as he opened the door to his study. He could hear her crying despite the fact that her room was located on the second floor of the mansion. The sounds of a crying Buffy never failed to tear him apart, especially when he was the cause of it.

*****************************

Willow Rosenberg laid a sympathetic hand on her best friend’s back, trying hard to sooth the girl as she cried in her lap. She was trying to be supportive best friend girl, she really was but secretly she wanted to strangle Buffy…

“Are you okay, sweetie?" she asked, not really expecting an answer.

“God, how could he do this, Wills," was the only reply Willow got, followed by more choking sobs and large amounts of sniffing.

“Buffy, your dad loves you. He just doesn’t want you doing something you’ll regret later…"

“He never liked Angel…"

“Maybe because Angel’s twenty-seven," Willow deadpanned. “And wasn’t he technically married when you guys started dating?"

“He just wants to keep me locked away like I’m still his little princess," Buffy continued to rant as she sobbed, ignoring her friend. “I’m almost eighteen, Wills. I’m not a little girl anymore and I can make my own decisions!"

“But marriage?" Willow asked, giving her a concerned look. “Buffy, are you sure this is what you want?"

Buffy looked up at her best friend with wide, tear-filled eyes. Of course this is what she wanted, why couldn’t they all seem to understand that? From the moment she set eyes on Angel Quinn, she knew she would never want or love any other man.

Even though their age difference and his then wife, Darla, made things between them a little complicated in the beginning, eventually as the cliché goes ‘love conquered all’. Her parents accepted the fact they were dating and Darla finally granted Angel a divorce (though she practically bled his wallet dry in the process). They were together a full year before Angel proposed, and the two decided to run away that night and be man and wife as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, her father found out. Within two hours of their being married, her husband was forced on a plane back to his home in New York and Buffy was dragged kicking and screaming back to LA, with promises of an annulment ringing in her ears.

Buffy wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, sniffling a little. “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life."

Willow gave her another supportive smile. Sure, she didn’t like the idea of Buffy being married while they were still in high school, and yeah, she wasn’t exactly Angel’s number one fan, but he made her happy. And she would always be in Buffy’s corner no matter what.

“If this is the it and you’re really that sure…" Willow paused, nibbling on her bottom lip, “then you’ve got to fight for it. Go downstairs, talk to your dad and tell him exactly what you told me. Only, you know without the crying and the snot bubbles," she smiled warmly. “I’m sure if you tell him how much you and Angel love each other then…"

Willow’s eyes widened suddenly. She’d seen this look on Buffy’s face before. It was the same look that convinced her jumping out of their tree house would be a good idea; this look talked her into eating three whole boxes of Girl Scout cookies all at one time. And she was pretty sure this look was a part of the ‘accident’ she had in front of the entire fourth grade class.

“Oh no…" Willow shook her head, “I know that look. I can actually see the wheels turning in your head."

“What’s the point of talking to him," Buffy shrugged, a wicked grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I know he’ll never listen or believe me, so…"

“So…"

“I’ll just fight for Angel and I in another way," she said, climbing off of the bed.

Willow paled. “And in what way would this be, Buffy?"

Buffy briefly glanced over her shoulder at her friend as she rummaged through her dresser drawers, tossing out clothes onto the floor.

“I’m going to New York," she grinned.

*************************

His hands slowly made it to his face as a long, weary sigh escaped his lips. Spike sank deeper into the couch, resting the back of his head against the cushion. He tried hard to block out the sounds around him; the rustling of clothes, the muffled voices, and the soft slapping of bare feet against the floor but it wasn’t working.

How could she do this to him?! Four years completely wasted in one night, and for what?

“Hey man, I—I’m really sorry…"

Spike slowly turned his head in the direction of the voice and separated his fingers just enough to be able to aim one perfectly icy glare at the man in front of him.

“Honestly, I didn’t know she was seeing somebody."

Four years wasted because of this stupid pillock?!

A tiny snort was all Spike, gave in reply and the man shrugged, finally leaving.

“Really, Spike is all of this necessary?"

His hands slowly left his face, resting at his sides, and Spike trained his icy glare on the woman scowling at him. Her arms were crossed in front of her, a robe haphazardly thrown over her naked form, and her raven hair was now pulled into something resembling a ponytail. She sighed loudly, indicating she was waiting for an answer.

“Is all of what necessary, you loony bint," he said, his voice hollow and emotionless.

“The dramatics. Don’t you think you’re over doing it?"

His eyes narrowed. “Dru, I just came home to find you in mid-romp with what looked a lot like our mailman…I think I’m being bloody calm considering."

Drusilla sighed once more, taking a seat next to him. “This wasn’t going to work, my William, you know that," she cooed, stroking his arm. Spike violently jerked away from her, holding a breath before speaking again.

“It seemed to work just fine for four years…"

“Not with you running off to New York it wouldn’t!" she snapped. “Long distance relationships don’t work!"

“I told you, I was willing to give that up!" Spike turned to face her, his eyes brimming with tears. “I was giving my internship up for you, to stay here with you, baby," his voice broke with emotion. “And I come home and find you…" Spike trailed off, sniffing back tears as he stood up. “You know what? You’re right. I was fucking stupid for even thinking about giving up an internship at the sodding New York Times for a—a cheap, vapid, whoring bird like yourself."

Drusilla scrambled to her feet, anger flashing in her eyes as she watched him head towards what use to be their bedroom.

“Where are you going?!" she called after him.

“To pack!" Spike snarled. “I’m going to New York, baby!"

Chapter 2:

“Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?"

Angel Quinn gave the flight attendant a dismissive wave of his hand, not even bothering to look in the man’s direction. His eyes remained locked on the silver wedding band adorning his finger. A Claddaugh ring: a symbol of love and devotion that had been in his family for generations upon generations. The carefully sculpted hands, the crown, and the heart with a simple, shimmering, yellow diamond in the middle of it.

He fiddled with the ring, twisting it around his finger, pulling it off and on, all while thinking one thing:

What the hell had he done?!

He remembered his days post-divorce from his bitch of an ex-wife. Those days were still with Buffy, but he promised he’d do things differently this time around. No China pattern’s, no planners, no towering cake with white frills. No cute, little disposable cameras for each guest to ‘make a memory’ of their own with, no bad deejay, and most importantly no electric slide…

In short: no wedding, no marriage.

Yet he had done it…again. The words ‘Marry me’, just kind of flew out of his mouth. Of course those words were at the height of orgasm and he really didn’t think Buffy had heard them, but like every woman, her ears were fine-tuned to pick up those magic words.

Not that he didn’t love Buffy, on the contrary; it was his love for her that kept him from ripping open the plane’s cargo door and hurling himself down towards the ground from their cruising altitude of 30,000 ft.

Angel sighed heavily as he pulled his ringing cell phone from his jacket pocket; the ring of the phone actually having snapped him away from the decidedly graphic images of him skydiving without a parachute. He took in a deep breath, mentally preparing himself to deal with what he was sure to be his hysterical new bride on the other end of the line.

“Hey baby…" he drawled soothingly into the phone.

“Wrong Summers, sweetie pie," was the gruff response Angel received. He quickly cleared his throat, paling at the mere sound of the man’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hank!" he coughed, “uh, I mean Mr. Summers, sir, how are you?"

“Oh, I’m fine, Angel. How’s the flight?" Hank asked, his voice dipped in condescension.

“Pretty good so far," Angel droned on, oblivious to Hank’s sarcasm. “A little bit of turbulance at first but now…"

“I don’t give a shit about your flight, you moron!" Hank screamed, cutting him off. What in the name of all that is holy, did Buffy see in this guy?! Hank briefly wondered just how illegal it would be if he had his daughter sterilized without her permission. There was no way in hell he would ever let her birth anything that had even a tiny spec of Angel Quinn in it.

“Of—of course you don’t," Angel stuttered dumbly before letting out a nervous laugh. “What was I thinking…"

“My lawyer’s faxing over your copy of the annulment papers first thing in the morning. I want them signed and back to me as soon as possible."

“Hank—er—Mr. Summers, I really think you should reconsider all of this. Buffy is old enough to make her own decisions, and that includes being married to me. We love each other very deeply and…hello? Hank?" Angel rolled his eyes, letting out a frustrated sigh as the dial tone blared in his ear.

“Prick," he muttered, slouching down in his seat. He reached overhead, pressing the call button and drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his seat as he waited on the flight attendant.

“Yes, Mr. Quinn?"

Angel spared a quick glance at the attendant. “Please tell me you’re serving alcohol on this flight," he ground out.

******************

“You’ve got to be kidding me," Buffy’s mouth opened and closed in disbelief.

A tiny smile grew on Willow’s face as she watched her friend’s impression of a fish, folding her arms over her chest. This has got to be a bad sign, and that’s good. Bad signs are good. A bad sign would mean that Buffy’s unbelievably stupid plan has been thwarted and that Willow could just go back to being supportive best friend girl, with the comfy shoulder to cry on, instead of the reluctant accomplice to a runaway.

Willow’s tiny smile of joy turned back to the sturdy frown of support, once Buffy’s attention turned back to her.

“I’m very sorry, Miss, but your credit card has been cancelled."

“Thank you," the words fell numbly from her lips as she tucked away her cell phone. “Cancelled?!"

“Maybe this is a sign that you shouldn’t go," Willow rambled. “I mean, who knows, your dad may come around on the idea of you being married. He might even give you guy’s tips on surviving the first years, cause I think I heard somewhere that those were always the hardest. But, then again…you probably wouldn’t want your dad’s marriage advice, what with he and your mom being divorced and all…but you guy’s could still bond…"

Buffy tuned out the babbling redhead, her mind only able to focus on one thing:

Cancelled?!

All of her lovely credit, her shiny gold card completely gone? As if her father hadn’t taken away enough from her tonight, he had to go and do this?!

“He cancelled my card," she laughed humorlessly.

“Guess he figured you might try something like, oh I don’t know…running away!" Willow sighed heavily, shaking her head. “I still say this is a sign, a big sign…"

“Who the hell does he think he is?!" Buffy’s eyes narrowed, her hands curling into fists at her side.

“Your father?" Willow offered, dryly.

“I mean, canceling my credit card?! Where’s the trust?" Buffy sighed, throwing her hands up in the air. “What kind of family are we?"

“Buffy, you are trying to take off for New York."

The blonde teen’s bottom lip jutted out into a pout, before she shrugged. “I know, but the lack of faith still hurts."

“So, I guess no credit card means no plane ticket, which means no insane-o plan to run away with Angel?" Wills asked with wide-hopeful eyes.

Buffy paused briefly before giving her friend a wicked smile. “Nope." She hurried over to her bed, and squatted on her knees, lifting up the corner of the mattress and pulled out a small, white envelope.

“When you gotta go, Wills, go Greyhound."

***************

Mmm…nothing like the strong stench of urine to let a fellow know he’s riding on one of Sunnydale’s finest modes of transportation. Spike slumped in his seat and threw off his headphones as the bus slowly pulled into the LA depot. Not even the sounds of The White Stripes could squash the screaming hell that was a Greyhound Bus ride.

“The first of one hundred and twenty-five stops, mate," he said to himself as he filed out of the bus behind all of the other weary passengers. His luggage was quickly grabbed and stuffed onto the new bus along with everyone else’s, and Spike let out a dejected sigh as he trudged up the steps, flopping down in the nearest available seat towards the back he could find.

“Is this seat taken?"

Spike looked up at the sound of the voice, and gave a tiny snort in response. Some corn-fed, tractor boy, who looked like he just gotten off the plane from Iowa, was towering over the seat, two places in front of him.

“No, not at all…"

Spike slipped his headphones back on as the little blonde chit occupying said seat two places in front, scooted over in order to let White Bread crowd in next to her. ‘Is this seat taken’, Spike snorted again. That wanker won’t last two seconds in New York.

Buffy smiled politely at the guy next to her before turning her attention towards the window.

“Here we go," she muttered.

...h.o.m.e...