SquidgeWorld Archive

Anne moved among the people, nodding occasionally and smiling at the guests. This year, they'd decided on a more relaxed sort of fundraiser, instead of the fancy gala that they'd had the year before. Hopefully, by leaving out the black ties and fancy gowns, they'd also manage to skip the gunmen, the attempted robberies, and the blood-stained money. Enduring karaoke and the inevitable drunken party-goers was a sacrifice, but she'd rather have that then a repeat of last year.

There was a man at the bar, wearing red sunglasses. Tall-average for height, if she was judging right, lean build, dark hair... and he was brooding as much as Angel.

Maybe she should go make sure he had a pulse. Five years ago, the very idea would have seemed silly - he was sitting there, moving, occasionally talking, of course he'd have a pulse. Four years ago, the idea would have been thrilling - she'd thought vampires were some sort of mysterious, superior creature, above the troubles of mere mortals. Now, she knew better. Vampires were very real, and very dangerous. Even Angel, though at least he probably wouldn't try to eat anybody.

"You don't look like you're enjoying the party," Anne perched on the stool beside him, offering a small smile.

"I'm not," he didn't even look at her.

"Any particular reason?" Anne felt a pang, she had organized the event. If there was something that she'd forgotten, how many other people might be not enjoying themselves?

"Things have been rough lately. It's nothing you need to worry about," with that, the man downed a shot and signaled for another.

"Right," Anne nodded, certain that the man was making a mistake. If things were going wrong in his life, the solution wouldn't be found at the bottom of a shot-glass. She'd just check on him alter, and try to make certain that he didn't drive away drunk. "I hope things look up for you soon."

The man just snorted, his slim fingers making the empty glass dance in a circle.

As Anne walked away from the bar, she realized that not even the people she'd taken off the street for her shelter were in as much need as that man. She didn't understand why, or what all had gone wrong, but that man was drowning in his pain. Heaven only knew what would happen if he stayed like that - he could snap and harm someone, kill himself, or end up shuffling along the streets, dying by miserable inches. She'd check on him again later.

`Later' found the man's condition even worse. He'd moved to a darker corner, and his arms were folded, both hands clenched into fists. His dark hair had become ruffled, and the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up most of the way to his elbows. The way his feet were planted shoulder width apart suggested that he was trying very hard not to sway or fall. His face was towards the people dancing, following a redhead in a tight blue dress and the blond man that she was dancing with. He still wore the strangely red sunglasses, and she could see a tear track shimmering on his cheek.

"I don't think you're enjoying yourself," Anne whispered.

"No I'm not," his voice was rough, and he looked towards her. "I think I'd like to be elsewhere... anywhere with no redheads."

"Do you have someone that can drive you home?" Anne reached out, her hand stopping before she touched him. She could feel the heat rising from his body.

The man shook his head, moving across the floor. His path meandered, curving around tables and people with only a few more curves and wobbles than necessary. He stopped at the door, looking around the street before muttering, "Nobody lurking in ambush tonight."

Despite the warmth of hundreds of people, Anne shivered. "Why would anybody be looking for you here?"

"Because they can't stand that anybody might be different, because they can't let us live in peace. Because if some people could do anything special they'd use it to do whatever they want, and so... so they can't believe that anybody else would be a better man... better woman then they could ever hope to be. Better than I could ever hope to be," tears were streaming down the man's face now.

Anne reached out, offering a tissue. Now was not the time to pry into his pain, to ask for an explanation to what any of that meant. Something about differences, about not being left alone, and about power. For the moment, it would be best to just leave the questions lingering, and make sure that he didn't kill himself. "You're in no shape to be driving, Mister... what is your name?"

"Scott. I'm Scott Summers," he swallowed a sob at the end, and turned to face her. "Miss, can you... I don't think I can look... look at the stars right now. I used to... with someone who can't anymore."

"Of course," Anne took his hand and tugged him after her. Even as she led him to her car, a voice inside her whispered that this was a mistake; that she couldn't save Scott from himself and his pain. Just like she couldn't save Diego, or Billy, or Ricky or... She couldn't save anyone unless they wanted to be saved.

Anne didn't listen to that little voice.

She took Scott home with her, to her apartment. She led him inside, intending to offer him the couch and help him find his car in the morning. But he was standing there, looking so lost and hurt that she couldn't help herself. She reached out, cupping her hand over his cheek and sliding her fingers up to tangle in his hair.

He moved, and his lips met hers. He tasted of bourbon and tears, and Anne felt like he was trying to pour himself into her, to crawl out of his skin and be someone else, even if only for a little while. To escape the pain of his memories. Fool that she was, she let him.

Her lips parted for him, and her arms wrapped around his body, pressing them closer. His fingers were running along a lock of her hair, and he kept kissing her face, over her cheeks and her eyes, along the top of her nose and her lips, nibbling at her jaw, whispering that he was sorry, that he missed her so much, that he loved her...

A corner of Anne's heart wept at the knowledge that she wasn't the one he meant. When Scott whispered `love you' he wasn't seeing Anne, he was seeing someone else, someone who was gone. It wasn't her lips that he was kissing, not her dress that he let fall to the floor.

Just as in his mind, it wasn't Anne who unbuttoned his shirt, pulling the bottom out of his pants to run her hands over his stomach. He didn't feel Anne's hair between his fingers, her skin beneath his lips.

It wasn't her that he fell into bed with.

It was Jean.

Anne could feel the tears falling over her face as Scott fell asleep. He'd whispered a soft `Love you, Jean' as he'd curled up beside her. Arms had settled around her, a sign of a man used to snuggling up with someone, and his body fit so comfortably beside her... Except that she wasn't Jean.

Right then, she wished that she could be Jean. She'd been Chantarelle for Diego, and Lilly for Ricky... why not be Jean for Scott? Except that she didn't think it would be that easy. It wasn't a name that he wanted, or the illusion of mystery, but a very specific person, someone that he loved and cherished, and missed desperately. Someone that wasn't her.

She didn't even need to wait for him to wake up to know that he wouldn't stay. In the morning, he'd leave, going back for his car. Maybe he'd say that he'd call her, or maybe he'd just stammer some excuse and flee. Scott would regret this in the morning.

Anne already regretted what had happened. But regrets didn't change anything, and they never would. She'd just have to go on with her life, and put tonight behind her. Just as she had all her other mistakes.