Don't own the Buffy world.
It was well into the early hours of the morning and Buffy Summers was up, still unpacking. Given she'd arrived only late into the night before, she had a long way to go, too.
She felt unable to sleep, as comfy as firing up an air mattress or just plopping down on the sofa sounded and all, so had been going through box after box, putting things away, again rearranging some of the furniture... items she could handle on her own, that was.
She had gone to the kitchen to grab a cup of water then began heading back toward the living room. She froze halfway between the two rooms though, hearing someone outside, fumbling with her lock.
Her heart raced, eyes going over to the front door.
When she actually heard it click in place, then she really began to panic. The only only person who should have had a copy were the landlord.
When the door opened, a man stumbled his way inside.
She had no idea what her landlord looked like so she had no idea if this were him or not. Not that it'd make a whole lot of sense for him to be here at this late hour.
She'd set the place up online and through fax given she'd been living in another state prior to the move.
"What the hell is this? the man said, in a heavy Irish accent. "What are all these boxes doing in here? Where's all my stuff?" He continued to look around, then spotted her. "Who the hell are you? Where's my stuff? Why are you in my apartment?"
Buffy's eyes were wide, throat dry, as she opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, another strange man came inside.
"Doyle!" he called, going straight to the Irish fellow. "Doyle, you do not live here anymore. Remember? You moved into a loft over on Baker."
The other man mumbled. At first denying but coming around to it after a few tries. "What the hell am I doin' here?"
"That's a very good question," he got in response. "Better one, how did you get in?"
Doyle made a face, holding up his key.
The other man took it from him. "I thought you gave all these back. Which one?"
Again, the Irishman made a face, but he drunkingly directed him to the right keys. While the taller of the two began unhooking them from the others, Doyle went over to her couch and sat down.
Buffy could only watch.
It took the taller man a moment to notice, he did a double take then yelled, "Doyle, get off of the damn woman's furniture. Christ!" The man turned toward her briefly. "I apologize, ma'am," he said, then went to go physically remove the drunk from where he sat.
Buffy felt her heart race even more. He, the unnamed of the two strangers, was gorgeous. She was beginning to wonder if this all wasn't some bizarre dream. Guys like that could only live in fantasies, right?
He was tall, dark, and handsome. And a whole lot more.
Buffy could only seem to stare, watch.
He got the other man to his feet and practically dragged him by the collar closer to where she'd been standing. He held out two silver keys to her. "I do severely apologize for this. My cousin here is a a real bad drunk. His girlfriend had called me looking for him and at the last bar I checked they told me they got him a cab and he'd given this as his address. I tried to get here before he did something stupid, but obviously I was a few minutes behind on that." He gave a tight smile.
Buffy nodded, taking the keys. "I... um..."
"Please don't call the cops."
Buffy smiled and shook her head. "I really don't even know what to say to all of this," she got out, truthfully.
"I bet. Sorry again. We will be out of your way now," he told her, starting to leave, pushing the other man gently towards the still-open door.
"Thank you..." she trailed off.
He stopped, turned around. "Angel," he said with a smile before walking out.
"Thanks," she breathed, "Angel."