FIC: Female of the Species - Part One

["Pat Kelly" <bandits@xxxxxxxxx>]

Hey.

Okay. This story follows Becoming One, set a couple years afterwards. This was NOT, I repeat NOT, written by me. It was written by Leslie McKenna who is an excellent author. She's writing this because I asked very nicely. This is her first B/W fic, but not first Buffy fic. I hope you all find her to be as excellent a writer as I do.

If you have any comments, post them to the list and I'll give them to her or you can email her at: McKenna@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Now on with the story.....

PART ONE

Staring into the dead eyes of her partner of three months, Buffy wondered why she'd ever chosen to enter the FBI.

Wasn't it bad enough, she wondered, unable to tear her eyes away from Pete Madison's blood splashed features, to be faced with death every night as the Slayer, without being faced with it in her every day life too? And what a life it must be in her so-called chosen profession, she thought, because Pete Madison had evidently committed suicide due to the strain.

Foolishly, she had imagined that life in the FBI would be exciting. Maybe even glamorous. And it had seemed a natural progression from college. After all, she had studied the criminal mind for three years, had delved into every deviation that Professor Walsh's course had taught her, found it infinitely fascinating. Had graduated with high honours in her chosen major, Criminology.

Human evil, she had found, was so much more enthralling in many ways than the supernatural evil she fought, because most supernatural evil entities acted on instinct, didn't have that much of a mind. But a human mind turned bad. That was different. That was a challenge that couldn't always be met with physical fighting or a quick stake through the heart. Understanding was the key, and in college she thought she had understood the abnormal human psyche. Casting another glance at Pete Madison's body, stretched out on the bloody floor, the self-inflicted bullet wound in his head staring at her like a third eye, Buffy realised that the truth was she knew very little. Very little indeed.

Buffy wondered briefly if no-one had heard the gun-shot, was surprised they hadn't. Or maybe they had and had decided to keep out of it. Whatever, she supposed she ought to call the emergency services; Pete might well be dead, but she still had to arrange for an ambulance to take him away. Reaching out with a shaking hand, she picked up the receiver, began punching out 911. Spoke automatically to the operator who picked up.

"Yeah. Hi. Wanna report a suicide."

Suicide, Buffy thought as she gave details to the person on the other end of the line. Again, speaking automatically as her on-going training was teaching her. No emotion. No feeling. Keep yourself aloof. Difficult to keep aloof from a person she had become close to, had spoken with, had eaten with, had even spent nights with. A person she thought she'd known well, but obviously hadn't.

Suicide.

The word reverberated through her as she then called the local cops. Had to get them involved too, she knew. Had to follow procedure. Even a suicide had to be investigated, no matter how clear-cut it may seem.

Suicide.

With all her heart, she wished Willow were here with her. Willow would comfort her, make her feel better, Willow the other half of her soul. But Willow wasn't here; she was safely at her own job, and Buffy envied her the relatively stress-free environment of the large software company she was employed by. At least Willow would never arrive at a work colleague's apartment to find they'd blown their brains out. At least, Buffy fervently hoped that would never be the case.

And the morning had begun with such promise too. A new case to get her teeth into, metaphorically speaking of course. True, the case - investigating a white slaving and prostitution ring - wasn't very pleasant, but she couldn't expect pleasant in her line of work. Well, in either of her lines of work, in fact. Buffy was used to unpleasant, and in some ways, relished it. Because it made the nice things in her life even nicer. Made her appreciate more what she had.

Anyway, Pete had told her to stop by, pick him up and they'd begin the preliminary research. Only last evening, he'd told her that, and he had seemed fine then. Perfectly happy. Excited, in fact, because he had a date with a new lady friend, as he'd so chivalrously put it. No hint that he was unhappy enough to kill himself. Quite the opposite in fact. Besides, Pete hadn't been the suicidal type. Or at least, not the type she'd learned about. Maybe there was no such thing as a typical type after all.

So when Buffy had arrived at his apartment - oh, only twenty minutes ago - she had been looking forward to the new case - her first real investigation - and the new gossip from Pete, who was worse than any woman when it came to talking about his private life. Or rather, the lack of it.

She was surprised when she banged on the door, found it ajar. Surprised because what right minded person left their door ajar in the Big Bad Big Apple? Maybe, Buffy had thought with a wry grin, he and his new lady friend had been so taken with each other that he'd forgotten to lock the door after she'd left. If she'd left. Maybe Buffy would catch them in bed if they'd gotten on exceptionally well. Now there was a disturbing thought.

But as soon as she'd set foot through the door she'd sensed something wrong. Smelled something familiar, yet so alien to this environment, that she hadn't instantly recognised it. But she recognised the feeling inside herself because she'd felt it too many times before. A sense of impending doom. Disaster in the air.

"Pete?" she'd called too brightly. "Hey, Pete, rise and shine, time to get your glad rags on and get on the road..."

No answer. The silence seemed to stretch on and on, reverberated inside her with a resonance all its own. And the smell - finally she identified it. Should have identified it at once. Blood.

"Pete?" Yeah, blood, and why did she feel it was Pete the blood-stench was coming from?

It was of course. Going into his bedroom, FBI standard issue gun poised and at the ready should any intruders be lurking, she saw him lying there, his own gun still in hand. Averted her eyes at first, because not only was he dead, he was naked too, and it didn't seem right for her to see him that way, so undignified, so. humiliated by his dead nudity. Without looking again, she'd pulled a sheet off the bed, covered over his body, but she could still see his face. Still see that third bloody eye. Still see brain fragments and pieces of bone decorating the wall behind him.

Jesus.

A bang on the door. A voice called.

"Paramedics."

"In here," she called, frozen in thought, in time. And then, on the heels of the paramedics, the local police.

After that, all was a hustle of activity. Assisting the cops - who weren't too happy having a federal agent involved, even less happy when they discovered the suicide victim was a fed too. Watching them take photos of poor dead Pete. Photos, blood samples, samples of matter from under his fingernails. Anything and everything that might be used in evidence should this prove not to be suicide after all. Buffy just wished they'd leave the poor man in peace.

And then accompanying the paramedics to the local hospital. Giving details yet again of Pete's name, his address, his age. His next of kin, an elderly mother and a younger sister who both lived in Manhattan. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. And finally, telephoning the department to deliver the tragic news that a good agent had died by his own hand.

Of course she had to go into the department to give a blow-by-blow account of everything she'd seen, heard and done that morning. Sitting before Assistant Director Marshall, a grey-haired, steel eyed individual, Buffy almost felt that she was the one who'd pulled the trigger.

"What was Agent Madison's state of mind when you last saw him?" Marshall asked, his voice cold and impersonal, as though Buffy hadn't just lost a friend and partner. Buffy swallowed. No good jumping on Marshall, giving him lip because she didn't like his tone. Her training so far had taught her better than that, to show respect to senior agents, at least until she was more experienced. At work, she wasn't the Slayer, guardian of the world. At work, she was just a very junior, very inexperienced agent-in-training, and she was learning to behave that way. Hard, but necessary if she were to establish herself as someone who commanded respect herself.

"He was fine, sir," she told Marshall, who pin-pointed her with a flat gaze. A disbelieving gaze? Buffy wondered.

"Fine is hardly a good description, Agent Summers. Fine is a generalisation and with your qualifications, you know better than that. Was Agent Madison under any undue stress that you knew of? Any change since he took his last psychological profile last month?"

"No, sir. As I said just before, he was fine." She used the word deliberately, but this time, Marshall didn't pick her up on it, just nodded. Almost disappointed, Buffy continued. "He was happy, looking forward to the challenge of the new investigation. I had no reason whatever to believe that Agent Madison would. do this to himself. In fact, I would say that he was the very last person I'd have thought of with regard to suicide."

Marshall stared at her for a second, then nodded, satisfied, at least, with her perspective on Pete Madison's mental state.

"Very well. You say you went into his apartment early this morning - around eight a.m., and you discovered him there, apparently having committed suicide?" Buffy nodded. Apparently? she thought, but said nothing. "There were no signs of trouble? Of a struggle?"

"No sir, everything was normal."

"No indication that anyone else had been there with him?"

Buffy frowned. Tried to remember. In truth, she had been so shocked by what she had seen, she hadn't consciously looked around for clues that this was anything but a suicide. Unprofessional, she realised. Didn't matter that she was close to Pete, she shouldn't have allowed herself to become overwhelmed. She didn't let herself become overwhelmed by her Slayer activities. That was different though, she told herself. She was used to that. Funny how a person became used to evil.

"Agent Summers, could you please answer my question?" Marshall repeated; he sounded impatient and Buffy tried to gather her thoughts into some kind of order.

"No, sir. There was no indication that anyone else had been visiting with Agent Madison. I do know that he had a. an appointment last night but."

"An appointment?" Marshall enquired.

"With a lady-friend."

"And this lady-friend was who?"

"He never told me her name. He'd only just met her. Sir," Buffy added somewhat belatedly. "Sir, I feel that this is a clear case of suicide. I saw nothing to indicate that this was suspicious."

"An agent committing suicide out of the blue after a perfectly normal psychological profile less than a month ago is always suspicious, Agent Summers. He was your partner, you knew him quite well. I want you to investigate this thoroughly. Just to be certain."

"Sir, I. What about the prostitution and white slaving?"

"I shall re-assign that to someone else, Agent Summers. I can't assign you a new partner at a moment's notice anyway, so you'd only be doing paperwork to while away the time. I've already notified the senior police officers who were to investigate Agent Madison's death that as a federal agent was involved, it's up to us to investigate it. I've arranged for all relevant evidence to be transferred to our labs." A faint smile. "We look after our own, Agent Summers, as you'll discover. And I want you to look after this case. If indeed there is a case."

Marshall made it sound as though he was bestowing a huge favour on Buffy by letting her investigate the clear-cut suicide of a friend. Personally, Buffy would sooner do paperwork. Then she remembered: the door to Pete's apartment had been open, hadn't it? She remembered thinking that unusual, remembered thinking that he must have had a brainstorm, leaving his door open like that. She frowned.

"Something wrong, Agent Summers?" Marshall picked up on her expression instantly. No hiding anything from this man, Buffy thought. She told him about the door. Saw Marshall nod.

"All the more reason to investigate. You know by now that even the simplest of things sometimes have a less simple explanation." Buffy nodded. Oh yeah. She knew that all right. Better than almost anyone else on earth. "Very well, Agent Summers. I shall leave it to you."

This was her cue for dismissal, Buffy realised, so she stood, made to turn for the door.

"Agent Summers," Marshall called before she left the room.

"Yes, sir?"

"You've had a nasty shock this morning. Take the rest of the day off."

Brief kindness in his eyes then.

"Thank you sir."

"But I'll expect a report on my table as soon as possible."

"Yes sir."

Marshall nodded abruptly, the kindness gone from his eyes.

Buffy fled.

Outside, the late morning sun was warm, but it didn't do much to warm Buffy's heart. What was she supposed to do with herself today anyway? She almost wished that Marshall had told her to begin her investigation right away, instead of taking pity on her. On her what, anyway? Why had he given her the day off? Just because he thought she was a weak emotional female, despite her high qualifications and proven physical prowess?

Buffy shook her head. Really, she knew better than that. Marshall treated all his agents with the same cool professionalism. But still, she wondered, if she'd been a man, would Marshall have sent her off on a half-day's compassionate leave? God knew, she never had compassionate leave in her Slaying duties. Not even in her darkest, most depressed moments had she taken time off because she felt too delicate to deal.

But that was in Sunnydale, and she was kind of the Queen Bee there. She was respected, because although it had been unspoken, most people knew she was something special, even if they didn't come right out and say so. In Sunnydale, she and Willow had saved the world with the destruction of the Hellmouth. But that was Sunnydale, and that was oh - three years ago now. Times changed. Buffy had only been in New York four months, and she certainly wasn't regarded as special here. Except by her friends. And her sweet Willow. And her mom of course. It was hard to adjust sometimes.

She wished she could go see them now, at least, go see someone who cared. But they were all working. In all conscience, Buffy knew that she really shouldn't be interrupting anyone. But wasn't this different? Someone she'd cared for had killed himself. Wasn't that an exception?

But Buffy couldn't go to the person who cared most about her. Willow's employer, a multi-million dollar software company, were adamant about that kind of thing. Didn't like unauthorised people visiting. Didn't even like their employees taking calls of a personal nature, unless there was a huge emergency. They paid Willow a huge salary for what she did because someone of Willow's capabilities only came along once in a very long while. And they expected total dedication in return for that money.

Buffy supposed she could have used her telepathic contact with Willow, actually considered it for a moment. But no. That wouldn't be fair either. She could wait till later. Maybe it would be better to wait till later. Get her own perspective on the morning's events. But still, Buffy needed to talk with someone.

So what about Xander? Or Cordelia?

Well, Xander could be anywhere in the city, because his job took him all over. Smiling, she wondered just who Xander was suckering now. A born salesman, he could sell anything to anyone. Was currently selling top of the range imported cars. Had been voted Sales Person of the Year two years running because of his exceptional figures. Buffy smiled as she walked. Talking and cars, Xander's greatest passions. Apart from Cordelia that was. Three years they'd been in New York, that unlikely pair. And they'd made a real success out of their lives, which had hit rock bottom in Sunnydale.

And as for Cordelia - she had truly made a great life for herself selling what she loved best. Upmarket clothes and fashion accessories for the very rich. In her own shop, Rags, now acknowledged as one of the coolest places from which to purchase designer wear.

No, Cordelia, in some ways more superficial than she had ever been before, wouldn't appreciate a visit from a depressed friend.

But, Buffy decided, her mom would be okay. Her mom, who had been in New York for the past year, along with Rupert Giles, whom she'd married in a wonderful ceremony in Sunnydale just before she'd left. That had been a shock, her mom becoming Mrs Giles, because Buffy hadn't really thought of either of them as. Well, as sexual beings, for a start. As people who could be in love. But she had been happy for them too. And they made each other happy, which was way more important. And after all, if they could accept her and Willow being together, then Buffy had to give her mom and Giles the same respect.

Anyway, her mom's gallery had become popular, very fashionable, and an agent in New York had suggested she take it there, a big opportunity which Joyce had jumped at after discussions with all concerned. Giles had got a job teaching, perfect for his academic inclinations.

The rest, Buffy and Willow's jobs, had fallen neatly into place. Like fate, Buffy thought as she walked toward the gallery. Yeah, like Fate. They were all destined to be together, for as long as they needed each other.

Joyce's gallery was set in a tree-lined avenue just off Park Avenue, close to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Expensive and tasteful. As Buffy approached - after a long, reflective walk - she smiled. Really, they had all fallen on their feet. Were all set-up very nicely, thank you very much. Almost as though they were being rewarded for their efforts and past ordeals. From a Slaying, save-the-world point of view, life was quiet. True, there were vampires in New York City, and she duly did her duty, got rid of as many as she could. But New York was no Sunnydale. New York had its own monsters, but Buffy was beginning to discover that most of those monsters were human.

Joyce was sitting quietly in her office, looking at invoices and orders. When Buffy arrived, she dropped her pen and stood, held out her arms.

"Buffy! What a wonderful surprise!"

Buffy went into her mother's arms at once, snuggled up, letting herself be a child for a few moments.

"Not so wonderful, mom," she muttered, and just when she thought she had her emotions under control, she found herself crying as a vision of self-murdered Pete Madison shot into her head.

"Hey, Buffy, what's wrong?" Joyce asked, and it all came pouring out.

Later, when Buffy had told the whole sorry story over a cup of strong black coffee, she felt a lot better. Still upset of course, but better.

"So what do you intend to do?" Joyce asked.

"I don't know, mom." Buffy thought for a moment. "I guess I need to go through Pete's stuff." She shrugged. "Seems wrong, somehow, poking through his private things, but who knows, he may have left us some clues as to why he did this. And maybe I can find out who this mystery woman is, see if she did actually meet him, what his state of mind was when they met and all that stuff." Another shrug. "Who knows, maybe I'll never discover the cause. Maybe it was just a weird moment of madness." She smiled. Quoted from one of her favourite films, Hitchcock's Psycho. "We all go a little mad sometimes. Right, mom?"

"Yes, Buffy. I suppose we do."

She left her mom after that, trawled down Fifth Avenue, looking at clothes and pretty things. A little retail therapy made her feel better still. Not much, but it staved off her remaining sense of being out of kilter and unsettled. Really, she didn't want to go home to an empty apartment, was only passing the time, waiting for five o'clock when Willow finished work. Buffy would go and meet her, maybe they could go to dinner. Or maybe get take-out and a bottle of wine. Whatever. Didn't matter, as long as she could see Willow. Hold her. Make the bad go away.

Five o'clock came eventually. Buffy waited outside the huge building, watching. Her heart lifted when she felt Willow coming out. Felt her before she saw her. Moved forward, her eyes trained in the direction the "feeling" was coming from.

Then she saw her, bright red hair glinting in the sunlight, pretty, pale features searching, because Willow had "felt" her too. Felt her with the soul connection that they never took for granted.

Buffy smiled, waved, any lingering sense of doom inside her leaving her almost at once. Then they were in each other's arms, uncaring, unaware of the people around them.

"Jesus, am I glad to see you," Buffy said. Willow's green eyes stared into hers; Buffy saw love there, as ever, and compassion. Willow nodded.

"Let's go home," she said. "You can tell me all about it."

Buffy thought she'd never heard anything so good in her entire life.


"I have misplaced my pants." (Homer J. Simpson)

"You know what the secret of life is?"
"Your finger?"
"One thing. Just one thing."
"That's great, but what's the one thing?"
"That's what you gotta figure out."
(Jack Palance, Billy Crystal, City Slickers)

"I heard your heartbeat." (Buffy Summers, to Angel, ANGEL)