Chapter 1 – The Ring

When Angel O'Connor walked into the previously abandoned warehouse, the first thing he noticed was the roar of the crowd. Secondly, he noticed the smell of blood, that too-familiar scent of rusty pain and death. But he couldn't be distracted like this, he had a job to do. If he was ever going to prove to that bastard judge that he deserved the kid back from his snake of an ex, he had to get this business off the ground.

There. Ahead of him and weaving through the crowd was his target, a balding middle aged man who had been handsome once. Blonde of hair and blue of eye, the man was tall and though he carried at least twenty pounds of extra weight, Angel could understand why the man's wife thought he could be cheating on her. Mick Vohgarty, that was the man's name. Husband of Diane, father of two, suspected of seeing a younger woman on all those nights he told his wife he'd been working late. Angel chuckled silently at the excuse. If every man who told his wife he was working late actually put in those hours, America would be twice as productive as it already was.

The private detective didn't really understand this American obsession with business and the 'work hard, play hard' attitude that went along with it. He'd grown up in Ireland, Galway to be more specific, at least during the first half of his life. There men did their jobs and did them well, but everyone looked forward to the evenings and catching a drink at the neighborhood pub. He'd had to move to the States after the incident he'd rather not speak of or even think of, since it haunted his dreams every night. His aunt took him in, finished raising him the best she could. Most of his accent had been lost in the almost thirteen years since that night, but traces of it just couldn't be erased.

As Angel followed Mr. Vohgarty through the crowd, he eventually got a look at the center of the warehouse and the source of the cloying scent of blood that had Angel holding his breath and muttering a stream of curses so he wouldn't turn tail and run. There, roped off from the crowd, was a boxing ring unlike any he'd seen before. It wasn't square so much as oblong and flush with the concrete floor of the warehouse. If either of the two combatants fell, it would be onto unforgiving cement, not the springy surface of a proper boxing ring.

Getting closer, Angel realized that the boxers, who he'd mistaken for featherweights, were both women, young women. One was brunette, her hair wound and pinned tightly to her head, and fighting intensely. Although her hits were powerful, the detective could tell that she was untrained and undisciplined. She wore dark makeup that didn't seem to run even under the rivulets of sweat coursing down her face, her neck, her arms. It seemed to Angel she was one of those girls who got pushed around too many times at home as a kid and just started fighting back with reckless abandon. Without the aid of boxing gloves, the brunette was fighting a blonde, trying to get past the other girl's defenses. This other boxer fought with a grace and discipline only years of training and experience could forge, but she seemed to pull her punches, unwilling to beat the other woman down with her full wiry strength, almost unwilling to win. The blonde mostly had her back to Angel, and he found himself curious to know what she looked like, to know what kind of woman with her grace and skill would get caught up in an underground bare knuckle boxing ring like this.

After five minutes of watching the fight, wishing the blonde, that graceful creature, would turn around, Angel realized that he was supposed to be tailing Mr. Vohgarty. Catching up to the cad, the detective took a few discreet pictures with his phone, capturing the man putting down money and gathering a few flash paper stubs before heading back to watch the fight. The man seemed interested only on betting, not on spending all that money on a mistress. Angel figured then that his work here was done, so he made his way around the crowd, heading for the exit. If he was lucky, he would have enough time to grab a piece of pie at the diner on his way home, savoring that last bit of human company before he crawled back to his empty apartment and his empty bed.

That was the plan, anyway. However, when the roars and jeers of the crowd grew to a fevered pitch, Angel couldn't help but shoulder his way into a position where he could watch the fight, towering over many of the men and all of the few women in the crowd. The blonde was finally winning, hitting the brunette at every opportunity with fists and even bare feet. Her opponent wavered, throwing punches wildly, missing as the blonde danced around her and finally went in for the kill. One last punch to the face dropped the brunette, making her fall backward, unconscious. Curiously, the blonde darted forward and broke her opponent's fall, lowering her the last six inches gently.

When the blonde looked up, Angel finally caught a glimpse of her face, catching his breath in awe. Though she was bruised and battered, the woman was exceptionally pretty. Her eyes were large nicely spaced with huge lashes and a gleeful tilt. Her mouth was wide and he could tell that if she ever smiled, it would be like the sun breaking through fog in its brilliance. Her face was oval shaped and just the right mix of curvy and edged with a strong jaw and chin, but soft cheeks and a cutely odd-shaped nose. Not daring to breathe or move, Angel stared at the girl.

Everything but her faded into the background. The roar and seething of the crowd around him, the ringing of a loud bell muffled to his ears, the sight of some jerk with bleach-blond hair stepping into the ring and holding up the woman's hand in victory. None of it mattered. Only her. Only this beautiful and dangerous creature, this tiny girl with strength beyond her years or stature. Only her.

Buffy Summers was used to feeling the eyes of the crowd on her, especially after winning a fight. But something about tonight was different. As she finished lowering Faith's unconscious body to the ground, making sure her opponent's head didn't crack on the concrete floor, Buffy felt someone watching her intently. Not the fight, not Spike as he rang the bell and stepped into the ring, throwing up Buffy's hand in his to declare her victory, those eyes were watching her. Unable to shake the feeling, she scanned the crowd, searching for the source of this uncanny feeling that put butterflies in her stomach and the beat of her heart into overdrive.

And then she saw him. A tall man, hunching slightly as some tall people are wont to do, with dark hair and dark eyes. God, she was losing herself in those dark eyes as they stared at one another, neither able to break away. He was younger than most of the guys in here, mid-twenties she would guess, and he was intensely beautiful. They shared a few more seconds of impossible recognition before Spike was shouting in her ear and leading her from the ring.

"That was a good bout, love," he said in his relaxed British accent, clapping his hand on her shoulder and drawing her uncomfortably close to his body. "Nice and excitin' for the marks, yeah?"

Pushing away from him to pick up her sweatshirt and her shoes from under the ref's table, Buffy replied, "Gee, thanks, Spike. Now I can die happy knowing I entertained a bunch of overweight losers tonight."

"Oi," he hissed, pulling her back toward him by an arm. "Don't get sassy with me, pet. We both know you need this gig, you need more fights. Don't forget I'm the one who decides when and who you fight. Can't make any cash for the sick mum if you never win, now can you?"

"No," Buffy sighed, failing to keep the rage and frustration out of her voice. Unable to stand Spike's sweaty hand on her arm for one more second, Buffy wrenched away from him saying, "I'll be good. Just give me a call when I'm up next."

"Sure you will, bint," Spike replied, letting her sweep away into the crowd toward the betting tables to collect her winnings. "Sure you will."

Clem, one of the betting managers, smiled as Buffy approached, pressing an envelope of cash into her hand right away so she could escape the throng of men wanting to catch a piece of her victory by touching her or talking to her. Because of the crowd, Buffy almost hated winning as much as she did losing. But betting on herself was the only way she could make enough money to keep her mother and sister afloat, and still finish high school. Buffy nodded to Clem gratefully and made her way around the crowd, edging the room as the next fight got started.

Halfway around to the exit, Buffy met Faith and her brother Riley. The guy was helping his sister limp from the ring before he started his match. "Hey, B!" Faith called over the roar of the crowd. "Good fucking fight." The brunette stuck out her hand, which Buffy gladly took. She kinda liked Faith and hated having to fight a girl that might have been an amazing friend in any other situation.

"Sorry I beat you," Buffy offered meekly.

"Nah," Faith scoffed. "Don't worry about it, girl. You beat me fair and square. Next time, though," she pointed at Buffy with a smile, "you'd better watch out!"

"Yeah," said Buffy, chuckling. "I'll keep that in mind." Buffy turned to leave, but Riley caught her arm and spoke into her ear.

"Thanks for what you did out there," he said, his hot breath tickling her neck and giving her goose bumps. "Making sure Faith was okay when she fell? I really appreciate it."

"Sure," said Buffy slowly, her heart racing a mile a minute as Riley smiled at her, all his manly charm making her doubt which way was up. "I mean, I'd rather not hurt anyone more than I have to."

Riley smiled and nodded again, catching his sister as she wavered and leading Faith away from Buffy and toward the back room where the fighters all prepared. Buffy was glad she never brought anything more than she needed to fight because she hated going back there. Most of the boxers were men, and most of the couldn't give a damn about her still being seventeen and utterly uninterested in any of them. And now that the handsome and charming Riley was back there, too? Definitely a no-go zone as far as Buffy was concerned.

And what about that man from earlier? The one who was staring at her at the end of the fight. She wasn't going crazy, was she? That moment did actually happen, didn't it? It seemed like something out of an old movie, where two people's eyes meet across a crowded room and they're destined to spend the rest of the movie in a torrid love affair.

"Yeah, right," Buffy mumbled to herself as she kept her head down and pushed through the crowd. The words 'torrid' and 'Buffy' would never be found in the same sentence. Not even in the same room. The most experience Buffy had with boys was kissing Ford under the bleachers at her old school, and that was almost three years ago now. So much had happened since then, and barely any time for friends, much less boys.

Thinking of friends, Buffy realized it must have been getting late and she still needed to check in with her best friend Willow. Willow would ice her wounds and clean her cuts and get Buffy at least somewhat presentable for school in the morning. It paid to have a science nerd intent on going premed in college as a best friend, especially in Buffy's line of work.

Head down and rushing through the crowd, when Buffy tried to get out the door, she got broadsided by a guy and knocked into the man beside her, tripping him up so he fell forward. She just managed to dance away, keeping herself upright as she turned to apologize.

"Oh, shit," she said. "I'm so sorr –" And then she realized it was him. The beautiful man whose eyes she'd met just a few minutes before, and now he was sprawled out on the cement just outside the warehouse. Because of her.

It was her, Angel realized as he looked up. She'd come out of nowhere and ran into him, of course making him fall on his face. Or, in this instance onto his palms at least. As he pushed himself up and dusted his skinned palms together, he noted the mortified horror on her expressive face. God, she was beautiful.

"Oh my god," she squeaked as he got to his feet. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, letting a friendly smile play across his lips. "I'm fine. Are you okay?"

"Just really embarrassed," she admitted, letting her smile mirror his just a little. The smile was just as brilliant as he guessed it would be. A bright red blush crept across her cheeks under her tan, and Angel thought it made her look even more charming and so young! Here he was, literally falling for some teenaged prizefighter of a girl, despite his recent efforts to get away from violent types. His ex, Darla, was a mean bitch, prone to throwing fists as often as throwing hateful words and Angel had promised himself the next time around he'd find someone decent. A girl who was kind.

He guessed this girl seemed alright, despite her occupation. She'd saved her opponent a nasty knock on the head. She'd stayed and asked him if he was alright after he fell. Darla wouldn't have done those things. She would have laughed and told him what an idiot he was being.

Because he couldn't help himself, Angel asked, "What's your name?"

"Seriously?" she asked. "It was on all the betting slips. And you didn't catch it when Spike announced I won?"

"Spike? That guy with the radioactive hair?" Angel laughed. "I wasn't really paying attention to him." Smooth move, Angel, he thought. Letting this girl know way too soon how captivating you find her.

Buffy laughed, the joyful sound slicing directly to Angel's heart, making him ache for her, making him want to scoop her up and take her away from all of this. "Yeah, that's him! The bleach-blond menace otherwise known as my boss." The girl looked at Angel again, their eyes meeting for the second time that night. He couldn't tell what color they were under the orange streetlight, but he desperately wanted to find out. Clearing her throat, Buffy said, "I'll tell you what. You tell me your name, and I'll tell you mine."

Angel tried not to read too much suggestion into her words, but he found it impossible. Attempting to will away the first stirrings of arousal by thinking of anything, anything but her, he replied, "Angel."

"Hmm," she muttered, tapping her chin with a thoughtful finger. "It suits you." They shared another smile and Angel almost groaned at the effect she had on him. "I'm Buffy. I should really get going, but it was nice meeting you!"

Angel watched as she jogged away, lamely calling after her, "You, too." Buffy. What kind of name was Buffy? Maybe it was a nickname, like his. No way Colm O'Connor would have named his son Angel. No, he'd been born Liam, but his baby sister had given him the name and now, even this many years after her death, he just couldn't let it go.

Head full of Buffy, and now of his sister, Kathy, Angel decided to forgo the pie and head straight back to his apartment. Maybe Mrs. Vohgerty would actually pay him when he showed her the pictures in the morning. That was something to look forward to, at least. That, and the possibility of seeing that strange and beautiful creature called Buffy maybe just one more time.

A/N: So I had this idea last night, and it turned into a chapter of a longer fic this morning. I probably won't post another chapter for quite a while, because of everything else I'm working on, but I'm quickly falling in love with the story. I won't abandon it for too long. In the meantime, I'd love to hear what you think. Good idea? Bad idea? Tired and cliched idea? Any comments are welcome.

~Ptera