The First Move

“Well, you’re a sad sight for sore eyes.” A lilting, amused Irish accent drags Angel kicking and screaming out of his Joe Dante novel.

Angel looks up. Grinning down at him is a pale, dark-haired, rakish-looking man of less-than-average height and less-than-average sartorial acumen. Behind wire-rim glasses, quizzical, green eyes regard Angel steadily, unnervingly.

“If I make your eyes sad, feel free to not look at me.” Already, Angel’s scanning the park out of the corner of his eyes. Late afternoon in January doesn’t encourage the masses to enjoy the outdoors. Angel’s just always liked the cold.

There’s plenty of other benches to move to, if necessary.

“Do ya play?”

For a moment Angel wonders if he’s going to have to scare off yet another crazy - why do they always choose him to harass, of all the people in the goddamn city - then he remembers where he’s sitting.

“Oh. Um, no. Not really.”

“Well? Which is it? No or not really? ‘Cause those’re two different things, mate.” Off come the glasses and twinkling eyes outshine the white smile.

“It’s get the fuck away from me, I’m not in a mood to be bothered. Mate.” Angel glares, which is normally enough to send all but the most foolish - like Spike - or the most concerned - no one. But the nutball actually sits down on the cold, stone bench and regards the cold, stone chess table he’s just parked himself at. It's as if Angel hadn’t spoken at all.

“Myself? I’m only an indifferent player, much as I love the game. Takes a patience I just don’t have to be really good at it. Strategies and the like.” The grin cranks up yet another notch, if that’s even possible, and Angel wonders if he’s being cruised.

“I’m Francis. You would be -?” Yep, he’s being cruised.

“Completely not your type, Irish, so shove off.” Angel glares into the distance, hoping he doesn’t have to flash the badge to scare the guy away.

“Got a mighty high opinion off yourself, do ya?” This Francis snorts as if truly offended, though the green eyes are dancing with laughter. “Just so happens, that I was trying to interest you in a game of chess to pass the time -” from precisely nowhere, Francis produces a giant Ziploc baggy filled with old, wooden chess pieces.

“Shit -” Angel suddenly feels stupid and painfully embarrassed. But mostly stupid.

“Just so happens that I’m not the least bit attracted to ya, man. Not beyond your skills as a chess player, anyway.” Francis is grinning again. He opens the bag, dumping the pieces on the table.

“Look, I’m sorry, I just - my gaydar - I mean radar’s been acting screwy lately and I just thought -” Xander’s tendency to babble must be catching.

And that thought doesn’t bring any pangs of loss with it, nossiree.

“Yeah, I know what you thought, mate.” Francis’s eyes roll in exasperation. “You normally play white or black?”

“What? Black, I guess - look, I’m sorry, I was rude and presumptuous, I’ll just - let you set up your game. Have a nice day.” Angel gets up, paperback in hand, ready to beat a hasty retreat back to the safety of his apartment. The place that’d seen him lose two men he’d loved.

Home, sweet home. . . .

“Hey, mac?”

Angel stops, already a yard away from the chessboard/table. He’s also a yard closer to the empty apartment he’s starting to dread.

“If you’re really sorry, you’ll play me a game, yeah? As you may have noticed, a nippy day like this keeps away the potential Bobby Fishers.”

Angel looks back at Francis, who’s busily setting up the stone board.

“Uh, no thanks, I have things -”

“Come on, it’s Sunday afternoon, too late for church - leastaways if you’re Catholic, it is.” A shrewd glance that doesn’t at all take away from the madcap grin. “And I’m bettin’ y’are.”

Angel’s nodding before he realizes he means to do so. Then he shakes his head as if just waking up.

“I told you, I’m not a good chess player.” Which doesn’t at all explain why his chilly legs and numb feet are carrying him back to Francis and the chessboard.

“What’s your name?”

“Ang - Liam.”

“Ah, Irish Catholic. . . well-matched and well-met, would ya say?” Those laughing eyes make Angel feel confused and slightly disoriented, as if he’s just woken up from a strange dream. He blinks, and Francis is sitting down as if he’d been there for hours, studying the board intently. Angel sits, as well.

“Um -”

“Look, Liam, this isn’t exactly a tournament of champions, so pull up a rock, yeah? First move’s yours.” Francis has somehow managed to set up all the pieces in the short seconds of conversation they’ve had. Only -

“I, uh, said I usually play black.”

“Did ya, now? Well, it’s good to try on a different point of view, every once in awhile. Enables us to think in new patterns. The first move is yours, Liam,” Francis says softly, then glances up at Angel again, his eyes seeming to look into and through him for a moment before studying the board again. “Take as long as you like.”

After a prolonged gaze at the faded board and even more faded pieces, Angel picks up the white knight and makes the first move.

Read another fic in this 'verse:

"Lost"
"Father"
"Son"
"Prodigal"
"Mother"
"The Ballad of Spike and Angel"
"The True Meaning of Family"
"Each Day Is Valentine’s Day"
"The First Move"