SCRIBES OF ANGEL
FanFic
________________________________
TIMELINE: Present
SPOILERS: Up to (and especially) BtVS: Triangle, AtS: Redefinition - Im
taking off from there
SYNOPSIS: Two warriors lost in darkness show one another the light.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Based on the song, "The Stone" by the Dave
Matthews Band, from the album Before These Crowded Streets. I heard it,
and I immediately thought of Angels current problems. I think about them a
lot, these days... Lyrics follow the story.
RATING: PG-13
CONTENT: suggestion of m/f sex
"The Stone"
by Ducks
He can feel them. Less
than 50 yards ahead. The majority of their minions have scattered, or are
already a residue of dust on his black sweater and pants. He doesnt bother with a coat, anymore. What does he need outer covering
for? He has no body heat, and the cool, damp winter air doesnt touch him.
Its taken eighteen days, but he has systematically dispatched
anyone--demon or otherwise-- who has gotten in his way. Anything even remotely
tied to them. Hes shed the shell of humanity...
dismissed all the distractions of friends, family... the illusion of life and
the distant promise of reward. All he has now is the hunt. And it is all he
wants.
He knows where he is.
He recognizes the graveyard like the skin on the backs of his hands. It was,
not so long ago, part of the center of his existence. The patterned layout of
the headstones were once carved into the deepest recesses of his heart.
It might as well have
been a million years in the past. Another universe. Another man.
Now, he doesnt care that he is in Sunnydale. He doesnt
care that he and Buffy hunted together in this cemetery, once upon a time,
between bouts of kissing and groping, as though they had any right at all to
pretend normalcy. He doesnt care that being here once made
him feel safe, warm, loved...human. It matters not at all that the woman he
once adored with everything he was is somewhere nearby, probably sleeping with
someone else. He ignores the humming that begins in his toes and flows through
him like lava, telling him that she is close.
All that is left of him
is vengeance. Destruction in motion. The rest is nothing but baggage, and he
dismisses it utterly from his conscious mind.
Twenty yards. He can
smell them, now. A crypt, just at the far end of the West wall. Five, possibly
more, plus the two he seeks.
He draws his sword.
This time, he will get close. He will be certain that the dust falling
on his clothes is theirs. He will leave absolutely no question that they have
met their Final Death at his hand.
Last time, he was weak.
Still affected by the memory of humanity. No more.
His predators senses hone to pinpoint clarity. Three older, strong vampires.
Two... no, four... fledglings... canon fodder. Plus, the two of them. Nine in
all. He can take them.
Fifteen yards.
His dismisses the
growing sensation of danger outside what he is tracking, from nearby. Focuses.
Thirteen yards.
They will know he is
coming. He will have only moments to destroy them all. No doubt they will flee
the crypt in waves... pawns first. Then knights. The Queens will wait until an
opportune moment, and bolt. He will cut through the chaff, and find the wheat
at the center before they have the chance. Destroy the core, and the army will
fall to pieces. He wont need to hunt the rest.
He knows he will,
anyway.
Ten yards. A figure
sprinting from the Eastern wall. Fast. Preternatural. Another hunter. He moves
deeper into shadow, stands utterly still, until he is part of it. The motion
stops. He moves on. Lesser demons will have no more than a passing interest in
him.
He ignores the growing
clutching sensation in his chest. Fight or flight, nothing more.
Eight yards.
Five.
Now.
*******
The cramping in her gut
and the tingling in her neck have gotten worse since she vaulted the wall
around Happy Acres. She no longer bothers to make the old joke about the
graveyards ironic name. She is beyond
such things. No time for bittersweet memories of strong arms and cool kisses.
The hunt is her
purpose. Her calling. And there is a small nest of powerful vampires nearby.
Rumor has it... or rather, Spike has it... that Drusilla is among them.
Powerful, dangerous, insane Drusilla.
She doesnt have any particular feelings about the raven-haired basketcase.
But Spike did. Hence the fact that she chained him to his chair.
At least she left the
television on.
She sniffs the air,
closes her eyes. The tingling grows. She pushes it away -- imagination, nothing
more. She listens to the twitching in her womb, instead. Vampire alarm. Reaches
out with her senses... feels the stirring of the night air. Nine vampires in
the crypt. One to the West. A look out? Shell
take him first, quick. Sneak attack from behind. No noise. Just dust.
She sprints for several
yards, leaping the lowest stones. The lone vampire ducks into the shadows, and
vanishes. She knows he is still there. She can smell him. He knows she is
stalking him. Surprise is lost. She dives behind a smaller mausoleum, and
freezes.
A split second, and the
lone vamp moves closer to the nest. Hes going to warn them. Time to
move.
She ducks low...
sprints smoothly, catlike, silent. Keeps herself downwind as much as possible.
She wonders for a moment if maybe shes sick... or hungry. The vampires scent is... familiar. The tingling that began in her neck has
spread to her fingers. As she gets closer, it fills her belly, moves down her
legs. Her toes feel like theyre falling asleep.
She stops for a second.
Two. Only one vampire she has ever encountered has been able to bring her to
such an immediate and stunning halt.
It cant be, can it?
No. Of course not. She
resumes her journey.
Imagination. Nothing
more. Wishful echoes of childhood memory. Ache of loneliness. Cutting edges of
stress.
Shes off her game, thats all.
She presses forward.
Closes her mind to all but the location of her target. Assesses its size,
strength, the precision of its movements that suggest great age and skill.
She wonders briefly why
an elder would be wasted as lookout, but dismisses this thought, too.
All that remains is the
coming fight.
Just a moment more.
*******
They attack all at
once, spilling from the crypt in a wave, with an assortment of growls, snarls,
and battle howls.
He is ready. In less
than a breath, he is a blur of muscle and steel, his sword glinting silver,
then red, screaming through the air... blood. Limbs. Heads, then dust. He is
rage. Violence. Death. Hollow of all but this.
Some small part of him
realizes that he is no longer fighting alone. He doesnt
care. He plows through the masses. Others must have been underground. There are
far more than he estimated.
It hardly matters. He
dispatches them two at a time as he mows through, and toward the crypt.
They have to die.
He goes down under a
large demon with a hammer. He roars his fury, and swings the sword upward,
cleaving the creature in two. He is on his feet before its halves reach the
ground.
Forward.
A scream of pain from
behind him. Human. Wounded. Stench of blood. The crypt door is immediately
before him. He ignores the cries of victory, the screaming of the victim. Not
his concern.
He reaches out and
grabs the handle on the door. Here. Theyre
here. They are going to die, at last.
"ANGEL! HELP
ME!"
*****
She was way off in her
estimation of how many there were. There are four vampires on her, now. And two
demons she cant identify. She stakes three.
The fourth kicks her in the face, sending her flying. She crashes into the
wall. Loses her breath. One of the demons leaps on her, a stunning punch to her
solar plexus. Ribs and sternum crack. She coughs blood. Shuts out pain and the
threat of unconsciousness. If she passes out, she is dead.
He doesnt seem to know shes there. He is cutting down
vamps like the Grim Reaper and his scythe, sword in constant motion. The other
demon who rushed her fells him. He cuts it in half, gets to his feet.
She kicks out at the
legs of her attacker. It stumbles back, she rises, ducks low, kicks upward, to
the meridian of its body. It doesnt flinch. It swings its axe at
her. She jumps back. The blade misses fully impaling her, but makes solid
contact with her flesh. Blood rushes from the wound. Dizziness returns. She
stumbles. The last vamp punches her square in the nose. More blood. She reels
backward. Random stab with the stake dispatches the vampire. But the demon is
still coming. She leaps the swinging axe like a jump rope. As she comes down,
the handle hits her arm. She hears the elbow joint separate as her weapon goes
flying. She makes hard contact with the ground... a sickening thud. Her head
hits the wall. The demon swings the axe. She kicks the arm wielding it, and the
weapon flies out of the way. A light sword instantly replaces it. She barely
gets out from under its cleaving arc in time. It cuts into her arm, slices
across her chest. She screams.
"ANGEL, HELP
ME!"
Last battle? Is this
her end? Will he let her die? She can no longer move. Blood rushes from
her...too much... too quickly. She kicks wildly with her last ounce of
strength, hoping the keep the advancing demon at swords
length. But her consciousness waivers.
Shes going to die.
A roar fills her ears
as the world goes black. Enraged vampire, she thinks, and falls into the
darkness.
*****
The stench of her blood
enrages him. He can feel Dru and Darla in the crypt. This is the end. His goal.
The ultimate conclusion of his journey. Destroy the one who made him, and the
one he made. Only a single pull of the door away. All he has to do is step
through.
A dull thud of flesh
crashing on hard ground. A grunt of agony. Weak screaming. His name...
Blood.
Buffy.
Demon laughter,
victorious. "I heard you were tougher!" He turns.
Instinct takes him. Her
pain rips through his bones.
Mate in danger.
He roars, in motion
before his mind has registered any of it. Cleaves the demons sword in two. It growls. He snarls in return. The demon has
another sword. The thrust and parry is a memory of his muscles, and requires
none of his brain.
His brain is consumed
with her agony. Bloodlust. A sudden terror. A forgotten imperative.
Protect the Chosen One.
He lands a solid kick
to the chest of the enormous demon. It flies into the wall with a grunt. Before
it can recover, he runs it through. It freezes in the shock of sudden death.
Stares at him with orange eyes.
He thrusts the sword in
deeper. Twists it. Pulls it upward through thick hide, heavy flesh, hard bone,
until it pulls free through the top of the creatures
skull. Green pus spits into the air.
He stands over it for a
moment, panting. Turns his head toward the thick scent of her blood. The memory
of small hands and warm lips.
The Slayer is silent.
Eyes closed. He flashes back to a night he drank her blood...
On his knees, sword
abandoned, hunt forgotten. He gathers her small, bloody form in his arms. The
wounds are serious, but not fatal. She will live. She will heal. He tenderly
caresses the face he once saw every night in his dreams.
"Buffy... can you
hear me?"
Hospital. He should...
He has to help her.
Help the hopeless.
Another being. Someone
else besides himself and his targets. He had forgotten. Made himself forget.
She opens her eyes and tries to smile. He can do nothing but blink at her as
his human face returns.
He doesnt notice the two female vampires that slip out of the crypt with
the remaining underlings and vanish into the night, as the Slayer loses
consciousness in his arms.
*****
She hates hospitals.
She turns her head,
despite the agony. He sits in the chair beside her, his eyes closed. His
posture is tense. Hes not asleep.
Its not really him. He didnt save her. He didnt bring her here. Hes in LA.
Isnt he?
"Angel?"
Melting chocolate pools
reveal themselves, and focus on her.
They are vacant.
He leans forward, but
makes no move to touch her. He doesnt offer anything, no words of
comfort, not even his small half-smile. She notices that he smells like dirt.
Like misery. His familiar clean, spicy scent is gone.
Angel... but not Angel.
"How do you
feel?" he asks. Like he cares... but doesnt
care.
"Like somebody ran
me through a couple of spin cycles in a meat grinder," she jokes.
He doesnt respond. No low, subtle chuckle. Nothing.
"Youre all right then." Part question, part statement, and part
command.
"Yeah. I think Ill make it."
He nods once, curtly,
and gets up.
She notices he isnt wearing a coat.
"Wait... youre going?" she asks. She doesnt
want to... knows she shouldnt. But she doesnt want him to leave, either. She has so many questions: why is he
here? What was he hunting?
Whats wrong with him?
She knows it is
something. Everything about him screams that it is out of alignment.
"I have things to
do," he informs her, "Your mother and Giles are on their way."
Cold. Dead. A statement
of fact, and nothing more. He turns away.
"Angel..."
He stops. The hand on
the door wanders back to hang limply at his side. He doesnt look at her.
"I have a hunt to
finish," he says... a softer edge to his otherwise flinty voice.
He walks out without
saying goodbye.
Again.
The Slayer lies in the
cold bed and cries.
*******
His is furious with
himself as he leaves the hospital, taking a back stairwell to avoid the
possibility of encountering her family.
This is exactly what he
didnt want. Why he fired his
"staff". Distractions. Moments left unguarded while he tended their
well being, allowing evil to breed like rats.
He can feel the
hairline cracks in the hard-built walls around his heart. Visions of her... of
tonight, and a hundred nights past, leak through like rays of light; unbidden,
unwanted.
He fights them as he
has for months. Shoving them in rotting boxes at the back of his mind. Her
blood stains his hands. He can feel its magick tingle on his skin. He remembers
its taste. Her name floods his mind.
Buffy.
No. Shes safe. He didnt let her die. Thats all he has to give.
He steps out into the
cold night. Closes steel blinds against his tumultuous thoughts.
He has no time for
this. He has a hunt to finish.
*******
Three days in bed, and
her body is mostly healed. Her elbow has knitted enough to bend again. She
barely has a scar from the deep axe wound, and even that will fade in a few
weeks.
But her heart is still
bleeding. A grievous injury that had barely mended since the last time they
met. His demeanor in the hospital ripped the scab off again. Lying there, she
relives a thousand moments they shared, both glorious and horrible, each
recollection ending with his disinterested attitude the night he appeared from
nowhere and saved her life before he broke her heart. Again.
On the fourth day, she
makes a phone call. The first number, the one printed in crisp black letters on
a white card pressed flat by the pages of her journal, has been disconnected.
Information gives her another. That one rings and rings, but no one answers.
Theres no machine.
She dials 411 again.
Chase, Cordelia. Silver Lake.
The former May Queen
answers, "Angel Investigations, we help the hopeless." They talk.
Cordy sounds drained. Exhausted. Older. Wiser. Angry. Hurt.
She tells a tale that
spins Buffys mind: psychic visions and
Prophecies. Sires raised human from the dead. Lawyers, madness. Abandonment of
Duty and Destiny. Family.
The promise of
humanity.
On the fifth day, she
borrows her Watchers red BMW and drives two and a
half hours Northwest. She uses the key Cordy left for her. She waits for three
days, alone in the vacant hotel before she gives up.
He doesnt return.
*******
How long has he been
standing here, under this tree? The ladder to the window that he once thought
was the Gateway to Heaven?
He doesnt know why hes here.
The end was so much
simpler than he expected. A fight, two small clouds of dust, and his line is
ended. His legacy of darkness gone, just like that.
With their death cries,
he was not washed clean. Not made empty of pain and guilt. Only now, even his
focus, his drive, is gone. He is glutted with anguish. Longing. Sorrow. Walls
already weakened by the near death of his hearts
desire shattered, collapsing under the weight of a million regrets.
Dams do not trickle,
when broken. They burst.
And now... here. He
doesnt know why hes come.
He stares up at the
window through which he has climbed a hundred times, and thinks maybe that he
will stand there until sunrise. Then he too will be finished. And he will always
be with her, feeding the roots of her life.
Morose thoughts. The
only hopeless one now, is him. And yet...
Yet he still stands
there, waiting.
*******
She wakes slowly from
dreams of chocolate and heartbeats.
Hes here.
She rises and goes to
the window, peers out. Sees him shrouded in shadow below, and slides open the
window as if in another dream.
His distress and
confusion rush over her like a storm gale. Their eyes meet.
He is no longer empty
and cold. His expression is filled with pain... questions of why and how and
what next.
She gives her unspoken
invitation, and steps away. He scales the tree like it hasn't been years since
he's done it. Broad frame squeezes in the window, and fills the room. He
looks around for a moment, bewildered, as if hes not
certain this is real, either.
He looks at her.
Reaches out. Pulls her to him... cold, desperate hands. Mouth seeking. Begging.
For what? Purpose? Answers? She doesnt even know her own anymore. How
can she know his?
She draws his hurt to
her anyway.
I love you still.
Yes, you are needed. I
need you. You are wanted. I want you. I think youre
worthwhile.
Im here. Hold on to me. Ill stand by you, I promise.
Where ever you've been. Whatever's happened to you.
Hell and back, Hell and
back again.
*******
She once was
everything. He thought hed forgotten her sweetness. But
her touch fills him, and he knows it is all still there, somewhere beneath the
scars.
He pleads with his
kisses and his hands on her bed-warm skin. Was she always so warm? Did she
always wind her hands in his hair that way?
Yes. He remembers.
There is nothing but
this need standing between him and the abyss yawning just beyond the edge of
his consciousness. Need for touch. Frantic, consuming need for her. Her light.
Her life force awakening skin gone numb.
He lays her bare. She
shines like hope in the moonlight. Smooth muscles, satin smooth heat. Concern
and love. And yes, Im still here for you.
He makes love to her
slowly. Softly. Neither of them utters a sound as they merge... share their
respective pain and solitude as the night rushes by around them. He is
cushioned, if only slightly, form the ragged edges of a dying faith in
something bigger than what they were.
He does not find God in
her flesh. He does not recover hope in her soft sheets. He doesnt find relief in her sighs, or release in the gentle, exquisite
explosion of physical pleasure.
He does not forget. But
for a time, he is reminded that he is real. Dead, but flesh and blood. For now,
its enough that he remembers he's
not alone.
Hes not alone.
*******
She wakes to birdsong.
An odd occurrence, in the dead of winter, even here on the Hellmouth.
The sun is kept from
the room by the curtains she rose to draw during the night. He slept, fitful
and restless in the grip of nightmares she knows she cant begin to fathom.
He wept through their
lovemaking. He broke down in her arms, after, and sobbed until her heart was
broken for him. Again.
He is still now,
sleeping deeply, burrowed into her pillows, the blanket tucked tight around his
waist.
She looks down on him,
on skin covered head to foot in faded scars, and wonders what laid him so low.
What did they do to him?
He whimpers like a
small, frightened child. She takes him in her arms and shushes him gently. He
stills. It seems fitting, in a way that she doesnt
understand yet, that he should reappear in her life now.
She too has been lost.
But only seeing his face again, the ravage of stolen dreams and shattered hope
in those beloved eyes, made her realize.
She was set adrift,
when he left her. Her heart crushed by burdens they once bore together. Without
the dreams they built in her youth, she found herself without any anchor.
She never knew. Not
even when Riley left. Still, she had denied it.
Angel was her gravity.
The core of her. What keeps her tied to life... to this earth on which they
both fight. For which they both sacrifice.
Whether it's right or
not.
She holds him close,
breathes deep, and the what next becomes hers.
*******
He wakes feeling
refreshed. Washed clean. He feels her warmth wrapped tight in his arms, and for
a moment, he almost convinces himself that the past three years were a
nightmare.
She opens her hazy
green eyes.
"Are you
okay?"
The first human words
spoken to him since the last time they were together. It is almost a foreign
language, so much inside of him has changed.
He left her lying, hurt
and bewildered, alone and weak in a steel hospital bed. Another sin. Cordelia
used to tease him that he kept a little notebook with everything he had ever
done written in it, and that he read a page every day, just to be sure he
didn't forget to brood.
He never forgot. Not a
single transgression. And so many against the woman in his arms.
Now the bed is brass,
and the comforter thick down, heated by her body. Another universe.
"I dont know," he admits.
She closes her eyes.
Sighs. Opens them again reaches up to brush his cheek.
"Hows your soul?"
Its a half-joke. He knows what she is asking. Knows the answer she
hopes to hear. But all he has to give her is the truth.
"I dont know that, either."
When she was younger,
she might have frowned. A shadow of fear might have passed over her fine
features with the memory of the demon that once tormented her. Or she might
have argued... tried to dissuade him from his depression with a perky joke...
promise of night mini-golf or ice cream that he would never eat.
Now she gives a wry,
cynical smirk. This comforts him more than any of the other choices would have.
She nods.
"I'm here for you,
if you want to talk about it," she says. But she doesn't press.
He doesn't offer.
They stay in bed until
sunset. He kisses her goodbye.
"Will I see you
again?"
There's fear and
disappointment in the question. He doesn't know how to answer.
"I hope so,"
he replies.
It's all he can give
her. It's all that he has.
*******
She loses track of the
days after he leaves. When she answers the phone on a summer Wednesday, she's
no longer expecting it to be him.
He asks how she is. She
tells him she's okay. She banished a god-like key-seeking monster, so she's
pretty pleased with herself.
"Good for
you."
He sounds like he means
it.
"Thanks."
Silence for a few
moments that she thinks should be awkward. Somehow, they're not.
"Buffy..."
"Yeah?"
She hears his breath
and wonders if he's holding the phone as tightly as she is.
"Are you... doing
anything Friday night?"
The smile is automatic.
It hurts the muscles of her face, reminding her she hasn't made one quite like
it in... years.
"Um, let's see...
letting you take me out to dinner? And maybe dancing?"
He chuckles softly. She
feels the shattered bits of her hear melting together. "Dancing?" he
asks with mock incredulity.
"YES! TAKE HER
DANCING!" she hears Cordelia calling from the background.
"Dancing it
is," he agrees.
Buffy closes her eyes
and fights back tears. Good tears. The really, really rare kind.
"Penance?"
she jokes.
She can hear a smile
matching her own at the other end of the line.
"I'd almost prefer
self-flagellation, but... Cordelia is very creative. Lots of pouting and cold
shoulders. Shopping. Paid vacations. It's really very harrowing. A lot like
Hell, actually. I let her paint my nails the other day."
Buffy laughs. "So
I guess dancing's a step up."
He sighs, but the sound
is light. "It most certainly is."
"I'm glad
you're... better," she says.
"Yeah. Me too.
Thank you."
"Don't thank me.
Take me dancing."
"8 o'clock then?
Barring any unforeseen disasters?"
"I'll be
ready."
"I'd like to take
you up on that...talking offer. If you don't mind. Maybe over dinner."
"STEP FIVE!"
Cordelia yells.
"What?" Buffy
laughs.
Another beleaguered
sigh. "She has me on a twelve step program."
"WACKO COMMANDO
DEMONS ANONYMOUS! ALSO KNOWN AS DARLA RECOVERY!"
Buffy laughs again.
"You're kidding. And you put up with this?"
"I owe her a lot
more than that." The smile is gone from his voice.
"So...what's step
five?"
"Admit to another
human being the exact nature of your wrongs."
Buffy's heart clenches.
"Why me?" She wonders aloud. Why not Cordelia? Wesley. Anybody else.
All those out there who care so much about him.
"Who else would I
tell? Who else would really understand?"
She lets that sink in.
Decides it's a compliment. "Okay. Step five. 8 p.m. Friday."
Buffy stares at the
phone for a long time after they hang up, and wonders if this ten tone stone
that's been sitting on her heart since the morning after her 17th birthday can
be purged with a night of dinner and dancing. If she can admit her wrongs to
him.
She smiles at her
reflection in the hallway mirror. Why not? They have to start somewhere.
**
"The Stone" - by the Dave Matthews Band
I've got this creeping
Suspicion that things are not as they seem
Reassure me
Why do I feel as if I'm in too deep
I've been praying
For some way to show them
I'm not what they see
Yes I have done wrong
But what I did I thought needed be done.
I swear.
Unholy day
If I leave now, I might get away
This weighs on me
As heavy as stone and as blue as I go
I was just wondering if you'd come along
To hold up my head when my head won't hold on
I'll do the same if the same's what you want
If not, I'll go
I will go alone
I'm a long way
From that fool's mistake and now forever pay
No, run
I will run and I'll be okay
I was just wondering if you'd come along
To hold up my head when my head won't hold on
I'll do the same if the same's what you want
If not, I'll go.
I will go alone.
I need so
To stay in your arms, see you smile, hold you close
And it weighs on me
As heavy as stone and a bone-chilling cold
I was just wondering if you'll come along
Tell me you will.