"The Beginning - Bitter Chill"

Author: Vatrixsta Cruden
Contact: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: The song "Full of Grace" belongs to Sarah McLachlan.
Notes: This is the beginning of something much, much longer. I'm writing it as I go, but kind encouragement (and outright stalking *g*) will speed the muse right along. As you can tell from The Longest Title In Existence, this is more of a . . . prelude than anything else. (And yes, I realize it ends evilly. Can't be helped.)
Additional Notes: Yes, I do remember that this song actually appeared in Becoming II -- but I think it fits here even better. *g* You can tell me if you agree or not.

The winter here's cold and bitter,
it's chilled us to the bone.
We haven't seen the sun for weeks,
too long too far from home.
I feel just like I'm sinking,
and I claw for solid ground.
I'm pulled down by the undertow,
I never thought I could feel so low,
and, oh, darkness, I feel like letting go.

The hotel was darker and quieter than usual that night.

Granted, Cordelia, Wes and Gunn were still at Caritas, no doubt in the middle of a drunken rendition of "The Weight." Angel had joined them on stage for their only-slightly-inebriated version of "If I Had $1,000,000," but he'd felt that he'd have to draw the line somewhere.

It was all part of Cordelia's "Penance Plan." Every time they finished a case, Angel was ordered to accompany them for celebratory dinner, drinks, and, in last week's case, a trip to the Los Angeles County Fair. Angel shuddered at the memory. Despite his protestations that he was still an eighteenth century guy at heart, Cordelia had dragged him onto the Ferris wheel, then later, into something called "The Gravitron."

A smile he couldn't quite contain spread across his face as he made his way up the great staircase in the lobby. The last month had been good. They were back on even ground, his people trusted him again, and he only had to wake early and make them breakfast twice a week. Once again, they were a family (they'd gone so far as to make him sing "We Are Family" with them after the Hopkins case to prove it), and nothing, even his own obsessions were about to change that.

Life was good. Once again, a tiny smile pulled at Angel's mouth. He hadn't been able to entertain that particular notion in a very long time. It felt fantastic. This business with Darla wasn't at an end; his slip with her a few weeks ago had been the tip of the iceberg, he was willing to bet. However, it didn't seem to matter to him as much now. She was just another vampire he had to take out, because that was his job. But she was no longer his mission; she never had been.

Cordelia would be so proud to hear him think that.

Small hairs on the back of Angel's neck stuck straight up as he walked through the doorway. His gaze scanned his room, the relaxed buzz from tonight's celebration evaporating as he sensed something he'd half expected to never feel again.

"Hello, lover," a silken voice called out from the shadows.

Angel spun around toward the source. "Buffy?"

The small light beside his armchair clicked on, and she was visible, bathed in a soft glow. Like an angel, he thought distractedly. It may be my name, but she's always been my angel.

Her eyes were clear, her hair shorter and a bit darker than he remembered, her lips colored blood red. She was wearing pink leather pants and a red tank top that matched her mouth. Her legs were crossed at the knee, a pair of short, black chunky boots on her feet. He sincerely doubted anyone but Buffy was capable of pulling the outfit off.

"Why did you leave me, Angel?"

It was so out of the blue, her voice was so wounded, the look in her eyes so lost, that it took Angel several moments to come up with an answer. Even then, it was rather lame.

"What?"

"It's not a trick question," she murmured, an edge to her voice. "Was it the chance to be so noble? You finally redeemed yourself in Giles' eyes. You made my mother very happy. Nearly as happy as I made her when I brought a corn-fed Iowa boy home for dinner. You must have been so proud of yourself, breaking my heart, crushing my dreams, walking out on me after you'd promised to never leave, all that, and you still look like the good guy. The hero who gave up everything for the girl he loved more than he should."

"Buffy," he whispered, his own voice causing an involuntary flinch. Why had she come? What had happened to make her say these things? Certainly, there was a kernel of truth to what she said, but it was twisted around bitterness and anger.

"Buffy," she mimicked. "You always said my name like that."

"Like what?" he asked dumbly.

"Like it was the most beautiful word your lips had ever formed," she all but sneered. "Like I was your salvation."

"You were," he answered honestly.

"Were," she repeated bitterly. "Which brings us back to the beginning. Why did you vote yourself off the island, Angel? So I could hook up with some surfer from a neighboring tribe and count all my loot in the sunshine you seem to think is so important to a good relationship?"

"Sunshine wasn't the only reason I left you," Angel declared. Though he wasn't pre-disposed to think so, the only girl he'd ever loved was acting like a major bitch, and it was starting to tick him off. "Or have you so conveniently forgotten our last year together?"

"Right," she said silkily, as though she'd just remembered something. With a careless kick of her right foot, she slid from the chair and moved toward him. He nearly stepped away. There was something off about her, something that was starting to scare him. "Our last year together," she murmured. "So it was the sex thing then, hmm?"

"What? No. I mean . . . yes, but not . . . not entirely."

"It's all right," she soothed, pressing a hand against his chest. He glanced at it, then back to her face, searching for something, though he didn't know what. "I understand how hard that must have been for you. I know it doesn't mean much to say so, but it =does= happen to all guys at some point." She lowered her voice to a confidential level. "Impotence is a real bitch."

He snatched her hand away from his chest, and lightning fast, she pulled it from his grasp. "And so are you, apparently," he murmured, his brain sluggishly piecing together facts he didn't want to recognize. "Your hand is cold. Buffy, are you sick? Is that what this is about?"

Her laugh was icy, its pitch sending chills of dread up and down his spine. "Oh, lover . . . it can't be taking you so long to get this." Buffy pressed her body to his, her mouth moving against the side of his neck, below his ear. "Then again . . ." Without warning, he felt her face change and her sharp fangs sink into the artery that didn't pulse, but was still filled, with borrowed blood.

With a cry, he pushed her away, staring in horror at her blood stained mouth, at the ridges that disappeared as she morphed back to her human features.

"You always were kind of dense," she commented, licking her lips crudely. "It killed me when you left, baby," she confided. "And then I died because you weren't there to save me."

"Buffy," he whispered, unable to comprehend what he knew to be true.

"There you go again," she laughed, turning on her heel abruptly. "Ain't nobody gonna save you now, though."

Her lilting laughter disappeared as she left the room, and Angel sunk to the armchair she'd vacated, too numb to do more than stare sightlessly at the doorway.

The hotel was darker and quieter than usual that night.

If all of the strength and all of the courage
come and lift me from this place.
I know I can love you much better than this
Full of grace, Full of grace, my love. -- Sarah McLachlan

The End

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