Author: JR
Email addy: <JRR42@y...>
Episode spoilers: Angel: ‘Heroes’; Buffy:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“When your soul is tired and your heart is weak,
Do you think of love as a one way street?
Well it runs both ways, open up your eyes.
Can’t you see me here? How can you deny?”
-- Private Emotion, Ricky Martin
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The minute I heard the phone ring, I knew something was wrong. Don’t ask me how, but even as sleepy as I was, I just knew *something* was really out of place in the universe. Call it intuition or maybe just some sixth sense. Okay, so I don’t see dead people or anything...
...then again, I take that back.
I do live in Sunnydale, after all. We see dead people all the time here, well, the living dead, anyway. Par for the course in this town. I guess my life is hardly what most people would define as ‘normal’.
Take tonight, for example. I spent my evening in a meadow attempting to do a locator *spell* to find out where my *werewolf* ex-boyfriend has been hiding for the past three months. Giving up after three unsuccessful attempts, I was careful to avoid *vampires* on my way back to the dorm room I share with my *slayer* roommate and crawled into bed. *Spell*, *werewolf*, *vampire*, *slayer*. See what I mean about my day-to-day life being a little outside the mainstream?
I’m babbling, aren’t I? Get back to the story, Willow.
I was talking about the phone call, right?
It’s funny, but a person tends to learn a lot of stuff when living on a Hellmouth. Try these on for example. Never leave the house without a stake and some holy water. Never make a date without checking with the local Watcher to find out which demon is in town to ruin it first. When captured by a lovelorn vampire, *do not* give in to your urge to make out with your best friend. And finally, learn to trust that little voice in the back of your head that tells you when something ‘just isn’t right’.
And boy, oh boy, was my little inner-voice screaming at me from the first sound of the phone’s ring, which just happened to jar me out of yet another rather naughty dream of my roomie’s ex.
I was kinda surprised that Buffy actually managed to grab the cordless before I could get to it. It never ceases to amaze me just how deeply she sleeps. I mean, she’s the Slayer after all. Isn’t she supposed to sleep with one eye open for possible danger all the time? But not my roommate. Slayer or no Slayer, once her head hits the pillow, Buffy sleeps like...well...like the dead.
“Heelllooo,” Buffy mumbled after finally finding the ‘talk’ button. Granted, she probably would have had an easier time of turning it on if she’d actually bothered to open her eyes as she fumbled with it.
“Hello?” Buffy repeated in a more awake... and annoyed tone of voice. After another short pause, she continued, even more p.o.’ed than seconds before. “Look, since you’ve already disturbed my beauty sleep, you might as well say something.”
“Who is it, Buffy?” I asked when my curiosity got the best of me. My answer, however, came rather rudely.
“Fine, be that way, asshole,” Buffy grumbled as she ended the call with a rather forceful jab of her thumb. I could only make out a few of her more colorful word choices as she flipped over to a more comfortable sleeping position. “Eight o’clock exam...some idiot...middle...night, y’know...” By the way her words trailed off, I knew she was falling back asleep even as she complained.
Not me, though. Suddenly, I was wide awake. Of course, my innate curiosity as to whom exactly would call us in the middle of the night was probably the reason for that.
Well, that and the fact that my inner-voice was telling me that the call was important.
‘At least it *better* have been!’ I remember thinking angrily to myself. Anything that pulled me out of an NC-17-rated dream of Angel darn well better be life threatening. And if it turned out to be Xander playing a joke on us, the only life that would be threatened would be his, by my own hands, no less.
Of course, if I hadn’t been already awake, that one, lousy stray thought of Xander would have guaranteed my full state of consciousness. What if the caller was Xander or Giles? What if they were in some kind of trouble, something that kept them from speaking? What if something terrible had grabbed them? What if...?
“Buffy?” I questioned, my voice pathetically fearful.
“Huuuuh?” My half-asleep roomie begrudgingly answered.
“You don’t think that call could have been from Giles or Xander? You don’t think they might be in trouble...or something, do you?” I babbled softly.
“Uhhh-uhhh,” Buffy groaned.
“H-how can you be sure?” Her lack of concern was beginning to annoy me.
“N...spidey sen...,” Buffy answered, her voice muffled by the pillow she was burrowing into face first.
Huh? It took me a minute to fill in the missing blanks, but eventually I figured out the gist of her words. ‘No spidey-sense.’ Or, roughly translated for anyone *not* in the Scooby gang, Buffy’s Slayer instinct of impending danger wasn’t going off. Therefore, the call most likely didn’t have anything to do with the supernatural.
Okay, so Xander and/or Giles were probably all right. Buffy was already asleep again, which was exactly what I should have been doing.
But I couldn’t. Buffy’s spidey-sense may not have been going off, but my own seemed to be going off like an air-raid siren. There was just no way I could fall back asleep, not without figuring out what was wrong.
Fortunately, there was an easy solution to my problem. Stealing a glance over at my roomie, I looked to see if Buffy’s breathing was the deep ‘I’m asleep’ kind. When I was sure that it was, I slowly moved off my covers and inched my way out of bed. Moving with as much caution as I could, I reached out and carefully lifted the phone straight up off the dresser in between our beds. That accomplished, I tip-toed toward the door. I had a ‘I need to go to the bathroom’ excuse all ready to go in the event that I woke Buffy as I made my escape. Fortunately, she never so much as stirred as I opened and closed the door with painstaking care.
Just to be safe, I wandered about halfway down the hall before I dared to turn the phone on. Taking a deep breath, I keyed in the magical numbers.
* 69. The call-back feature that Pacific Bell offered as a bonus incentive when you signed up for call waiting.
I didn’t have to wait long. Three quick rings passed before the line connected -- with an oh-so-familiar voice, or at least a recorded version of it.
“Angel Inveeeeeessssssssstttttiigations. Wwwweeeeeee help the hoooopppeless...”
I knew it! I just knew it even before I pseudo-traced the call. In fact, my only surprise as to the source of the call was my utter *lack* of surprise.
My triumph, however, was extremely short lived. Why had Angel called us? Assuming that it was *Angel* who had called, that is? And at five in the morning, too? And what was up with the garbled message on the answering machine?
I had so many questions, but no matter how I thought about it, I kept coming back to the same answer that I knew beyond a doubt to be true: I was certain that Angel was in trouble. Of course, that led to another question, and it was quite the doozy.
Just what in the hell was I going to do about it?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With another hour before Buffy’s alarm clock was set to ring, I was in no hurry to return to my bed. My mind was in *way* too much chaos to relax, let alone to try and go back to sleep. That being the case, I sat out in the hallway alone, driving myself crazy with a never-ending string of horror-filled ‘what-if’s?’.
The dozen or so phone calls I made to Angel and, after a call to long distance information for the number, Cordelia’s all went unanswered. I would have even tried calling Angel’s vision guy, except that I wasn’t sure if Doyle was his first or last name.
There were a few times I almost gave into the temptation of contacting Giles to see if he’d heard anything, but the little voice inside me told me that it would have been a bad idea. Although there really isn’t any love lost between Giles and Angel these days, I’m sure that Buffy’s Watcher would have told us if he knew that Angel was in any kind of danger.
Heck, I even entertained the notion of waking Buffy two or three *hundred* times to see if she had any idea of what to do. But after that whole mess with Thanksgiving and Buffy’s trip to L.A. afterwards, she and Angel weren’t exactly on the best of terms at that moment.
Damn. I needed a plan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the time the sun began to creep over the horizon, I was more certain than ever that Angel was in real trouble. Fortunately for me, it was about that same point in time that a few loose ideas started to gel together into a workable solution. The bad part was that I was going to have to fool a lot of people -- mostly my friends -- in order to pull it off. Well, that and the fact that I would have to wait another half an hour before I could get started on it.
The first hurdle was my illustrious roommate. I hate waiting, even at the best of times, so imagine how frustrating it was having to lie there pretending to be asleep for those *loooonnnggg* minutes before Buffy’s alarm clock went off. But there wasn’t anything else I could do about it. Buffy’s first class that morning was at eight. Since my first class wasn’t until ten, I always slept through her getting dressed and ready for the day. If I had any hope of pulling my scheme off, I had to go through the normal motions of a typical day; otherwise Buffy would be suspicious from the get-go.
I almost groaned out loud when Buffy slammed her hand down on the alarm snooze-bar -- twice! Eventually she practically stumbled out of her bed, grumbling about how Fascist eight o’clock exams were. I swear I don’t think she even opened her eyes the whole time while she was getting dressed. Pulling her hair back into a ponytail, she grabbed a juice box from the fridge and her backpack off the floor. After what seemed like an eternity, Buffy finally walked over to the door, opening and closing it as quietly as she could in deference to me ‘sleeping’.
I managed to force myself to stay put for three whole minutes -- just in case she forgot anything and came back unexpectedly. Lucky for me, Buffy didn’t, so after one-hundred-and-eighty agonizing seconds, I was up and out of bed like a shot.
At least that half-hour I spent waiting for Buffy’s alarm to go off wasn’t a total waste. After a quick shower it only took a few minutes for me to pack up everything I thought I might need in a small overnight bag. Tearing a sheet of paper out of my psych notebook, I scribbled Buffy a quick note saying that a family ‘thing’ had come up and that I might not be back for a day or two. It seemed like a good solution at the time. And with my parents out of town for yet another of their conferences, there was no way anybody could question my explanation.
Right before I left, I called Angel and Cordelia one last time -- just in case. Once again, I got Cordy’s machine, but the one at Angel Investigations didn’t seem to be working anymore. Double damn.
Sighing heavily, I shouldered my bag and headed out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once I had crossed the first hurdle, I started in on the second: transportation. I didn’t have a car, neither did Buffy for that matter. Xander did, but there was *no* way I was going to ask him. I’ve never been able to lie to Xander in my whole life, not without him seeing right through me; and if I told him the truth...well, that wasn’t even worth thinking about. The same thing applied to Giles except that his car was so old, I didn’t think it would even *make* it to L.A..
I briefly thought about asking Anya, but since she really doesn’t seem to like me that much, it probably would have been a waste of time.
My fourth alternative was kind of surprising. Spike. I knew he had a car -- somewhere here in Sunnydale -- and ever since that night he tried to bite me, Spike’s been...well...not exactly nice to me, but he’s been...well...less evil toward me at any rate. But given that he was chained to Giles’ bathtub at the time, I was afraid that our old enemy would be less than willing to loan me his car.
All in all, that left me with one last option. Fortunately, I caught him literally walking out the door. From the way he was dressed, I gathered that he’d been about to go on a morning run.
“Riley!” I called.
“Hey Willow,” Buffy’s potential boyfriend replied. I could hear the surprise in his voice at my unexpected appearance.
“Remember when you told me that you owed me one for helping you out with the insider info on Buffy?” At his reluctant nod, I continued. “Well, I was wondering, if it’s not too much trouble or anything, if you could do me a favour...”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As it turned out, Riley was more than happy to help me out -- especially after I laid it on thick about needing to go to L.A. because my Great Aunt Ida had ‘fallen ill’. To tell the truth, I did have a perfectly healthy Aunt Ida in L.A.. I felt so incredibly guilty telling the lie, like I might have accidentally wished bad things on her. I could only hope that my good intentions toward Angel would even out the karmic balance sheet.
Riley was so quick to volunteer his help that my guilt-factor raised another notch or two. Not only did he not mind taking me to the city, he actually seemed to look forward to getting the chance to go for a drive. After going inside to change clothes and swap his T.A. hours for the day with Forrest, we got right out on the road.
We didn’t say much to each other at first, although out of the corner of my eye, I would catch him making those ‘about-to-say-something’ faces every now and then. To be honest, I wasn’t helping the situation any, but Riley probably chalked up my distraction as worry over my ‘aunt’.
Eventually we managed to get a sort of stilted conversation going. Not surprisingly, we talked about Buffy for the most part, with a small bit of psych thrown in for variety. Every now and then the topic would inevitably lean toward the supernatural -- I guess that was only normal, given that we both lived on a Hellmouth. The funny thing was that Riley seemed as reluctant to discuss *those* particular subjects as I was.
Once the awkwardness was broken, the trip seemed to fly by. Ninety minutes later, we pulled up in front of the nursing home where my great aunt lived.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you, Willow?” Riley asked as I reached for the door.
“No, Riley,” I replied, half-worried that he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. “You’ve done so much already that I can’t thank you enough.”
“It’s really nothing. I’d be happy stay with you...well, not happy...not with your aunt being sick and all...”
“Thanks,” I smiled, interrupting his unintentional babbling. “I’m sure everything will be okay.”
“All right,” he reluctantly agreed. Before I could get out of the car, Riley reached over and placed a gentle hand on my arm. Once he had my attention, he gave me a concerned look. “Just promise me that you’ll call me if you need anything...anything at all...or if you need a ride back...”
“I will,” I said, crossing my fingers to invalidate the lie.
“I hope your aunt is okay, Willow,” Riley offered with a hesitant smile.
“Thanks, Riley,” I smiled softly. On total impulse, I leaned over the stickshift and gave him the best hug I could manage given our awkward position. “Thanks for everything.”
“Take care, Willow, and call me if you need me.”
“I will,” I answered as I stepped out of the car. “Bye!”
Polite as ever, Riley waited until the automatic doors I was approaching slid open before driving off. Geez, he’s such a nice guy that for a minute I was almost jealous of Buffy again -- just like I had been in high school back when she was dating Angel. Oh yeah! Well, why don’t we all hop *right* on that irony bus!
Putting the thought aside, I took a second to get my bearings. Although I hadn’t been there since my parents and I had visited my aunt on Passover, there was a pay phone right where I remembered it to be. At least my luck seemed to be holding.
Phase two was successfully accomplished.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thirty minutes and a forty-three dollar (before tip) cab ride later, I found myself standing outside a worn-down office building in a somewhat...seedier...side of town. Despite the fact that I was already in the city, I still called both Angel and Cordy from the pay phone at the nursing home. I was getting pretty darn tired of listening to continual ringing.
Although we’d called each other every now and then since he had left Sunnydale, this was the first time I’d come to visit Angel in Los Angeles. Geez, some friend I was. Even *Oz* had come to see Angel...granted, it was a side-trip while he was in town for a gig, but he’d still made more of an effort than I had.
For the first time since I’d come up with my little plan to get here, I began to feel a bit nervous. As I stood outside on the sidewalk, I wondered what I was going to do if the whole thing turned out to be a mistake on my part. After all, I didn’t know for sure if anything was really wrong, did I? What if I walked into the office and found Angel, Cordy and Doyle sitting around drinking their morning coffee? What was I going to say? ‘Hi. I was in the neighborhood? I spent ninety minutes in a car so I could come over to borrow a cup of sugar?’ Yeah, that would go over well.
It was too late by then to turn back, so I sighed and walked over to the front door of the building. As I crossed the threshold, I realized something. Despite everything else, my instincts were still telling me that Angel was in trouble.
It was time to get to the bottom of this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The building was oddly quiet, well, not that I could really judge since it was my first time there. Since there were other offices inside, I honestly thought there would be more people moving around the hallways. Perhaps I should have taken it as a sign of some kind, but I didn’t encounter another creature -- living or undead -- as I walked down the corridor to my destination. Finally, after rounding a few corners, I found what I was looking for.
As I approached the office, I found myself smiling. Maybe I’ve watched too many old black and white movies with Xander over the years, but I have to confess that my first impression of Angel’s new digs was how cliched there were. Between the painted-on name on the door to the worn out wood-and-glass combination that lined the outer wall, I half expected to see what’s his name...the guy who always did movies with Lauren Hutton...no wait...Lauren Becall...Bogart! That’s it. I was waiting to see if Humphry Bogart was going to walk out of the office.
As I neared the door, I found myself debating whether I should knock or go right inside. I mean, it was an office, right? I never knock at my doctor’s office, but I wouldn’t dream of going into a professor’s office without asking for permission first. Was there an etiquette book on knocking somewhere?
Whatever my internal musings were, though, they were about to come to a quick halt. I think my heart almost stopped the minute I was close enough to get my first actual look through the glass into Angel Investigations.
It was completely and totally trashed inside. The only desk in the room was lying on its side surrounded by a sea of loose papers scattered randomly all over the floor. Broken pieces of glass gleamed brightly, reflecting the strong rays of mid-morning sun that poured in through the uncovered windows.
Just what in the hell had happened here?
My first impulse was to run inside, crying out Angel’s and Cordelia’s names as I went, but my legs didn’t seem to want to work. As much as I wanted to solve the puzzle of what had gone on inside, I found myself frozen by my own inner-sense of dread. A thousand possibilities passed through my mind at lightspeed, but I couldn’t focus long enough on any of them to come up with some kind of viable explanation.
Ever notice how hard it is to take a deep, calming breath when you’re almost hyperventilating from fear? Somehow, though, I managed to steady myself enough to take those last two steps to the door.
I guess that some portion of my brain must have been working on autopilot because at least I had enough common sense left to pull the stake that I’d packed out of my overnight bag as I walked. I held the sharpened wood in a ‘stab’ position with one hand while reaching for the door with the other.
Another icy wave of fear ran through me as I turned the knob and failed to meet the resistance of a lock. Forcing my terror back down was one of the hardest things I’d ever done in my life, but somehow I managed -- at least enough to find the strength to slowly nudge open the door.
It might have been my imagination, but the damage inside looked even worse without the glass windows to act as a barrier. Maybe it was the air, which was filled with a weird mix of scents. The musty old-aged building smell that permeated the hallway was even stronger in the office, but it was also underscored by faint hints of stale coffee, peach pot pourri and, unless I was mistaken, a faint trace of alcohol. At least there was no trace of the one odor I’d been looking for and praying not to find: the all-too-familiar copper scent of blood.
Dropping my bag just inside the door, I continued to venture a little further into the office. I can’t even begin to describe how loud and eerie the crunching sound was as I walked over the broken glass littering the floor. In an odd way, though, I was kind of grateful for it. At least it was a distraction from my intense searching.
Slowly I managed to weave my way further inside, weaving carefully around the obstacles of overturned furniture. Even though I didn’t dare admit it to myself, I was looking -- and hoping not to find -- either broken, bleeding bodies or a big pile of ash.
At the back of the room, I found another glass-and-wood door that led to a smaller office that I assumed was Angel’s. Like the outer room, that space was also in total disarray. Just to be thorough, I forced myself to walk into the dimly lit sanctuary. That’s when I saw it -- the first real evidence that a fight had taken place.
Lying there on the floor looking totally abandoned was a wooden stake.
Which one of them had dropped it, I wondered? My hyperactive imagination was already supplying me with a vision of Angel valiantly protecting Cordelia and Doyle from an onslaught of attacking vampires. But what had happened next? Had they been carried off by their attackers? Had they all been...
...gulp...no, I didn’t want to go there.
‘Oh Angel,’ I thought despairingly, ‘what’s happened to you?’
Sighing in sadness and frustration, I lowered my stake and wandered back out into the main room. I was internally debating what I should do next -- call Giles and Buffy for help or...well...I couldn’t really think of anything else.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to call the Calvary just yet because as I was walking, I noticed something I’d overlooked.
The elevator.
I’d been so focused on searching the office proper, I’d completely forgotten the downstairs apartment. Why that slipped my mind, I have no idea, especially because I remembered thinking how cool the arrangement sounded when Angel described it to me over the phone a few months back.
The elevator was old-fashioned -- the kind like Duncan MacLeod has on the Highlander t.v. show -- with the grill that has to be manually opened and closed. The only thing I saw when I peered down the shaft was the top of the elevator car. I was tempted to press the call button, but the whole thing was so antiquated that I decided to look around for an alternative instead.
It took me about five seconds to find the door that opened into the stairwell, which I proceeded down with my stake in the armed-and-ready position. Another unlocked door awaited me at the bottom. Opening it slowly, I found myself stepping straight in to Angel’s lair.
The fact that it was totally windowless took me a little by surprise. Someone, however, had done me the courtesy of leaving a light on somewhere deeper in the apartment, so at least I wasn’t fumbling around in total darkness.
Angel’s apartment was pretty much what I had been expecting. The decor was standard vampire issued -- dark, drab and antique. Yet, somehow, Angel had managed to make it warm, comforting and classic. Just like he was.
Unlike the office upstairs, Angel’s apartment was completely in order. As far as I could tell nothing seemed to be out of place in either the living room or the small kitchen that I saw as I crossed the living room. I instantly jumped to the conclusion that whatever had happened earlier that night had taken place entirely in the office upstairs.
There was a kind of open area beyond the living room. Judging by the punching bag and the neatly stowed weapons, I guessed that it was the space where Angel did his workouts. The only messy thing in the whole room was the laundry bin which was filled to overflowing. I actually almost cracked a smile when I noticed that every used towel in the basket was white while all the clothing was black. Guess that made separating everything easier when it came time for washing.
Well, my circuit of the apartment was almost complete. The only thing left was a closed pair of heavy-looking wooden doors. Somehow I instinctively knew that they would lead directly into Angel’s bedroom.
To this day, I still don’t know why the thought of opening those doors scared me so much. It was irrational, I know. After all, not only had I been in Angel’s bedroom before...
‘...when he was sick,’ my little inner voice malevolently reminded me...
...but I had also been in his bed as well...
‘...not exactly,’ the voice returned. ‘You may have had sex with him, but the two of you never actually *made* it to the bed, now did you?’
Not for the first time I remembered just how much I *hated* that damned inner-voice of mine. Looking back on it, I think I opened the door just to make my conscience shut up. At least it seemed to work.
The room was as black as night, so the first thing that hit me as soon as I opened one of the doors was the smell. It was like being in a frat house right in the middle of a keg party. Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly beer, but there was no mistaking the lingering scent of old alcohol in the air.
I took another step into the room, throwing the door as far open as I could. The light coming from the kitchen wasn’t overly bright, but it was enough to set my mind -- and my heart -- at ease.
There, in the middle of the bed -- and thankfully in one piece -- was the vampire I’d been so worried about.
Even with all the horrors I’ve witnessed by living on the Hellmouth, there are very few things as utterly creepy as watching a vampire sleep. With no telltale rise and fall of the chest, it’s like looking at a corpse which, I guess if you want to get technical, Angel essentially is. But I guess that was also why I found myself rushing over to the bed, needing to reassure myself that he was actually still alive...undead... or whatever you want to it.
“Angel?” I whispered softly as I reached his side.
Once I moved out of the doorway, the bedroom seemed to brighten somewhat. While it was still relatively dark inside, at least it wasn’t as creepy as it had been moments earlier. Plus, it was only then that I was better able to take in the actual scene before me.
I’d been to enough frat parties by then to recognize the difference between a natural sleep and some poor slob that has passed out drunk. Needless to say, Angel definitely fell into the latter category. Had I needed any additional proof, the quarter-filled, open bottle of liquor wedged upright between his wrist and hip would probably have been the giveaway. Well, that and the fact that he was still fully dressed -- shoes and all.
“Angel?” I tried again, a little louder this time, but there was still not even the faintest hint of response. He was dead to the world.
Uh, no pun intended.
Feeling both braver and more desperate by turns, I sat down next to Angel. Well, I don’t know if it could actually be called ‘sitting’, more like I rested about a inch or so of one hip on the very edge of the bed. But not even the mattress dipping under my weight disturbed him.
“Angel,” I repeated, speaking in a normal if somewhat flat tone. “C’mon, Angel, rise and shine,” I insisted, reaching out to give his shoulder a little shake.
Even through the cloth of his shirt, I could feel the coolness of his skin. Just that simple touch brought back all sorts of memories -- of him holding me, of his cold, naked skin pressed so intimately against my own hot flesh, of the delicious feeling of him sliding deeply inside...
...geez, not only was I starting to get flushed, but I was also sounding like a bad romance novel.
My thoughts were mercifully interrupted when I felt Angel’s muscles tense up underneath my hand. Out of nowhere, he began moving, almost twitching in apparent anxiousness. His dark head began rolling restlessly from side to side as he mummered something that I couldn’t quite make out.
“Cor...m’sor...sosososo...Doyle!...mmm...m mmm...”
Apparently, that was all I was going to get because Angel chose that moment to all but flop himself over on to his side. I barely had enough time to grab the open bottle before Angel could accidentally take it with him as he rolled. The way I saw it, he was going to be miserable enough when he woke up without having to deal with a liquor-soaked mattress.
But at least I knew by then that he *would* wake. I can’t begin to explain how relieved I felt at that moment. After five long hours of worry, I finally had reassurance that my friend was, indeed, okay. Well, that was one mystery solved.
The only thing left was to find out what had put him into this state.
Deciding to allow Angel to sleep off the effects of the alcohol, I quietly exited the bedroom. I left one the doors slightly ajar, though, to listen for signs that he might be waking. With nothing else to do, I headed upstairs to the office, determined to work off some of my leftover adrenaline by cleaning up a bit.
At least it would pass the time until I could get some answers.
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