Rating: NC-17 overall (some entries as mild as a G)
Disclaimer: While I have taken the liberty of adding a few characters of my own creation, all of the original BtVS characters and their world belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and The WB. All are used without permission (I'll return them all unharmed) and no copyright infringement is intended (like most who post, I'm broke, so please don't sue).
Spoilers: All 3 seasons of BtVS. Summary: It's the year 2047 and Aishling Rosenberg has recently discovered that her grandmother left behind a vast collection of letters, stories, research notes, etc.
Distribution: You want it, it's yours, just let me know where it's going to be living. Feedback: I constantly crave it. . . feed me, please!
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01-28-99@0217
I suppose it was a bit short-sighted of me to not realize that if I embarked upon this endeavor there would come a time when I, too, would be compelled to answer questions, to provide facts, opinions, explanations.
Why is it that my written words always playback so eloquently while my spoken words more often than not seem to stumble out of me? I think I'll simply blame it on some sort of misfiring between the synapses that control the "brain to mouth" functions. The "brain to hand" circuits must operate a little smoother. Oh well, on to the real task at hand. . .
Buffy's asked me to tell her just when (and although unspoken, more importantly "how") Angel and I became so close. I'm not sure, at this point in time, just how much I want to tell her, what details I should share and which are better left unrevealed. Someone, somewhere down the road, may need to know everything that transpired, so I shall put it all down on paper (or disk, as the case may be). I'll re-read it and edit it for Buffy's consumption, as I see fit.
I have to laugh now as I look back upon the "early days". I mean, I still cannot believe that not one us realized that Angel was a vampire. Okay, he was drop-dead gorgeous (still is - but, oooh, bad choice of words there - "drop dead" - geez ,Will, aren't we punny these days!) and a little bit older than we were (can you say "understatement"?). He was prone to being annoyingly cryptic at times, but it added to his mystique, and he was always there to help us when we needed him. Still, it's funny how we all overlooked the fact that he only made his rare appearances at night, and always did his vanishing act long before dawn. No one ever seemed to take note of how he always kept his distance, separating himself from the rest of us, avoiding any kind of contact. Looking back now I know it's because he's way cooler than the rest of us. I mean colder. I mean, physically, his body temperature is much cooler than ours. (Okay, so maybe I do write the same way as I speak - a bit jumbled at times. I can only hope that if someone in the future finds it necessary to publish this mess, they at least have the courtesy to edit out my rambling.) Well, now, you see there were a lot of little things that all should have been added up. Aside from what I've already mentioned, there was also his knowledge of upcoming vampire activities in town, and the bits of insight he'd offer us on the inner workings of a vampire's mind. All of these things should have clued us in to Angel's true nature, but we were new at the game, naive and trusting. Angel looked and acted like one of the good guys, therefore in our minds, and in some of our hearts, he couldn't be anything else.
Well surprise, surprise. We were all wrong. Buffy said it. Love is blind. So, while he was still one of the good guys, well, up until the time that he turned back into one of the bad guys, but anyway, the point is, we were all fooled. We judged the book by the cover, never bothering to read it's words carefully or to look for lost or damaged pages. As it turned out, Angel was - is - a vampire. (Oh, but here's a funny thing. Don't ask him to say that. He'll stumble over the word!! It's so bizarre, I mean he's how old now and he still can't say, "Hi, I'm Angel and I'm a Vampire." Sorry, shouldn't mock my friend that way, but I just think it's kind of cute, in a 12-steppish kind of way.)
For the most part, there isn't much more for me to tell you about the first few years. Angel was Buffy's love. He did save my life quite a few times. He would sometimes come to me for help, especially if it required any kind of research that would best be done on the Net. I did, on at least one occasion, offer him some unsolicited advise with regard to his "wooing" techniques, sort of tried to bring him up to speed on dating in the '90s, the 1990s!
I liked Angel in that high school girl "he's my best friend's honey" kind of way. Sure, he was cute and polite and all those other things that make for a good boyfriend. (Well, except for the bloodsucking thing, but hey, no guy's perfect. Look at Oz. There are times when he can be a real animal! Oh, I'm so punny, I slay myself. Someone stop me, please, but I hurt myself with these awful witticisms.) The point I am trying to make, is that, for the most part, I cared about Angel and what happened to him because of the way it would have effected Buffy. If something bad were to happen to him, she would be crushed. Of, course, something bad did happen to him. He got so wrapped-up in Buffy, in being with us, with humans, that he forgot for just a moment what he really is and became, once again, a demon devoid of his soul. "Fang Boy" was back with a vengeance, and I would have staked him myself, if I'd ever had the chance. The son of a bitch tried to kill me. And he turned my pretty little fish into a poor-excuse for a necklace! Sick bastard. I think that's enough said on that. . .
Sure, I'm the one who ended up restoring his soul. But I only attempted to do so for Buffy's sake. That and the fact that succeeding might save all of our sorry asses from getting sucked into hell. Of course, nothing went smoothly. Does it ever on a hellmouth? The timing was so bad! Yah, Angel got his soul back all right, just in time to have it sucked along with his body into Acathla's dimension. Well, if he hadn't been so hellbent on kidnapping Giles and torturing the poor man, I might have succeeded the first time and he would have been spared that little Summer vacation in Hades. (Hellbent, Summer vacation, oh, Willow, the hits keep coming! Okay, can you say "still bitter after all these years"? Hey, the demon was prick! I love the man more than words can say, but he's like the little girl in that rhyme. . . "When he is good, he is very, very good, but when he is bad, he is horrid."
While he was gone, in hell that is, I didn't really care, one way or the other. I honestly didn't think much about him, per say. I was more worried about Buffy and too busy trying to play my part on the team as the Slayerettes took over her duties in her absence.
When the overseers of hell decided to return him to this realm, I found that I was still pretty pissed at him for the horrible things he'd done to us. I was even more hurt by the fact that Buffy didn't trust me enough to tell me that he was back. But, I got over it, more or less. Buffy finally opened up and talked to me about what she felt. (Okay, so she got caught and then came to me to vent, but hey, that's what best friends are for.) I could understand her fear for his safety, and ours. And it was very easy to believe every word she said when she was describing to me just how damaged Angel was when she first found him. I don't want you to think that I am completely uncaring, that didn't have any compassionate thoughts for Angel, or that I didn't ever weep for the torment his loving soul was forced to endure. A part of me does care that I played a crucial role in sending his soul to hell. Angel was careless, but he didn't deliberately loose his soul, and when I heard Buffy tell Giles about her final moments with Angel before she drove that sword into him and he was suck away into the vortex, I did cry, for hours.
But even then, even before I knew what my "calling" was, something inside me told me that I must never loose sight of who and what each of us truly is. Angel is a vampire who, in his life time, has done more harm than good. Love him or loathe him, I can't ever forget that. Although I do believe that, now, he has enough love and courage in his heart to redeem himself. Someday he'll find peace. But it won't be easy. Nothing Angel does is ever easy!
So, Angel was back and managing to work his is way into my good graces. First by saving me from Gwendolyn Post and the Glove of Myhnegon she was wielding. Then he did help Buffy try to rescue me and Xander from Spike. Oh, but what really helped to win Angel a place in my heart once again, was his honest display of emotions when he thought I'd been turned. He was truly distressed. So, that's when I decided that if the god's of fate felt he deserved a second chance in this world, who was I to say he didn't. Or is this his third chance? It is the third time he's been given his soul. Third time's the charm, right?
Still, we weren't close. Not even overly friendly or social. Even during what I had believed to be his last hours on earth, as I watched over Angel on his death bed, my thoughts were with Buffy and her plan to obtain his cure. She was out there attempting to kill another human being so that this demon might live. What a horrendous choice to have to make, even if that other person was the one responsible for injecting Angel with the poison that was quickly and painfully working its way through his body and killing him. In the end, Buffy offered herself up to him. She forced him to drink her blood so that he would be cured. And they both survived the ordeal, so I guess the powers that be really do think he belongs here, at least for now.
It
wasn't until after Angel was gone for the second time that I realized just
what I'd lost.
After the fiasco that was our graduation ceremony, the Slayerettes partook of some quiet celebration. It was sort of a combination "Horray We Saved the World" and "Hey, Look, We All Graduated" party. But we were all, for the most part, exhausted, drained both physically and emotionally. So, we all parted ways at about 1am.
Oz drove me home and since my parents were away, as usual, he voiced his desire to come inside. But everything was starting to catch up with me and I begged-off, telling him I was exhausted and in desperate need of some alone time, so that I could come to terms with all of the events that had taken place over the last 48 hours. Angel was nearly destroyed by a psychotic slayer with a mystical poison. Buffy had almost been drained by Angel. The town mayor had turned into a humongous demon, ruined our graduation ceremony, and ate our principal. And I'd lost my virginity. Quite a lot of data to download and process, even for me.
I'd honestly meant every word I said as I told Oz that I was headed for a quick shower and bed. I wished him a good night and kissed him, long and deep, before heading inside alone.
I wasn't in the house for more than ten minutes before I was overcome by an urge to go to the Crawford Street mansion. Suddenly I needed to be where Angel had last been. I knew I wouldn't find him there. Even if he'd had to hold-up in Sunnydale to await the next sunset, he wouldn't have stayed in the mansion. Too much temptation. He might loose his resolve to go or Buffy might cave and she would most likely start her search for him there.
The next thing I knew, I had my mother's spare set of car keys in the pocket of the clean jeans I'd hastily thrown on and I was stuffing my backpack with supplies - a few stakes, a cross and some Holy Water (sorry, Dad, but it's business), and a few cans of Mountain Dew. (Hey, despite my psychological need to be elsewhere, my body wanted to be up in my bed. I was physically exhausted and would need the sugar and caffeine boost only that wonderful pee-green elixir could provide.) I headed out the door and drove to Angel's home.
It was just after 2am when I pulled-up in front. The old building loomed before me, dark and ominous. From the outside the place gave me the wiggins. All that was lacking to make this horror movie shot complete, was a good old-fashioned thunder storm. And I knew it would be no better on the inside. Without Angel's presence it would seem even more empty and lifeless, completely devoid of all the warmth he had brought there. My, but isn't that last statement some sort of strange contradiction?
The mysterious power which had pulled me this far had not infused me with any additional courage and I stood outside for quite a few minutes, debating the sanity of my actions. Then a noise came from the brushy area across the street and I decided it would be safer inside. Fear always seems to be a driving force in Sunnydale.
The front door was locked. Had I really expected it be open? After all, Angel was gone. But that small obstacle was quickly overcome by a little spell I had memorized a few weeks prior. Hey, in my "line of work", one never knows when a bit of B&E might be necessary.
The interior of the mansion was pitch black and it took me a few minutes to find a light switch. Not that it made much difference. All of the lighting seemed to be dim, either recessed or indirect. How very Angel. If we can't have sunlight, let's not have any decent light at all.
But as I began to slowly make my way further into the house, my eyes adjusted to the lighting, or lack there of, and I must admit, I could actually see quite well. That's when it dawned on me. Angel had the eyes of a predator. He was a creature of the night, who, if he were to be true to his nature, would be hunting for his food in the dark. I had been too quick to judge. He wasn't keeping himself in darkness, he simply didn't require an overabundance of light to see clearly. And thinking back, I could even recall a few occasions when he had squinted or shielded his eyes when they were suddenly exposed to a bright light. Okay, my bad. And a really dumb one at that. I knew he had an acute sense of hearing. (Don't even bother whispering in his presence. If you want it kept sacred, write it down.) And he could pick up the scent of blood from a mile away. Okay, not quite a mile, but still at a pretty good distance. This was just stupid of me. I'd made the vampire/hunter- human/prey comparison. I'd just never gone so far as the reduce it to it's animalistic basics. But what the hell did any of this have to do with my need to be here? What had I come here hoping to find?
Not much, obviously.
I looked about the empty rooms. Oh, sure, all of the basics were still there, the sparse furnishings, a few rugs, some lamps. But gone were all of the things that made this place Angel’s home. None of his drawings hung on the walls. The pieces of art work he’s collected over the centuries were all missing. The bookshelves were bare.
I suppose
I should have felt a bit guilty about snooping around (I did break-in)
but guilt was not one of the emotions I encountered as I explored the mansion,
all of it, for the first time. Fear, curiosity, wonder, despair, but no
guilt.
The kitchen cupboards were all bare (no surprise there), but linens had been left behind, as had unopened toiletries. Odd, he’d carted off statuary, but didn’t have room for his soap? Or did it imply that he might, at some future date, return for a visit? There was, after all, no "For Sale" sign out front. Of course, a few minutes spent on the Internet would tell me whether or not the property was on the market.
As I strolled into his bedroom and began to look through the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the night stand, I was honestly unsure of what my web-surfing might uncover. Every piece of clothing and all of Angel's personal affects were gone. So maybe he was never coming back. Just what did a few towels and some shampoo really mean? Maybe they weren’t even his. Perhaps he’d just had them on hand for Buffy or some other unexpected house guest. Anyway, why the hell did I really care if he ever returned? He’d not even bothered to say good-bye . . .
I ignored the desk for a moment. Didn’t think I’d find much of anything there, anyway.
I wandered over to his bed. . . . the bed . . . it really wasn’t his anymore, was it? It was unmade, but a set of his sheets were still on it. Between the rumpled covers and the depressions his body had left on the mattress and pillow, the bed almost looked as thought it had just recently been vacated. I watched my hand reach out to touch the spot upon which his head had rested. The feel of the burgundy silk beneath my fingertips sent a shiver up my spine. The spot was cold. I laughed at myself. What had I expected to find, a lingering warmth? Even if he had just been sleeping there, the fabric would have remained cool. He had no body heat to lend to it. That thought made my heart ache.
I sat down upon edge of the bed. My head fell into my hands and I stared down at the marble floor beneath my feet. Why was I there? What purpose did all of this serve?
Wow, but this floor is really clean.
Come to think of it, the entire place was clean. Beyond clean, even. In spite of the gloomy atmosphere of the cavernous old building, each room I'd entered (and, with the exception of the cellar, I'd entered them all) had been immaculate. Most of the rooms had been completely bare, devoid of all furnishings, but the nooks and crannies were meticulously clean. Why would I have thought otherwise? Angel was always a very fastidious person when it came to his personal grooming. Why had I assumed he wouldn't extend the same care to his home? I didn't really. I just never imagined he would keep each and every room clean. I had always thought that, since he had most recently been the sole occupant, most of the rooms went unused. I doubted that very much now. Angel had found a unique purpose for every inch of space in his home. He had needed the space, had become dependent upon the different atmospheres he'd created to help combat the boredom, the loneliness, the claustrophobia even, that could set in during the daylight hours if sleep did not come to him. How the hell did I know that?
Exhaustion and frustration were starting to take their toll. I was crying silently, large tears sliding slowly down my cheeks. I heard the clock in the great room begin to chime the hour. It was 4am. I had spent nearly two hours wandering around in the shadows trying to find something, anything . . . The only evidence I'd found that bespoke of Angel ever having been here was a set of dirty sheets left on his bed and a stack of old newspapers beside the fireplace.
I toed off my shoes and was about to lie down on the bed, when something on the desk caught me eye. Just a quick flash, a small glimmer of light reflected off of something metallic on the desk. I rose wearily to investigate.
The little steel clasp on the back of a manila envelope had caught the light. I picked up the envelope and turned it over. It had not been addressed to anyone in particular. Across the front, in his elegant long hand, Angel had simply written:
. . . I shall miss you all. Angel
Without a second thought, I opened the envelope and withdrew the leather folder it held. As I pulled apart the covers of the folder, I couldn't help but gasp aloud as the picture contained within came into view.
It was a wonderful pencil sketch of the high school library, and scattered about the large room was every member of the team.
Giles, propped against the frame of his office door, glasses held in one hand as the thumb and forefinger of his other hand pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked somewhat dismayed and yet amused at the same time.
Xander, seated at one of the large wooden tables, Ho-Ho held in mid-air, obviously captured on paper while en route to his ever-flapping mouth.
Oz, seated across from Xander, kicked-back and strumming his guitar, as he often did while taking a break from research.
Buffy, sitting atop the table, caught toying with Mr. Pointy. A smile, radiant as always, was upon her lips, and even in black and white, you could see the laughter shining in her eyes, probably put there by one of Xander's senseless remarks.
Cordelia had been among us that day. She sat at the end of the table farthest from Xander, trying her best to look very put out. But she was surrounded by the requisite pile of dusty tomes, each of which she would comb for information, just as carefully and thoroughly as the rest of us would.
And then there was me. "Research Girl" at her post. I was seated behind the computer, presumably doing what it is I do best, surfing the Net. Whatever Xander had said, it must have been funny, because I was smiling, too. Although, I do believe that the individual who rendered this drawing allowed himself a bit of artistic license, because I don't think I've ever looked prettier.
The only person missing from the drawing was the artist himself. Funny, I couldn't recall Angel ever having sat among us while he worked in his sketch pad. Ah, but looking again at the picture, and judging by the angles created by the artist's point of view, Angel hadn't been among us that day. Our honorary Slayerette had been hiding in the stacks. How very like him.
Now to whom should I give this picture? Why did I have to choose? Why hadn't Angel put a damn name on the envelope?
You'd say it's because he had assumed that Buffy would be the first to come here, that she would be the one to discover the picture. But you'd be wrong. Believe it or not, the picture was meant for Giles. And in Angel's mind I had always been the intended deliverer. (Okay, I'm not psychic. My decision to give Giles the picture had just "felt" right at the time. It was months later that Angel told me what his intentions had been.)
I carefully closed the folder and returned it to safety of it's envelope. I was so very sad. Angel wasn't there among us. He was missing from the picture, just as he was now missing from our lives. We would have no physical reminders of his time with us other than words. Words Angel had written himself, research notes to Giles, the inscription inside the cover of a book he'd given to Buffy for her eighteenth birthday, the brief note he placed on the envelope in my hand. Words Giles has most assuredly written into his Watcher's journals, words chronically both the good and the evil Angel brought to our lives. Words Buffy has written in her diaries, words of love and of hate. So many words, the sum of which could not even begin to accurately describe their subject.
The picture was suddenly a harsh reminder of how Angel had never quite fit in. I honestly think I always tried my best to make him feel welcome, to include him in our circle. Well, at least in the early days, I did. Yet, he always remained an outsider.
When he came back from his stay with Acathla, everything was just so much more complicated. For a while, Angel seemed to use the guilt he felt over what had transpired between us all as a way to distance himself from us. He and Buffy were constantly on-again/off-again in the relationship department. But most importantly, Angel had just, well, changed. He'd always been "older" than the rest of us, but suddenly he was older in a different way. More mature, maybe, for lack of a better word. I suppose Hell will do that to a man, age him. And yet, it was a change for the better, really. It was like he was starting to come into his own. He is, after all, by virtue of his age and experiences, a Master Vampire. I guess it was about time for him to start acting like one again.
I was so tired I couldn't even see straight. I tossed the envelope down on the desk and stumbled back toward to the bed. I glance briefly at the side which was relatively undisturbed, then decided, the hell with it. He'd never know. So striped down to my underwear and peeled off my dirty socks. Then I crawled beneath the sheets (decadent is the word that comes to mind to describe how that cool silk felt as it moved across my skin) and I put my head down upon the pillow where, sometime earlier, Angel's own head had laid. His smell was all around me then, and I took comfort in it as I cried myself to sleep.
My last thoughts before I drifted off were of Angel and just how much I missed him. He never said good-bye. Maybe there was some hope to be found in that. I needed hope, because I felt as though I had just the man who could have been my best friend or the love of my life.
End
Entry Seventeen