TITLE: Interstitial Angel Ficlets AUTHOR: Katriena Knights RATING: PG13--language, sexual references SUMMARY: Bits to go in and around, after, before or during episodes. NOTES: This is a WIP. I don't normally post WIPs, but I didn't really see any other way to do this one, since it'll be going on for a while. SPOILERS: This part, Teacher's Pet. MORE FIC AND ART AT: http://www.bewellweb.com/dknights/fanfic.html ARCHIVE: Ask it nicely and it'll follow you anywhere. DISCLAIMER: Not mine, just playing. Okay, shit. That hurt. The smell of his own blood hitting the air made his throat tighten. Borrowed or not, it was still blood, and he was hungry. The other vampire, with his vicious metal claw-hand, could take him, Angel knew. And, after 240 years, Angel had become rather attached to being not dead. Well, at least as not dead as anyone in his condition could ever expect to be. So he ran. Sometimes running like a lily-livered piece of shit was just necessary. He took a circuitous route back to his apartment, but he was pretty sure the other vamp hadn't followed. At home, he examined the wounds on his upper arm. They were deep, but they would heal. Not as fast as they would have back in the day when he ate better and generally took better care of himself, but still fast. He pulled a bag of blood out of the fridge. More than once, recently, he'd wondered if at least part of his problem was that he still insisted on drinking human blood. Maybe if he switched to animal blood, the cravings wouldn't be as intense. Whistler had told him about several places in town where he could stock up on pig or cow blood, butcher shops where no questions would be asked. But he hadn't taken that plunge yet. He emptied the first bag in a few swallows and pulled out another. He was so damned hungry. He was hungry all the time, it seemed. Not the horrible, gnawing, sickening hunger that had been his constant companion, those decades he'd spent in alleys feeding on rats, but hunger just the same. Insistent, ever-present. He had become so undernourished during those years. Whistler had commented on it during their first encounter. He'd been bigger before, he knew for a fact. He'd thrown away a lot of clothes over the years not because of changes in style--though that was obviously a consideration--but because they were just too big for him. He'd been robust and healthy, a strong, solid man--now he was a scrawny little punk who could barely fill out a T-shirt. It was okay, though. It made him look a little closer to Buffy's age, made it easier for her to accept him. He hoped. He hadn't actually spoken to her since that day in the crypt, when she'd gone to rescue her friends. He was going to have to talk to her now. She needed to know about this claw-hand vamp. Angel couldn't take him, but surely Buffy could. He finished the second bag of blood. His stomach felt full now--a little sloshy, even--but he knew he would be ravenous again in a matter of hours. Until he fed his way back to his normal body weight, the cravings would continue to plague him. Nothing he could do about it. It was too late, now, to catch Buffy. He'd have to try early tomorrow night, at the Bronze. She would be there--she nearly always was. For now, he needed sleep, and, when he woke, more blood. # He watched her a few nights later at the Bronze. Buffy had killed the clawed vamp, but there was another story floating around, something about a giant bug-woman. Stupid babyvamps were always making shit up. In any case, she was happily alive and in one piece, laughing and talking with her friends, the little red-haired girl and the goofy guy who watched her with big eyes full of teenage hormone-y love. Angel didn't like him. But she was still wearing Angel's jacket. As if he were her boyfriend or something. Like maybe he meant something to her, as if maybe she'd actually been affected by him when he'd talked to her, given her that hokey, "I'll be around," line. Maybe he wasn't as inept as he'd thought. Maybe he had one small cool bone in his body, somewhere. He could smell her from where he waited, could thread her scent out of the hundred others that packed the room. And it was mixed and mingled with his own scent, the odors of his body he'd left inside that coat. Something about that smell just seemed *right*. Made his body stir and tingle. It made it hard for him to remember that, in this day and age, sixteen-year-old girls weren't considered old enough for the things he was thinking. Before he'd been Turned, he'd bedded scores of women her age and even a little younger, without a second thought. But now, in more enlightened times, age of consent laws notwithstanding, Buffy was still considered a child. She wasn't a child. She was the Slayer. And Angel knew, with a certainty that made him ache, that, sooner or later, he was going to have to tell her what he was. Angel generally could read Latin fairly easily, but translating this book was giving him hives. He closed it, holding his place with one finger. It was musty and missing a few pages, but it was the right text, he was certain. He'd seen several references to the Anointed One already. The vampire gossip circles were alight with the news. The Anointed One was coming, the prophecy was to be fulfilled. Angel had heard about the Anointed One roughly fifty years ago, but the rumor then had proved to be false. This time he thought it had a more genuine ring to it. Owen. What the hell kind of goofy stupid name was Owen, anyway? And why was Angel thinking about that instead of getting his nose back into the archaic Latin, which had apparently been translated into Gushundi and back, with some transpositions along the way to make it that much harder to work out... It was just so weird. The Slayer on a date. That was wrong. Then again, this Slayer had a mom, and friends at school, and had tried out for the cheerleading squad. She just broke all the rules. She probably hadn't known them in the first place. Otherwise she wouldn't be hanging out at the Bronze when ancient prophecies were hitting the fan all around them. God, that Owen was such a squirrel. What the hell did she see in him? Just a few days ago she'd been trouncing around the Bronze in Angel's leather jacket. That was supposed to mean she belonged to him, not that she could run around with some goofy teenager... He dragged his thoughts back to the book in his hands, opening it back up. The Anointed One. Teamed with the Master. And Darla was in Sunnydale, too. Angel had sensed her presence. It had been tenuous at first, but now he was certain of it. He hadn't seen her--he'd gone to great lengths to prevent that--but he knew she was here. Had Owen given Buffy a coat? Jacket? Sweater? Anything? Probably not leather. Transliteration. That was it. The text hadn't been translated into Gushundi, but just recreated in the Gushundi alphabet. And the Gushundi alphabet was partially mystical, so he'd need some of that whatsits, that transcribing powder stuff, to get the missing serifs back. The whole thing made his head hurt. He knew where he could get the powder, and he was pretty sure he could just beat it out of the guy rather than having to actually pay for it, so that was no problem. The problem, really, was what all this meant for Buffy. There had to be more to this than just the Anointed One, and the Master--it had to be bigger, a larger confluence of events-- Maybe he could just bite Owen. But no, that would be wrong. That he could even entertain the idea scared him a little. He shouldn't think like that. Couldn't. Control was imperative, and he was having enough trouble without thinking about biting somebody. Live, fresh, warm blood. "Shit." He tossed the book onto the table. He couldn't read any more of it, anyway, not without the powder. And he had a feeling accurate translation was imperative. He went to the fridge and pulled out the plastic container of blood he'd bought at the butcher shop yesterday. Pig's blood. Whistler had said pig's blood would be better than cow. Pork was more like people, he'd said, and Angel had thought that sounded ridiculous until he remembered something he'd read somewhere about cannibals referring to white men as long pork. So maybe Whistler was right. The plastic lid was coated on the inside with thick, cold blood. Hesitant, he sniffed it, then licked it off. Shit, that was nasty. Whistler actually expected him to live on this stuff? If this was supposed to taste more like people, what did the cow blood taste like? Maybe if he heated it up. No. The thought of warm blood--any kind of blood--made his stomach twist. He'd been drinking it cold for years now, to make it less like a real feed. It seemed to help, but not as much as he would have liked. He sipped the blood out of the container, forced himself to swallow. This would take some getting used to. But maybe it would be worth it, if someday he could go through an entire day without feeling that hot craving, like gun metal at the back of his throat. It was gross, but it was filling, and by the time he'd finished the pint, his taste buds had gone a little numb from the chill, making the blood barely palatable. In time, he supposed it might be acceptable. Human was better, though. Human, warm, B positive. Female. That was the best. Pushing that thought back, he tossed the empty plastic container in the trash and picked up the book again. Time to go after the transcribing powder. Whatever was in this book, he needed to read it, so he could pass it on to the Slayer. Because that, whether she knew it or not, was his job. Angel's contact for the transcribing powder had been out when he dropped by, so he'd decided to swing by the high school, instead. Keeping to the sewers as the sun came up, he snooped around in the ventwork for a while until he ascertained that Buffy's class had gone on a field trip to the Sunnydale Zoo. So he probably wouldn't see her today. He'd hoped for at least a glimpse before he went back to the shaman's house. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn't. This stalking routine was starting to feel uncomfortably familiar. His obsessive streak had started to show, the same little quirks that had driven him to pursue Drusilla. That was the demon, he knew. Liam had never been so obsessive. Or compulsively organized. The demon's obsessive/compulsive, AR tendencies made the blood lust that much worse, but it also gave Angel a tool to use against it. Careful, meticulous organization of everything around him--his apartment, his clothes, hell, even his hair--kept him distracted. This kind of obsession wasn't good, though--the kind that had him lurking through the high school, fighting a swell of rage that Buffy wasn't here. He forced himself to leave, forced himself to think about something else. He was here because she made him want to be something better. This wasn't better. Lurking through the shadows in the alleyways, occasionally taking to the sewers, he made his way back to the shaman's house. The path took him through a shaded pathway lined with shops. They'd been closed when he'd come by before, but now they were open, the lights on inside. A collection of shininess in one window caught his eye. Had Darla or Dru been there, they would have stood there for hours staring at the trinkets before heading inside to eat the shopkeeper. Angel stood looking at the trinkets for a few minutes. Something had grabbed his attention, but he wasn't sure what. Then he found it. He needed this, for reasons entirely his own. He had barely enough cash to cover it and still be able to get the powder. Suddenly taut with purpose, he went into the shop. The shopkeeper looked up with a smile. "Good morning, sir. How can I--" "The silver Claddagh ring," Angel said. The man looked a little taken aback, then a little nervous. "Um...the woman's ring?" "No, the man's ring. I want it for me." "In what size?" Angel faltered. "I'm not sure." The man eyed him warily. Angel pulled in a deep breath, making himself relax. He didn't need the oxygen, but air calmed him. He stood still--but not too still, because that freaked people out--while the shopkeeper sized the second finger of his right hand, then retrieved a ring from a locked cabinet under the display case. Angel watched him. His blood was O negative and his heartbeat slowed from seventy-two beats a minute to sixty-five while he sized Angel's finger. "Here you are, sir. Would you like to try it on?" Angel took the ring out of the box and slid it on, heart-down. The shopkeeper twitched a little. "Traditionally, one wears the heart facing outward if one is--" "I know," said Angel curtly. He pulled a handful of cash out of his pocket and laid it on the counter. "Then did you want a ring for a lady?" "No." The shopkeeper sniffed, then picked up the wad of cash, counted it, put it in the cash register and gave Angel back his change. "Thank you, sir. Come again." Angel spun and headed back out, the odor of O negative hot in his nostrils. He clenched his right fist, feeling the bulk of the ring. You belong to her, you do this for her, remember that. Remember that. # The shaman was home this time, and answered Angel's knock. "I'm Angel. We spoke yesterday on the phone." "Yes, of course." The shaman turned away, leaving Angel on the threshold. Angel tried to step forward and was rebuffed by the invisible barrier of the door. The shaman was human, then. Angel hadn't been sure. "I can't come in," he said, a little miffed. "I know," said the shaman, and disappeared into the depths of the house. Okay, that was annoying. Understandable, but annoying. Angel shifted impatiently, waiting. "Yeah, some time this decade would be nice," he muttered after a few minutes. Finally, the shaman returned with a small, dark blue, velvet bag. "Transcribing powder, correct? For Gunshundi?" "Latin transliterated into Gushundi." "Three hundred dollars." Shit. The ring had been a hundred and fifty. "Two hundred." "Three hundred." "Two-twenty-five." "Three hundred." More than irate, Angel popped his fangs. "Two-twenty-five. No more." The shaman laughed. Angel blinked. No human had ever laughed at his demon face before. "Ooo, scary." "Do you have any idea who I am?" Angel growled. But it was hard to be fierce and threatening when you couldn't go through the front door. "Yeah. You're Angelus, right? 'Cept I hear some gypsies in Romania hacked off your balls." "I still have my balls," Angel grated. "Both of them, point of fact." "Maybe so, but you ain't gonna bite me. Give me three hundred dollars and you can have the powder." Angel closed his eyes, collecting himself. He felt his forehead reconfigure, the sting as his teeth retracted. "Fine." He looked at the shaman again. The man was grinning. Angel really, really wanted to bite him, and not because he was hungry, either. "Look, all I have is two hundred dollars." "Then you should go." Angel pulled a ring off his left hand and held it out. "That's a real emerald. You can get two, three hundred for it easy. I'll give you this plus all my cash." The shaman's expression shifted, softening a little. "Damn. It's that important?" "It's for the Slayer." The shaman studied him. "You ain't shittin' me?" "I'm not. I swear." His intensity probably did more to undermine his sincerity than back it up, he knew, but it was all he had. He had no skill with emotional subtlety. "Should have said so in the first place." He held the bag out to Angel. "I'll take a hundred bucks, call it even." Relieved, Angel pulled out his wad of cash and handed the shaman two fifties. "Thanks." The shaman reached past the threshold to trade the bag for the money. "Vamp working for the Slayer, huh? That's a new twist." "I have a soul," Angel said wryly. "Makes me do some crazy shit." The shaman laughed. "Yeah, I guess it would." Angel tucked the bag into his coat pocket and clenched his fist against the bulk of the new ring. Everything for her. Everything. END.