TITLE: Interstitial Angel Ficlets AUTHOR: Katriena Knights RATING: PG13, language 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: Angel. 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. *What have I done? God, God, what have I done?* He started running as soon as he got out of the Bronze, and didn't stop until he slammed the door of his apartment behind him. He could still smell her. That thick, sweet, musky odor that had filled his head for a hundred and fifty years. She had left it in his apartment when she had come to mock him, taunt him. Darla. He had killed his Sire. For this he should die. For this he should walk out into the sun and let himself burn. This, the unpardonable sin of the Order, to have killed the one who Made him. He sank into a chair and let his head fall into his hands. He was shaking still, and his face was wet. *God, God, what have I done?* *You are not Angelus.* No, he wasn't Angelus, not anymore. Not the same creature who had rutted with her on the floors of convents, drunk from the thighs of nuns while she fed at their throats. He was someone else now, something else, and he understood that now more clearly than he ever had before. Because he had killed his Sire. He looked up at his surroundings. She had mocked him for living above ground, but she had taught him that, she who always had to have a view. She had taught him the art of the hunt, the art of slow torture. She hadn't taught him love. That he'd learned from another blonde girl, one he'd barely spoken to in the months he'd known her. *"You love someone who hates us. You're sick, and you'll always be sick."* Did he love her? Maybe he did, but if he wasn't sure, then he certainly hadn't been ready for Buffy to have that glimpse into his heart. And now it was too late, because now he finally understood. The dreams he'd had, of being with her, loving her, had been just dreams. They could never come true. Because, regardless of what he wasn't, he was still a vampire. There was no changing that, no changing the fact that he endangered her just by being near her. He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking. Hands that had memorized Darla's body. Hands that had driven a crossbow bolt into her heart. He'd known, when he'd seen Buffy for the first time, that his life had been irrevocably changed. But never had he imagined it would come to this. He had killed his Sire. And he could still smell her dust on his fingers. # His heart hurt. He'd seen Buffy at the Bronze, had left her there more certain that ever that he couldn't be with her. More certain than ever that he loved her. And the pain in his chest wasn't just from the imprint of her chunky, silver cross, burned into his skin. It was the pain of the loss of a dream. He stretched out flat on his back in bed and touched the raw wound, traced it, made it hurt. The ring on his hand felt heavy--another reminder. Of what he so desperately wanted, but could never have. He spent the next week completely absored in translating the texts, compiling information about the Anointed One and prophecies concerning the Master. There were gaps, though, vital pieces of information missing. It made him wish he'd paid more attention when Darla had tried to teach him the history of the Order of Aurelius. She'd given him books to read and he'd mocked them, drawn obscene pictures in the margins. He'd resented the power the Order had tried to exert over him. He was strong and arrogant and free, and didn't give a shit about moldy books and prophecies that could be interpreted a hundred different ways. He'd been much more interested in planning his next elaborate slaughter, or cajoling Darla into a three-way with Drusilla, even if it meant compromising into a four-way with Dru and Spike both. Important things. He forced his thoughts away from the memories. Not because they were unpleasant, but because they weren't, and he hated that he could think back on the things he'd done then and still be aroused by the memories. Just one more reason to stay away from Buffy. Which, of course, he wasn't doing. He'd lurked around the high school this afternoon, had listened to Buffy's voice echo through the vents. There'd been some concern about the Internet or something. He wasn't familiar enough with modern technology to understand what they were talking about. This was something he really needed to learn. But not right now--he didn't have the time. Maybe someday, when things had settled down a little, he could ask Willow-- But no. Willow was Buffy's friend, and he needed to stay away from Buffy. He might have to see her, though, in order to protect her. The text he was translating seemed more and more to be pointing toward a confluence of events, some of them big and powerful and vastly ungood. And the Slayer seemed to be in the center of it. There were pieces missing, though. References to another text. He struggled through the bulk of the translation, but it just didn't want to come together and make any real sense. This was Watcher work. He should go see Giles. A vampire consulting a Watcher. Not really any stranger than a vampire protecting the Slayer, he supposed. But he had to wonder if Giles would even speak to him. First, though, he needed to pay another visit to the shaman. The shaman answered his knock promptly. "You again," he said, without enthusiasm. "What do you want now?" "The book I was translating. There's stuff missing. It talks about another text. The Codex. Is that the Pergamom Codex?" The shaman considered. "Well, there are a variety of codexes. Codices? Whatever. But since this text deals primarily with Slayer lore, I'd say the Pergamom's what you're looking for. "Do you have it?" The shaman guffawed. "Right. Far as I know, the last copy disappeared about fifty years ago." "Find it for me." "Excuse me? What, you think I can just snap my fingers and make it appear?" Angel forced himself to calm down. He'd never get anywhere with the shaman if he let his fangs pop now. "Have you had any reason to look for it recently?" To his surprise, his voice actually came out fairly calm and even. The shaman shrugged. "No, not really." "Then could you? Put out some feelers, maybe, see what you can come up with. Check the Internet." He paused, and the shaman just looked at him. "I'll come up with some cash." "Okay. I'll see what I can do." "Thanks." Back in his apartment, he pulled out yet another text on the Gushundi alphabet and puzzled his way through a few more pages. If only he could do more. If only he could fight beside her. See her. Touch her. He closed his eyes, making his thoughts turn elsewhere. This was the best he could do for her, for now. It would have to be enough. END.