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: Very mild spoilers for "The Puppet Show"
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.
 
 
 
            Angel remembered seeing a performance of Oedipus Rex in 
the mid-nineteeth century in London. It hadn't been anything like 
this.  For one thing, he'd spent most of that performance plotting how 
to lure the actor who'd played Oedipus into the alley behind the 
theater after the performance. He'd been a solid, gorgeous thing, and 
he and Darla had shared him to good effect.
     
      Also, in the mid-nineteenth century, none of the actors had run 
off the stage to vomit from stage fright.  Poor Willow.
 
            Buffy, who looked disgusted with the entire proceeding, 
held her ground. He supposed that, after facing vamps and demons every 
night, reciting Sophocles in front of a crowd of high school students 
might seem like not such a big deal.
 
            But, to be honest, Angel didn't think anybody could have 
paid him enough to stand in front of that crowd. If there was one thing 
he'd learned over the past few months, it was that high school students 
were terrifying almost beyond the telling of it.
 
            He'd listened to them over the past few days, as he'd 
skulked around hoping for a glimpse of Buffy.  They had this thing to 
accomplish, this talent show, and he'd thought maybe they'd band 
together to get it over with.  All of them seemed traumatized by the 
concept, or at the very least not crazy about the idea of performing. 
But instead of bonding over their mutual apprehension, they had turned 
on each other, denigrating each others' talents, mocking each other, 
cutting each other down.  The strong preyed on the weak, trying to 
drive the shyest ones to tears, carefully eroding the confidence of the 
insecure.
 
            They were worse than vampires. At least he'd played mind 
games with the goal of a meal, or at least a good, bloody murder.  
These evil little creatures did it for sheer fun.
 
            Well, okay, he'd done it for sheer fun a few times, 
himself, but these little shits didn't have the excuse of being 
soulless bloodsucking demons.
 
            Buffy seemed to take it all on the chin, self-assured and 
strong, not impervious to the others' cruelty but able to deal. But 
every time he heard someone insult her--especially that God-awful girl 
Cordelia--he wanted to fly out of his hiding place and beat the 
perpetrator senseless.
 
            He supposed Sunnydale High lost enough students, though, 
without the interference of an overprotective vampire. And she could 
fend for herself quite efficiently.
 
            He watched the whole of her performance and was entranced. 
Intellectually, he knew it was terrible, but it didn't matter.  They 
were all so young and fresh, discovering themselves in a way he'd never 
been allowed to. By the time he was sixteen, he'd already been informed 
what his role in life would be, what he would do, how he would do it. 
Never mind the cloak of heir to his father's merchant concerns fit him 
not at all. It didn't matter. It was all preordained.
 
            Had this been preordained?  Had his new role as helper to 
the Slayer been set in stone before Darla had ever found him in that 
tavern?  He knew it made no sense, on a cosmic scale, but sometimes he 
had nothing else to contemplate when he was sitting alone in his 
apartment waiting for the sun to go down.
 
            Buffy's performance was over, and the bows onstage were met 
by scattered applause.  Buffy faced the audience squarely, bold and 
beautiful.  Then, suddenly, a frown rose between her brows, and her 
attention shifted.
 
            She looked right at him.
 
            There was no way she could have seen him, hidden as he was 
inside the vent, but she looked exactly, unerringly, in his direction.  
Her frown deepened a little, her eyes searching.
 
            She knew he was here.
 
            Startled, he scrabbled back into the vent, moving backward 
until he could no longer see into the auditorium.  How did she know?  
Had she sensed the presence of a vampire, or had she sensed him?
 
            He couldn't afford, right now, to find out.  He slipped 
back into the darkness.  It was time, once again, to go home.


            It wasn't real. There was no possible way it could be real. 
He had no idea what exactly was going on, but he knew, he knew this 
could not be real.

           Buffy lay limp across his lap, her throat open and bleeding. 
He could still taste her blood in his mouth. He could not have done 
this. The memory of feeding was clear in his head but it was strange, 
dreamlike. And he was even more certain of the unreality when he lifted 
his own wrist to his mouth, opened a vein, and offered it to her to 
feed.
 
            He would never do this to her. He would never again do this 
to anyone. So why was he doing it now?
 
            He bent his head back as she fed, feeling the pull of her 
mouth on his arm. The sensation was intense, orgasmic. She sucked a few 
times, then her mouth went slack as she faded into the death that was 
not death. She would awaken before sunrise, and she would be a demon.
 
            His eyes burned with the presence of his own demon, and he 
blinked it back, feeling his face change, his teeth and forehead 
drawing back to normal proportions. His wrist ached.
 
            What the hell was happening? Not just to him, but to 
everyone? The entire town of Sunnydale seemed to have gone insane, 
running around screaming in terror at nothing, as if their deepest, 
darkest fears had come to life and were pursuing them into the depths 
of hell.
 
            Was that what this was, then? His own worst nightmare, 
brought upon him by some spell or curse that had enveloped the entire 
town? He wanted to find someone to ask, but even now, blinding sunlight 
pulsed behind the tightly-pulled blinds on his window. He was certain 
this day had lasted too long.
 
            He wasn't even certain how, when, or why Buffy had come to 
him. He'd been asleep, and suddenly she was there, in his narrow bed 
with him, and he had rolled over onto her and sunk his teeth into her 
throat.
 
            And sat now with her dead body draped over his thighs, 
knowing she would awaken in a matter of hours, knowing that he couldn't 
allow it to happen.
 
            She was so small, so delicate there in his arms, her round 
face childish in its peaceful repose. He could barely see her as a 
woman now, in death. Merely a girl, with too much responsibility 
thrust upon her too early. As every Slayer before her had been.
 
            He knew so little about her, he realized. In spite of the 
time he'd spent following her, eavesdropping on her conversations, 
reading her diary when she'd been at school--and feeling more than a 
little guilty when he'd lied about it later--he barely knew what drove 
her, what she loved, what she wanted from her life. But he loved her. 
That he could say without question.
 
            He'd never loved anyone before. Not like this. He'd loved 
his mother, and Kathy, but that was family love. This was different. He 
would have died for her, horribly and painfully, if necessary. Probably 
would, if he continued down this path.
 
            So, even though he knew this wasn't real, knew some sort of 
spell or curse had hold of the town of Sunnydale, and knew without 
doubt that Buffy was still out there, alive, and that she undoubtedly 
would counteract whatever power was at work, he knew also what he had 
to do. Here, now, in this place, faced with the sight of Buffy's body 
lying limp across his lap.
 
            He slid out from under her and carefully arranged her on 
the bed. If he forced his mind away from what he had done to her--but 
he hadn't done it, he couldn't have done it, it was impossible, but 
what if he had?--he could almost imagine she was gently asleep, her 
hair mussed from lovemaking, that he had held her and kissed her and 
loved her the way he wanted to so desperately.
 
            But no. He had taken her, drunk her, Turned her.
 
            He went into the living room and retrieved a stake from the 
front closet. Came back to the bedroom, stood over her, looked down at 
her still, supine body. No breath, no heartbeat, warmth rapidly fading. 
His eyes were hot with tears.
 
            He shoved the stake into her chest, and as her body fell to 
dust on his blankets, he wept.
 
   
          In the fading light of dusk, Angel made his way to the 
shaman's house. He'd told Giles he could get the Pergamom Codex; he 
hoped he hadn't lied. It had been a few weeks since he'd asked the 
shaman to start searching for it--surely he'd turned up something by 
now.

        But all was not well at the shaman's house. Angel could smell 
it before he saw anything. Vampires. His kindred, in fact, Children of 
Aurelius. He broke into a run.
 
          The shaman's front door was ajar. Angel rushed at it, but the 
mystical barrier slammed him in the face. The shaman was still alive, 
at least. He could hear the vamps now, inside the house.
 
          "You been sniffing around, running errands for Angelus, and 
the Master don't like it," one of them said, his voice a low snarl. 
"Where's the book?"
 
          He could smell the shaman's fear, but no blood. Not yet. 
"It's Angel!" he shouted from the door. He didn't even know the 
shaman's name.
 
          But he heard the familiar voice from inside the house. "Come 
in! Come in!"
 
          The mystical barrier disintegrated under Angel's hands and he 
threw himself into the house.
 
          He grabbed the first vamp just as he was about to sink his 
teeth into the shaman's neck. Angel swung him around, slammed him into 
the wall. Only then did he register that they were in the kitchen. A 
wooden spoon lay on the counter next to him; he grabbed it, 
left-handed, and shoved it into the vampire's chest. It dusted. Angel 
swiveled to see the second vamp bent over the shaman, teeth embedded. 
He slammed the spoon handle into its back.
 
          Coughing from the dust, the shaman staggered forward. Angel 
caught his arm to steady him, looking at the bitewound on his throat. 
The tang of fresh blood bit the air and he fought back his automatic 
reaction, the lurch of the demon itching under his skin.
 
          "You all right?" he asked the shaman.
 
          The man clasped his bloodied throat, a shell-shocked 
expression on his face. "Damn, you have really pissed some people off."
 
          Angel nodded. "It's a skill."
 
          "They really don't like you." Angel held a hand out to steady 
the shaman again, but he waved it away. "I was wondering if you were 
telling the truth about helping the Slayer. I guess now I know."
 
          "I guess you do."
 
          The shaman withdrew his hand from his neck, looked at the 
smears of blood on his fingers. "Guess I'd better patch this up before 
you get any funny ideas, huh?"
 
          Angel was offended by the comment, but he said nothing as the 
shaman left the kitchen. After a moment, though, he followed, and 
stopped outside the bedroom door.
 
          "Did you find the Codex, then?" he asked.
 
          "You are more than a little single-minded," the shaman said, 
his voice muffled by the closed door. He fell silent for several 
seconds, leaving Angel to stew uncomfortably.
 
          Finally, the bathroom door opened and the shaman said, "I 
acutally did get my hands on a copy."
 
          "Where is it?"
 
          The shaman gave him an evaluating look. He had taped a square 
of gauze over the bite mark on his neck. Angel could still smell the 
blood. AB positive. He had a fridge full of pig's blood at home. 
Swallowing, he forced himself to look away from the gauze and into the 
shaman's face.
 
          "I tracked it down a few days ago." The shaman eyed him 
narrowly. "I was having some doubts about your loyalties. I started 
looking into it, and this is what I get." He pressed a hand against 
his neck.
 
          "So do you believe me now?"
 
          "I do."
 
          He led the way into the living room, Angel trailing after 
him. He made a complex hand movement in front of a bookshelf. A 
black-bound book appeared where before there had been a set of 
Readers' Digest Condensed Books. The shaman picked it up. "Here you 
go. Your Pergamom Codex."
 
          Angel stared at it, barely able to believe it was real. But 
it was, dark and heavy in his hand, smelling of old leather and 
yellowed paper. "How much?"
 
          "It cost me three grand."
 
          Angel gaped at him. "Three thousand dollars?"
 
          The shaman nodded soberly.  "Afraid so."
 
          Three thousand dollars. He was going to have to find 
something more lucrative to do than the bits and snatches of night 
work he'd managed to scare up since he'd moved to Sunnydale. "I don't 
have it."
 
          "I know you don't. What do you have?"
 
          Angel dug a wad of bills out of his pocket. "Maybe three 
hundred here. I can sell some jewelry--maybe get you a grand. After 
that--I'll have to see what I can scrape up."
 
          "I can put you on a payment plan."
 
          Angel nodded, assuming the shaman was serious, but he had a 
feeling there was a joke being made at his expense. "I'll get some work 
somewhere. I can manage it."
 
          "Okay. As long as you're good for it."
 
          "I am."
 
          He looked down again at the book in his hands, then headed 
for the door. But when he reached the threshold, he turned. "Uninvite 
me," he said. "Do you know that spell?"
 
          The shaman frowned, puzzled. "Yeah, I know it. Why?"
 
          "Just do it. Just in case."
 
          "All right, I'll do it." He still looked confused, but Angel 
didn't bother to elaborate. Clenching his hand tight on the book, he 
headed back toward the high school.
                 


         She was alive. In spite of everything, she was alive, and 
here, and holding his hand. Her hair was wet and lank, her neck 
scratched open, her beautiful dress muddied, but she was alive. 

         He squeezed her hand, involuntarily, as they followed the 
others to the Bronze. She looked up at him, her eyes soft, but still 
haunted.

         "Buffy..." he said, and she lifted her eyebrows in a question.
"Are you sure you're all right?"

         She stopped walking. They were just outside the Bronze, and 
she waved to the others with her free hand, gesturing for them to go 
on without her.

         "I'm fine, Angel. All breathing and everything."

         "You were dead," he said, and the word lurched in his throat. 
"I touched you and your heart was dead and quiet and you weren't 
breathing--" He made himself stop as his tone became frantic.

         She laid a hand on his face. The touch surprised him.

         "Angel, I'm okay."

         "You were dead."

         "I'm not now."

         He stared down into her round, earnest face, and suddenly he 
coudln't help it, couldn't stop himself. He caught her mouth with his 
and kissed her, hard and deep, the way no sixteen-year-old girl should 
ever be kissed by a 240-year-old vampire. He devoured her mouth, 
clutching her to him, suckling the heat from her lips, her tongue.

         She was alive.

         He could smell the blood from the scratches on her chest, the 
mark on her throat where the Master had bitten her. Claimed her. His 
Master had killed her. He pushed himself away from her, overwhelmed by 
the smell, by the need to claim her for himself. Those rules didn't 
apply to him anymore

         She turned her face up to him, her lipstick smeared, her lips 
swollen and soft. "Angel," she whispered, and the sound of his name on 
her lips made him weak with need. Her eyes drifted open. "What's 
wrong?"

         I love you. God, I love you so much.

         But he didn't say it. He wanted to, wanted to let her see 
into that deep, vulnerable part of his heart, but he couldn't do it.

         "Nothing," he said, and kissed her again, more gently this 
time. He couldn't make his lips form the words, but he could make them 
move against hers, soft and gentle, teasing her, drawing the woman out
of her. He clasped his hands around her waist and held her there until 
she made a soft noise in the back of her throat and melted into him.

         She gave herself up with such abandon, such trust. He didn't 
deserve this. He didn't even deserve to be near her, much less 
touching her, kissing her. She was sweet, perfect, innocent beauty, 
power and light, and he was--he was just a vampire.

         He forced himself away again. This time he let go of her and 
took a step back. "You go," he said. "Have fun with your friends."

         Her forehead crumpled in disappointement. "Aren't you coming?"

         He touched his fingertips to her face. "Nothing's changed, 
Buffy. This still isn't... It's not something that can work."

         "Maybe it can," she said wistfully.

         He smiled. He wanted so much to believe her. "Go on," he 
said. "I'll be around when you need me."

         She smiled back. "I'm glad to hear that."

         He made himself take another step back, another, until 
finally she turned and disappeared into the Bronze.             

A few days after the dance, Buffy disappeared. In spite of what he 
felt to be some fairly high-quality skulking on his part, Angel 
couldn't figure out where she'd gone.

            He had a suspicion, though. The question was who to ask. 
Not Buffy's mom--she'd given him decidedly, 
"what-the-hell-are-you-doing-with-my-daughter" looks when they'd met.

            Giles. Giles would know. But where would he be? Not at the 
library--school was out. Or maybe he would man the library during 
summer school.

            So Angel haunted the school for a time. No luck. Either 
Giles wasn't coming in, or Angel had missed him. He was having a hard 
time keeping to his customary schedule--he'd taken some odd jobs here 
and there, still trying to pay for the acquisition of the Pergamom 
Codex.

            Finally, as he lay in bed one afternoon trying to sleep, a 
thought hit him. He picked up the phone book and looked up Giles' 
number.

            Sometimes being 240 years old could make you unbelievably 
stupid.

            Giles answered the phone on the second ring. "Hello, 
Giles?" Angel said hesitantly.

            "Yes? Who's this?"

            "It's Angel."

            "Oh, hullo." Giles seemed amiable enough. "Can I help you?"

            "I was wondering..." He closed his eyes, not sure why this 
was so hard. Something about talking into a piece of plastic just 
seemed unbelievably awkward. "I was wondering where Buffy went."

            "She didn't tell you? She went to LA to spend some time 
with her father."

            "Oh." Angel had suspected as much, but he, too, was 
surprised Buffy hadn't told him. That a Watcher was surprised the 
Slayer hadn't kept a vampire apprised of her whereabouts--something 
was seriously screwed up with this scenario.

            "Angel?" said Giles after a moment.

            Angel realized he hadn't spoken in several seconds. "I'm 
here."

            "I wanted to thank you for getting the Codex. In the midst 
of--well, everything--I forgot to say so."

            "It's okay."

            "How exactly did you obtain it?"

            "A guy I know tracked it down. Over the Internet, I think. 
I still owe him money for it--" He broke off. He hadn't meant to say 
that.

            "Oh, dear. You owe him money?"

            Angel shifted uncomfortably. It was the disembodied voice, 
he decided. That was what made it so weird. "Yeah."

            "Not a lot, I hope."

            "Um... three thousand dollars."

            There was a pause on the other end. "Dear God, Angel, you 
should have said something. Of course I'll reimburse you."

            Angel opened his mouth, closed it again. That solution had 
simply never occurred to him. Still, it didn't seem right. "I...it's 
okay. I can pay for it. I've paid nearly seven hundred and fifty 
dollars already."

            "How are you getting the money?"

            "Just...jobs here and there. Unloading at the docks. I 
cooked at a diner for a couple of weeks. I learned how to scramble 
eggs." This was inane. He was inane.

            "You'll be all summer paying for it, at that rate. Just 
come see me and I'll write you a check. It's Council business, after 
all."

            Angel sputtered a laugh. "Would the Council approve a 
check written to a vampire?"

            "They don't have to."

            Angel considered. "All right, but I only want half the 
amount."

            "Why half? Angel--"

            "No," Angel broke in. "Only half. I'll get the rest." He 
paused, swallowed hard. "I love her, too."

            Suddenly, the strange, plastic telephone was more than his 
240-year-old brain could handle. He hung up, stared at it for a 
moment, then went back to bed.


END.