TITLE: Scratch 1/8

SERIES: Scratch –
AUTHOR: Ducks, Born Again Angel Ho
EMAIL: ducksfanfic@yahoo.com
DISCLAIMER: *Hysterical Laughter*
RATING: The first story is PG-13, but NC-17 eventually
PAIRING: B/A
TIMELINE: Two years after "Chosen"/"Home" - May 2005
SPOILERS: Entire B/A saga is fair game.
SUMMARY: B/A meet again in Los Angeles two years after "Chosen"/"Home", and are forced to work together in spite of their reservations to stop a very personal Armageddon. DISTRIBUTION: Distribute freely, so long as you send me the address, and leave these tags intact.
FEEDBACK: Is Angel deprived of even a smidge of happiness? (That's a yes, for those who aren't clear on the concept.)
DEDICATION: To Joss, the great love/hate of my life -- enjoy the cookies. We know Angel will. *G* To Trammie, Margot Le Faye, and Dawny, whose work on the Babble Board is so imperative to keeping the hope alive. Thank you! Asusual, to my yummy betas and fans – especially my sparkly minion Dru, the always splendiferous Shirl, and the delightfully shiny Lily - you guys got mad skillz, yo. ;) And to B/A Shippers everywhere... don't lose hope. Our time is still to come.

Chapter One


It had become his educated opinion that the ultimate goal of humanity was to find fulfillment. That elusive prize could come in any shape or size... as diverse as humans themselves. Rectangles of money, the amorphous, glittering
cloud of fame, the comforting foundation of home, the soft heart of family. From the simple joy of a child's laughter to the complex pride that came from the knowledge that one had saved the world, satisfaction could look
like almost anything, depending on the individual.

Angel would bet his soul, however, that one of them wasn't a manila file folder. And definitely not a veritable mountain of them.

"I really, really hate this job," he muttered to himself as he finished his notes on the latest stone in that utterly *un*fulfilling heap.

A soft cough interrupted his daily self-pity session. "Sir... I remind you again that you could have Files and Records summarize those files for you."

The consternated vampire glanced up at his assistant, the terminally neat, desperately organized, self-assured and outspoken Michael. Crisp suit, spit-shined shoes, light brown hair tamed with enough product that it even made Angel wince. The boy was nothing if not well polished. Also annoying and nosy.

And though he couldn't function without him, Angel still never ceased to be surprised at how little the younger man had learned in their two years together. The endless stream of suggestions he gave to improve Angel's social life and general attitude made that clear.

"Yes, thank you, Michael. I'm aware of that. And I remind you again how I feel about the idea."

The assistant's always vaguely disapproving expression darkened. "Yes, sir. You want to read every single file with your own two eyes."

This wasn't a new discussion. Michael quoted the old saw as though Angel requested puppies for breakfast daily, instead of refusing to take Club Med cruises for vampires and dating demon call girls. With a sigh, the vampire turned his attention back to the latest Report 'O Evil he had been examining.

"That's right," he replied, "A little reading never hurt anyone." He returned to the endeavor, meaning the gesture to be dismissive, but Michael didn't move.

"Sir, if I may also remind you, there are over eighteen billion, six hundred fifty two million, three hundred twenty three thousand..."

"One hundred thirty eight files in the archive. Yes, I'm aware of that too," Angel cited the statistic easily, as it had long been the foundation of his assistant's moot argument.

"Actually, Sir, it's closer to 18,652,324,437 now. You began two years ago."

"Fine," he snapped well aware of the fact that he was bailing out he proverbial boat with a shrimp fork, then muttered to himself, "I'm immortal. I've got time. It's not like I do anything else around here."

Michael cocked a well-groomed eyebrow at his boss. The old vampire was always a little... off-putting. But lately, he'd become downright bizarre in his dour isolation. "Mr. Angel, if I may be so bold..."

Angel ticked a red mark on the upper left corner of the folder and tossed it onto the distressingly small "Completed – Return to Files & Records" pile before looking up once more.

"My opinion on the matter's never stopped you before."

"True. Sir, I just think that maybe it's time you considered... taking a vacation. Getting away from the city for a while. Tuscany is lovely this time of year."

Angel eased back in his chair and gave the young man a hard look, making it clear what he thought of that idea. "It is. Is there anything else?"

Realizing his defeat, Michael shook his head. "No, sir."

Angel turned back to his reading without another word, and the assistant moved back to the door.

"Oh, Michael, there is one thing."

Hopeful, he turned back. "Sir?"

"I don't want to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon, all right?"

With a nod, Michael stepped out, clicking the double doors shut behind him. Angel missed his presence almost immediately... at least his assistant was marginally more interesting than this gargantuan pile of paper.

Maybe his plan was a waste of time. But when he took over Wolfram & Hart, he had vowed to himself that he would understand every single project the firm had ever undertaken, and reverse as many of the evils perpetrated as he possibly could.

Even if it took eternity. It wasn't like he had much else to look forward to.

He took a moment to survey the scene – the visual symbol of what his unlife had become. Mounds of files covering every surface. Oceans of reports. Nothing but words on paper for as far as his eyes could see. Was this what all he'd done in 250 years had led him to?

He had perpetrated unimaginable horror and pain. He had fought, bled and died time and time again in penance for his crimes against this dimension... and for his place in it. He had been a warrior. A Champion of humanity. He had faced the end of the world – several of them, in fact – and survived more or less intact. His influence now reached around the globe, across dimensions, touched millions of lives every day.

So why did he feel like little more than a glorified desk jockey? Once it had been epic battles, bloodthirsty monsters, souls in jeopardy, worlds in the balance and futures on the line. Now it was endless meetings with faceless corporate drones who had no investment in their jobs at all... pie charts and reports, running errands for the Senior Partners like some kind of Hellish lackey and, well... monsters. That much, at least, hadn't changed. Some were enemies to be vanquished... but many were clients. The lines between good and evil were blurrier than they had ever been in his
existence.

Angel didn't bother wasting unnecessary breath on a sigh as he snapped the next dossier shut and pressed his fingers to tired eyes. No use sitting here feeling sorry for himself. No reason to complain or regret. He had made his choices the day he accepted this job to save Connor. And every day since he had lived with the possible consequences of that decision... including a deep ennui that he just couldn't kick.

He turned his high-backed mahogany and leather executive chair to face the warm glow of the LA afternoon outside the vast windows. Usually, at least this view boosted his spirits. The wall of necro-tempered glass allowed his vision to stretch for miles over the skyline. Day or night, he loved this city. Felt her pull in his soul... his deep kinship with her. He could remember so clearly how she looked in perpetual night... when she was drowning in a storm of fire. He remembered all he and his friends had sacrificed to save her.

But his fellow Californians were a resourceful, resilient bunch, and there was no sign today of the Hell that had almost swallowed it back then. The City of Angels was a beautiful, cruel bitch once more, overflowing with life
and danger, bursting with the pain, hope and exhilaration of the humanity teeming in her concrete and neon veins.


And here he was, separated from her heart by a partition of glass and steel.

"Yup. It's Hell," he mumbled to no one in particular, and spun away again from the view. Today, it just wasn't working.

If there was a fitting place for him to rot through eternity, this was it. He was planted firmly in a damn fishbowl clogged with paper, staring out at the world from under the deluge of contracts, negotiations, and teleconferences... Still apart from the world he loved, still crushed under the weight of demons – both personal and of the more otherworldly sort. Still alone.

He leaned over and pulled a folder from his personal files. This one was of a sturdier material... dark blue, stuffed full, its stiff spine creased from repeated reading.


The bold black letters on the top were so small... and yet contained the only real joy – albeit a bittersweet one – left to his reality.

'BENJAMIN BRANNEN. A1CLEARANCE ONLY.'

Now this... this single folder was the only thing that made the unending waste of all the others worthwhile. Angel opened it, and couldn't help a smile at the latest pictures tucked in the pocket by his independent P.I. contractor. Nothing about Connor's new life would ever make it into the files of Wolfram & Hart if he could help it.

His son. Handsome, smart, happy, popular... all of the things Angel had never gotten to be. All the things he'd feared his son would never have. He leafed through the photos for the millionth time: the one of him winning the
hundred his freshman year, his face shining with the joy of victory, his eyes – Darla's eyes – lit with joy. A picture of him smiling, taken at the UCLA Mentor Program's open house. College agreed with him – 3.89 grade point
average, a star in history and math, member of the honor society, the yearbook staff and student government.

Angel stopped at his favorite picture, taken last summer in Alderby Park. Con... Benjamin sat beneath a tree, gazing adoringly into the eyes of the same slim, cheerful blonde he'd dated since high school. Three years and the two were still clearly in love, still lost in one another. Connor had that look – the one of a man more than willing to go to the ends of the earth...to lay down his very life for the woman he loved. The one woman who owned his heart and soul.

In that respect, at least, he was very much his father's son.

The intercom on his desk mercifully buzzed, saving him from that endlessly painful train of thought. How was it that thinking about his son almost inevitably led to thoughts of...

"Yes?" He cut himself off, this time.

"Mr. Angel, Sir... I'm sorry to interrupt. I realize you asked not to be disturbed, but... I think you'll want to hear this."

Michael's strange, uncertain tone grabbed his attention. "It's fine, Michael. What's the problem?"

The assistant's voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "Sir... one of the *Upstairs* people is here. He says he has an urgent message for you." There was more muttering in the background. "Dire, Sir. He says to tell you he's seen something dire."

Angel immediately perked up. Excitement at last! Although... he supposed he shouldn't really happy about something 'dire' happening in the city.

"Send him in."

The "Upstairs People" were Wolfram & Hart's elite team of psychics. Visionaries who, at his order, now held an extrasensory eye on the world 24/7, and kept him apprised of any possible situations – the National Weather Service of supernatural phenomena. He rarely heard from them, and when he did, he would usually receive a memo by email, upon which he would dispatch a team of whatever specialists were required for the situation in a matter of moments. Later, he got a report on the results. End of mission.

But if one of them was asking to speak to him personally...

The door opened to admit a boy of no more than 19, whose nickname had to be String Bean, or possibly Bean Pole. Topping Angel's height by several inches, but under-weighing him by at least 75 pounds, the seer looked like nothing less than some strange human/ praying mantis hybrid.

He was also one of the most powerful seers in the dimension.

Angel rose and gestured to the chair across from him. "Have a seat, Marvin. Tell me what you've got."

The scraggly psychic stopped in his tracks, goggle-eyed with awe. Which was no mean feat, considering his eyes were already huge, and magnified times ten by thick, horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Wow. Sir. Mr. Angel, I... It's... Wow. You know my name?" he stammered. "This is an honor, Sir, truly, thank you. I'm a real admirer of your work." The boy rushed forward with his hand out-stretched, stumbled over his feet,
and would have flown headlong into this boss' lap if it weren't for the latter's vampire reflexes. Angel leapt up, caught the boy, steadied him on his feet, and returned to his own chair caught somewhere between irritation and bursting into laughter.

"God! I'm sorry! I'm such a klutz. Sir, please excuse me. I don't come down here much, and I'm so excited... uh... I mean disturbed, of course, but...glad! Yes! Glad to be able to give you this vision."

"Marvin," Angel interrupted gently, "It's okay. Have a seat." Coming around the desk once more, he gestured to the wet bar.

"Can I get you something? Water, maybe."

Marvin's mouth soon matched his eyes as it dropped into a shocked 'O'. "You... want to make *me* a *drink*?" he squeaked.

Angel couldn't help but smile. "Only if you want one."

The boy shook his head. "I better not. Unless... okay, water would be good. Please. Thanks."

Angel poured the seer a glass and retook his seat. He was still uncomfortable taking the 'Power Position', most of the time – the enormous desk was just another barrier between himself and situations he'd rather be directly involved in.

Maybe this time... maybe today was the day he would finally throw off his corporate shackles and step back into the fray, where he belonged.

"So you had a vision," he began.

The seer gulped down his water in a few swallows, his Ichabod Crane-sized Adam's apple bobbing furiously as he did. He set the empty glass down on the coaster Angel had provided, and took a deep breath.

"Well, Sir... normally-I-wouldn't-bother-you-with-visions-because-that's-what-the-reporting-unit-is-for-but-I-had-the-feeling-this-was-related-directly-to-you-and-I-know-you-don't-like-your-personal-business-on-file-so-I-thought-this-should-come-right-to-you..."

"Marvin," Angel interrupted, dizzy from trying to decipher all the boy had voiced in a single breath.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Take a deep breath. Slow down. Whatever it is, we'll handle it."

He nodded, took another, more steadying breath, and began once more. "Sir...there's something coming. I think we may be seeing the beginnings of another apocalypse. And... the sensation I got from this vision is that... you're
the only one who can stop it."

Angel frowned, his earlier anticipation gone. He leaned back in his chair. "Go on."

~

TBC...

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