Fan fiction
I don't own any of these characters, you know the drill.
Chapter 1
He paced the room restlessly, feeling the cold seeping through his bones. He rubbed his hands together in a feeble attempt to help, but it didn't work. The cold was beating him. He was only like this when he hadn't fed, albeit blood from the local infirmary, but this time it was different. This time it was rejection. And it hurt.
He walked to the window and looked up at the stars. It smelt cold, icy. The night reflected him. He was cold, icy, in-human. He could not give Buffy what she wanted from him, and now she had moved on. Riley could give her everything he couldn't. Riley was human after all. But he could not move on. Her memory cut through him like shards of glass, tearing his insides to pieces. It would be hard to find someone new. Who would accept a vampire? The truth scared even Buffy, and she was a slayer. He walked away from the window, no longer able to bear the night's unfeeling glare. "I'm going out, Cordelia." "Ok, but have you got your..." She was cut short by the slam of the door. "Keys?"
He approached twenty-first street with his hands dug deep in his pockets. He knew there was a nest nearby, and thought maybe dusting a couple of vampires would give him a renewed sense of purpose. His stake was tucked into his belt, the most accessible place furthest from his heart. He shuddered, feeling the stake of emotional pain he felt Buffy's memory had driven into him. He struggled to shake the feeling that he was just the shell of a man left behind. Looking up he could see no vampires or demons to slay and a sense of uselessness washed over him. He carried on walking.
An old building overshadowed the corner of the street menacingly. The windows were peppered with cracks and holes, torn, ragged curtains billowed out and lapped over the window frames. The door had been ripped from its hinges, its twisted remains clung to the frame for support. Roof tiles had slipped from their places, falling to a shattering death on the hard flagged floor. Bricks had been eaten away by the very ivy laid to protect them. Dirt clamoured at the base of the walls, rotten wood creaked and groaned. It whispered pain and suffering to Angel, pain and suffering and death. It was completely devoid of human life, human warmth. Like him.
He approached the blackened air that held up the doorway and looked deep inside. He listened for any sound, the scrabbling of a rat, the sleeping breaths of a vampire. Nothing came to him. He stepped inside, pushing back a tired cobweb from near his face. In front of him lay a battered crumbling staircase, above a few closed doors and to the side a gaping hole where a door once stood. He could see beyond the darkness of this doorway, his supernatural senses picking out an old fireplace and shards of what had been crates. A white sheet draped itself over a velvet armchair; it's back towards any warmth the fireplace would have given. Loneliness encroached itself on Angel as he stepped into the room. The deathly stillness reached out to him, pulled him in, caressed him. He felt at home.
His phone rang glaringly into the darkness, shattering his perception and up-heaving his empathy with the room. He fumbled with the inside pocket of his coat, grudgingly pulling the contraption from it's hiding place. Cordelia had said it was the green button to answer it, hadn't she? He pressed it, hoping this creation of a bored warlock would agree with him. For once it did. "Hello?" An exasperated Cordelia answered him. "Angel? It's Cordelia. We have a problem. A demon problem."
Angel left the house begrudgingly, pausing to take in his surroundings before he left. He picked up his pace as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, covering miles within minutes. The rooftops were free of human habitation, easily passable. He stood in front of the doorway to the old hotel they had taken over as offices, staring at the amber warmth that emanated from the inside. Human warmth crossed the air that stood between him and his offices and he shuddered. Right now he needed the blue iciness of the lonely house. Warmth felt wrong to him, as though he didn't deserve it. He took a few steps towards the entrance and took comfort in Cordelia's voice shrilling through the darkness. Cordelia and Wesley were arguing, as they often did. Their discussions lasted all of three minutes before the name-calling and hair pulling began. Cordelia was so exasperated Angel couldn't hear a word, and he gently opened the door. He slipped in without them noticing. Wesley was waving a thin white booklet under her nose, and Cordelia was staring at him menacingly. "If you had found that earlier we wouldn't have had a problem!" She whipped it from his hands and sauntered off in search of it's owner. The microwave Angel had bought to satiate the food problem had caused more problems than it was meant to solve. He smiled wryly to himself. It wasn't as though he was going to use it anyway.
Wesley jumped when he saw Angel staring out from underneath the doorway. "Must you come in without a word?" There was still frustration in his voice; Cordelia often had that effect on most people. He wandered off in search of her. Angel glanced around. The makeshift dining table was strewn with the various volumes of demon lore Wesley normally kept neatly on the bookcases. Pages of notes in scrappy handwriting filled in the gaps between the books, several pages of translations had been tossed in annoyance towards the paper bin. A hefty book had been knocked off the table and lay in weak desperation on the floor. It was the usual picture that greeted him when they had been researching. Cordelia wandered in. "That stupid micro thingy doesn't work so I've left it in the capable hands of Sir Read-a-lot." She made her way to the table and sat down, resting her head on her arms. "Who does he think he is anyway? If he had just left me alone when I was hitting it, it would have worked. But no, he has to wander in waving the stupid book thingy, which is written in a foreign language, and he waves the damn thing in my face! If the English in it was written in English we'd be getting somewhere." Angel merely smiled at her. There was no point saying anything. Instead he began to look at the pages of notes peeking out between the books. They had been researching a demon, Lorek. Angel had never heard of it. He skimmed the book opened in front of him and found nothing about Lorek. They had had a hard time finding what they needed. Wesley appeared behind them. "Gunn said there had been a raising, or what he thought was a raising. There were burn marks on a patch of ground and scraps of burnt paper. I couldn't read the language very well, some sort of demon language, but I recognised a name..." Cordelia butted in, "So book boy has had us looking for it. Its like no one has ever seen it or heard of it, completely impossible to find..." "But I've heard the name before. We found this." Wesley handed a smooth piece of paper to Angel. The words were written in Latin; Wesley had copied them out and corrected the abbreviations. It was very short. Angel skimmed it. "Lorek...not in our dimension...cannot be seen...exploits fears, dreams...kills from the inside...the usual then?" Wesley looked surprised. "That's all we could find on him."
"So?"
"Nearly all encounters have gone unrecorded. That means only one of his victims survived."
"Should I be worried?"
"That's up to you." Wesley closed the book in front of him. "You kill them, I research them."
"Ok. I'm going to bed. You two should go home. Get some sleep." Cordelia found her bag hidden in the scene of destruction and fished for her keys. They were, as usual, lost. Wesley waved them in front of her and she snatched them from him. They left soon after.
Angel watched them. He needed to be alone. He turned off the light and the room was plunged into darkness. Better. His supernatural sight guided him to the one room in the hotel that was his and his alone. His bedroom was cheery, yellow wallpaper with a flower border, but now it seemed garish. Everything should be dark and gloomy, he was repenting after all. He felt like a hypocrite. Hadn't he said he loved Buffy? He did love Buffy, and yet he had left her just because their relationship would be hard. He could not give her what she deserved, a real life, but he still could have tried. He realised that he was grieving for their relationship, as though he had lost her through death. And now she had Riley, and no longer needed him.
Angel peeled off his black attire and clambered into bed. Maybe sleep would give him temporary relief. He was cold, he hadn't eaten. He pulled the covers up around him, and drifted into a troubled sleep.
I don't own any of these characters, you know the drill.
Chapter 1
He paced the room restlessly, feeling the cold seeping through his bones. He rubbed his hands together in a feeble attempt to help, but it didn't work. The cold was beating him. He was only like this when he hadn't fed, albeit blood from the local infirmary, but this time it was different. This time it was rejection. And it hurt.
He walked to the window and looked up at the stars. It smelt cold, icy. The night reflected him. He was cold, icy, in-human. He could not give Buffy what she wanted from him, and now she had moved on. Riley could give her everything he couldn't. Riley was human after all. But he could not move on. Her memory cut through him like shards of glass, tearing his insides to pieces. It would be hard to find someone new. Who would accept a vampire? The truth scared even Buffy, and she was a slayer. He walked away from the window, no longer able to bear the night's unfeeling glare. "I'm going out, Cordelia." "Ok, but have you got your..." She was cut short by the slam of the door. "Keys?"
He approached twenty-first street with his hands dug deep in his pockets. He knew there was a nest nearby, and thought maybe dusting a couple of vampires would give him a renewed sense of purpose. His stake was tucked into his belt, the most accessible place furthest from his heart. He shuddered, feeling the stake of emotional pain he felt Buffy's memory had driven into him. He struggled to shake the feeling that he was just the shell of a man left behind. Looking up he could see no vampires or demons to slay and a sense of uselessness washed over him. He carried on walking.
An old building overshadowed the corner of the street menacingly. The windows were peppered with cracks and holes, torn, ragged curtains billowed out and lapped over the window frames. The door had been ripped from its hinges, its twisted remains clung to the frame for support. Roof tiles had slipped from their places, falling to a shattering death on the hard flagged floor. Bricks had been eaten away by the very ivy laid to protect them. Dirt clamoured at the base of the walls, rotten wood creaked and groaned. It whispered pain and suffering to Angel, pain and suffering and death. It was completely devoid of human life, human warmth. Like him.
He approached the blackened air that held up the doorway and looked deep inside. He listened for any sound, the scrabbling of a rat, the sleeping breaths of a vampire. Nothing came to him. He stepped inside, pushing back a tired cobweb from near his face. In front of him lay a battered crumbling staircase, above a few closed doors and to the side a gaping hole where a door once stood. He could see beyond the darkness of this doorway, his supernatural senses picking out an old fireplace and shards of what had been crates. A white sheet draped itself over a velvet armchair; it's back towards any warmth the fireplace would have given. Loneliness encroached itself on Angel as he stepped into the room. The deathly stillness reached out to him, pulled him in, caressed him. He felt at home.
His phone rang glaringly into the darkness, shattering his perception and up-heaving his empathy with the room. He fumbled with the inside pocket of his coat, grudgingly pulling the contraption from it's hiding place. Cordelia had said it was the green button to answer it, hadn't she? He pressed it, hoping this creation of a bored warlock would agree with him. For once it did. "Hello?" An exasperated Cordelia answered him. "Angel? It's Cordelia. We have a problem. A demon problem."
Angel left the house begrudgingly, pausing to take in his surroundings before he left. He picked up his pace as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, covering miles within minutes. The rooftops were free of human habitation, easily passable. He stood in front of the doorway to the old hotel they had taken over as offices, staring at the amber warmth that emanated from the inside. Human warmth crossed the air that stood between him and his offices and he shuddered. Right now he needed the blue iciness of the lonely house. Warmth felt wrong to him, as though he didn't deserve it. He took a few steps towards the entrance and took comfort in Cordelia's voice shrilling through the darkness. Cordelia and Wesley were arguing, as they often did. Their discussions lasted all of three minutes before the name-calling and hair pulling began. Cordelia was so exasperated Angel couldn't hear a word, and he gently opened the door. He slipped in without them noticing. Wesley was waving a thin white booklet under her nose, and Cordelia was staring at him menacingly. "If you had found that earlier we wouldn't have had a problem!" She whipped it from his hands and sauntered off in search of it's owner. The microwave Angel had bought to satiate the food problem had caused more problems than it was meant to solve. He smiled wryly to himself. It wasn't as though he was going to use it anyway.
Wesley jumped when he saw Angel staring out from underneath the doorway. "Must you come in without a word?" There was still frustration in his voice; Cordelia often had that effect on most people. He wandered off in search of her. Angel glanced around. The makeshift dining table was strewn with the various volumes of demon lore Wesley normally kept neatly on the bookcases. Pages of notes in scrappy handwriting filled in the gaps between the books, several pages of translations had been tossed in annoyance towards the paper bin. A hefty book had been knocked off the table and lay in weak desperation on the floor. It was the usual picture that greeted him when they had been researching. Cordelia wandered in. "That stupid micro thingy doesn't work so I've left it in the capable hands of Sir Read-a-lot." She made her way to the table and sat down, resting her head on her arms. "Who does he think he is anyway? If he had just left me alone when I was hitting it, it would have worked. But no, he has to wander in waving the stupid book thingy, which is written in a foreign language, and he waves the damn thing in my face! If the English in it was written in English we'd be getting somewhere." Angel merely smiled at her. There was no point saying anything. Instead he began to look at the pages of notes peeking out between the books. They had been researching a demon, Lorek. Angel had never heard of it. He skimmed the book opened in front of him and found nothing about Lorek. They had had a hard time finding what they needed. Wesley appeared behind them. "Gunn said there had been a raising, or what he thought was a raising. There were burn marks on a patch of ground and scraps of burnt paper. I couldn't read the language very well, some sort of demon language, but I recognised a name..." Cordelia butted in, "So book boy has had us looking for it. Its like no one has ever seen it or heard of it, completely impossible to find..." "But I've heard the name before. We found this." Wesley handed a smooth piece of paper to Angel. The words were written in Latin; Wesley had copied them out and corrected the abbreviations. It was very short. Angel skimmed it. "Lorek...not in our dimension...cannot be seen...exploits fears, dreams...kills from the inside...the usual then?" Wesley looked surprised. "That's all we could find on him."
"So?"
"Nearly all encounters have gone unrecorded. That means only one of his victims survived."
"Should I be worried?"
"That's up to you." Wesley closed the book in front of him. "You kill them, I research them."
"Ok. I'm going to bed. You two should go home. Get some sleep." Cordelia found her bag hidden in the scene of destruction and fished for her keys. They were, as usual, lost. Wesley waved them in front of her and she snatched them from him. They left soon after.
Angel watched them. He needed to be alone. He turned off the light and the room was plunged into darkness. Better. His supernatural sight guided him to the one room in the hotel that was his and his alone. His bedroom was cheery, yellow wallpaper with a flower border, but now it seemed garish. Everything should be dark and gloomy, he was repenting after all. He felt like a hypocrite. Hadn't he said he loved Buffy? He did love Buffy, and yet he had left her just because their relationship would be hard. He could not give her what she deserved, a real life, but he still could have tried. He realised that he was grieving for their relationship, as though he had lost her through death. And now she had Riley, and no longer needed him.
Angel peeled off his black attire and clambered into bed. Maybe sleep would give him temporary relief. He was cold, he hadn't eaten. He pulled the covers up around him, and drifted into a troubled sleep.