He came to on the rooftop. The night sky above him still reeked of smoke and the distant decaying demon flesh from down below. He must have only been out for a matter of minutes. Odd, considering he just went up against a dragon. Slayed it, in fact.
"I kind of want to slay the dragon," he remembers saying. And he did. Into each generation, a dragon slayer is born…yeah, he liked the sound of that. He could have his own TV show, one that did not get cancelled in the midst of its greatest story arc, no sir. But first, to get off this rooftop. Angel made his way to the edge, slowly, for the aftermath of a battle against a dragon must result in sore body parts, and peered over to the street below. Bodies littered the alleyway. It was difficult to tell which limbs went to which demons. He probably had Illyria to thank for that. Dust circled the air, making it impossible to determine the number of vampires dead, though there was only one he was concerned about. The dragon carcass took up the entire end of the alleyway, spilling onto the street. And, if he squinted, he could just barely make out the still form of Charles Gunn. It was only then, at the sight of his dear friend now lost to the afterlife, Angel finally noticed his heartbeat, quickening at the realization the rest of his friends were most likely dead, the dread an onslaught of pain not even the likes of hell could have matched.
Huh, he thought. This must be what they call a panic attack. He passed out once more, but not before registering the quiet of the night, as if hell itself decided this graveyard of mangled enemies and lost friends wasn't worth the effort any longer, and left the dead to their brutal passing.
Voices woke him next. Voices, and sunlight. Years of avoiding the sun had him scrambling for cover before he remembered.
Heartbeat.
Breathing.
Human.
Right.
And still on the rooftop.
Down below, he could hear movement. Large objects being dragged across the ground, making a loud thump before the process began again. Shuffle, drag, thump. The cleanup crew had arrived. Still sore from his fight and the adjustment to a human body, Angel laid still on the roof of the Hyperion, listening to whoever took it upon them to clean up his mess. He wondered if they had moved Gunn's body yet.
"All I'm saying is, you could have called us." It was the first clear dialogue he heard, before just general murmuring that had awoken him. It sounded angry. It sounded exasperated, weary. It sounded familiar.
"I seem to remember making such a call months ago, only to be denied any and all assistance." An accent to that one. Cockney, if he remembered correctly.
"So you are the righteous warriors who did not help save the shell." A cold, monotone voice Angel had a hard time placing.
"For the last time, Blue. Stop calling her a shell, her bloody name was Fred."
Curious, Angel peered over the edge once again to see most of the alleyway clear of dead demons, though the dragon still lay where it fell. The cleanup crew had indeed arrived, in the form of Buffy, Spike, and Illyria, the names coming to him the second he glimpsed them. They too looked tired, as tired as Angel felt deep in his bones, but still. They were alive. Something could be said for that at least. He felt a wetness seep down his face, but he was too exhausted to wipe his tears away. Tears not just for the dead or the living, but also for their continued existence, and his. There was still so much more to do, work to be done, but he had grown weary. How was he supposed to start again, with less than his usual strength? Less than whom he once was?
"What do you suppose we do about this giant lady, then?" Spike asked. "Angel could at least have stuck around for the clean up, the git."
"Spike…" Buffy sighed.
"I know, I know, love," Spike said. "Do not speak ill of the dead, yadda yadda."
"Are we sure he's dead?" Buffy asked.
"I last saw the half-breed in the sky, riding on the back of this beast, brandishing his broadsword," Illyria began. "He fought until the dragon was slain and came tumbling out of the sky, though he did not follow. Only dust remained where he once occupied, his victory short-lived."
Silence followed Illyria's short, albeit detailed story. "You half-breeds," Illyria scoffed. "You do not even leave behind substantial remains to bury. Disgusting," she finished, though there was a note of melancholy to her voice. She looked at Buffy and Spike, who were both staring back with twin looks of surprise at her outburst. The hell god didn't talk much, and only to remind them how she once ruled kingdoms. Illyria steeled her resolve, shoulders back. "I will take care of the dragon, and then we shall give our comrades in arms a proper send off," she said, and stalked off down the alleyway to finish off Angel's final deed.
Angel's not sure how they haven't noticed him on the rooftop yet. A slayer, a vampire, and a Primordial god, and they couldn't sense the beating of his heart, his strained breathing, or smell the newly pumping blood through his veins? Or the most obvious — the loud rumble of his stomach. He was hungry, and for once it wasn't for blood. It was that thought that got him up. Though he stumbled, his renewed energy for what he most desired kept him going. He could no longer jump from the roof, but he's been living at the Hyperion for three years. He knows the ins and outs of the building, including a hatch that leads from the roof to a back exit. Though he's glad for Spike and Illyria's survival, and the knowledge that Buffy didn't really give up on him, he can't stand to face them now. Not as this new person, someone he hasn't quite met himself yet.
So he'll make his way down the building and out onto the street, where he'll go in search of a cheeseburger. They didn't have those back in his day, but it seems like the perfect first meal. And after he eats that cheeseburger, he'll learn how to become human again. Even it takes another lifetime.
It won't take another lifetime, but he'll soon figure that out. As Angel stepped into the nearest McDonald's that wasn't ruined by the battle, ready to start anew again, he's unaware of the powers that be looking down upon him in satisfaction, gently nudging him where they want him to go. Away from his friends at the Hyperion, and to the east. In a year's time, he'll end up in Washington D.C. at the steps of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, ready to serve something greater than him once again. This isn't Shanshu. But Angel doesn't need to know that, yet.