Author: ty-rant84
Title: Am I done?
Summary: Angel's the big shot in Wolfram and Hart. Life isn't as good as it seems when he remembers someone from his past.
Rating: G
A/N: unbeta'd. One-shot. kinda just made it up on the spur of the moment, when I was issing- oh, but I probably shouldn't tell you yet. Reviews are appreciated! Hope you like.
Disclaimer: I do not own green eggs and ham. I do not own any Angel fans. I do not own Angel either. I do not own a single beaver. (I sure wish I did, though. Those beavers are cute)
Feedback: Ritual sacrifices must be made. Donations are appreciated. .
.
.
"Good evening, Mr. Angel," some meaningless employee says as I walk by.
Everyone in this firm knows me. "Hello Mr. Angel", "'Night Mr. Angel", "Mr. Angel", "Mr. Angel"...
I know maybe 15 people by name here. These people just see me as 'The Boss'. "Don't mess with him, he might hack off your head like he did to poor Bernie last week." Whispers follow me when I walk down the halls. Heads turn. Everything pauses. It's only for a second, but it's there.
Walking in to my office, I see all the objects that fill the space. All of it's mine. I didn't really place a single thing in here by myself. Some faceless designer did. Just like my apartment. The kitchen. The living room. My bedroom even. Everywhere I go has the decorated precision of a constructed look. They have been designed to be casual. To look lived in.
The hotel was like a home. There was no order to the placement of individual objects. No one asked where I wanted something to go. If it was okay to move one of the things that resided in my space. Cordelia even used to.... But she's not really here anymore, so what does it matter?
So many people over the years. Over the decades. They come, they go. I'll never do that. I just exist. Some don't even get that chance. So many people...
I walk over to my desk, sit down in the big designer chair, and reach down to open the lowest drawer. In the back, behind all of the junk, there lies one of the few remainders of my life in the first years in L.A. A reminder of one that is lost, and probably not remembered by many more than me. Not like 'Mr. Angel'.
I place it in the slot of my personal TV, and I press PLAY.
The Irish voice lilts through the room "If you need help. Then look no further. Angel Investigations is the best! Our rats are low,"
"Rates!" Ah, yes. Cordelia.
"It says 'rats'. - Our rates are low, but our standards are high. When the chips are down, and you're at the end of your rope you need someone that you can count on. And that's what you'll find here - someone that will go all the way, no matter what. So don't lose hope. Come on over to our offices and you'll see that there's still heroes in this world."
He was the embodiment of my cause. What I had dedicated the rest of my existence to; he lived through his every action. Even in death. He's all that's left. A recording on a tape. All that's left of a time before corruption. Back when things were simple.
There's still heroes in the world he says. Still heroes in the world.
STOP
REWIND
What would he do if he saw us now? Still heroes? If that's even what I am now...
PLAY
What would he do, if he saw the 'heroes' we became? Not heroes at all.
"Come on over to our offices and you'll see that there's still heroes in this world. ...Is that it? Am I done?".......
STOP
REWIND
l
Please!
l
l
l
V
Title: Am I done?
Summary: Angel's the big shot in Wolfram and Hart. Life isn't as good as it seems when he remembers someone from his past.
Rating: G
A/N: unbeta'd. One-shot. kinda just made it up on the spur of the moment, when I was issing- oh, but I probably shouldn't tell you yet. Reviews are appreciated! Hope you like.
Disclaimer: I do not own green eggs and ham. I do not own any Angel fans. I do not own Angel either. I do not own a single beaver. (I sure wish I did, though. Those beavers are cute)
Feedback: Ritual sacrifices must be made. Donations are appreciated. .
.
.
"Good evening, Mr. Angel," some meaningless employee says as I walk by.
Everyone in this firm knows me. "Hello Mr. Angel", "'Night Mr. Angel", "Mr. Angel", "Mr. Angel"...
I know maybe 15 people by name here. These people just see me as 'The Boss'. "Don't mess with him, he might hack off your head like he did to poor Bernie last week." Whispers follow me when I walk down the halls. Heads turn. Everything pauses. It's only for a second, but it's there.
Walking in to my office, I see all the objects that fill the space. All of it's mine. I didn't really place a single thing in here by myself. Some faceless designer did. Just like my apartment. The kitchen. The living room. My bedroom even. Everywhere I go has the decorated precision of a constructed look. They have been designed to be casual. To look lived in.
The hotel was like a home. There was no order to the placement of individual objects. No one asked where I wanted something to go. If it was okay to move one of the things that resided in my space. Cordelia even used to.... But she's not really here anymore, so what does it matter?
So many people over the years. Over the decades. They come, they go. I'll never do that. I just exist. Some don't even get that chance. So many people...
I walk over to my desk, sit down in the big designer chair, and reach down to open the lowest drawer. In the back, behind all of the junk, there lies one of the few remainders of my life in the first years in L.A. A reminder of one that is lost, and probably not remembered by many more than me. Not like 'Mr. Angel'.
I place it in the slot of my personal TV, and I press PLAY.
The Irish voice lilts through the room "If you need help. Then look no further. Angel Investigations is the best! Our rats are low,"
"Rates!" Ah, yes. Cordelia.
"It says 'rats'. - Our rates are low, but our standards are high. When the chips are down, and you're at the end of your rope you need someone that you can count on. And that's what you'll find here - someone that will go all the way, no matter what. So don't lose hope. Come on over to our offices and you'll see that there's still heroes in this world."
He was the embodiment of my cause. What I had dedicated the rest of my existence to; he lived through his every action. Even in death. He's all that's left. A recording on a tape. All that's left of a time before corruption. Back when things were simple.
There's still heroes in the world he says. Still heroes in the world.
STOP
REWIND
What would he do if he saw us now? Still heroes? If that's even what I am now...
PLAY
What would he do, if he saw the 'heroes' we became? Not heroes at all.
"Come on over to our offices and you'll see that there's still heroes in this world. ...Is that it? Am I done?".......
STOP
REWIND
l
Please!
l
l
l
V