Author's Note: All lines from "Welcome to the Hellmouth" belong to Joss Whedon. No copyright infringement intended.
I have changed the timeline a bit to suit my purposes. The action takes place close to Halloween, and I have also changed the clothing that Angel was wearing.
Summary: A new ally for a lonely soul. A look into Buffy the Vampire Slayer season one.
Rated PG
Feedback is always appreciated.
Enjoy!
*
One.
Cold wind whips at the man staring in the shop window, one of many decorating the main street. Bright lights, a pretty display, and various shoppers reflect back at him. He doesn't see himself in the glass.
He doesn't feel the wind; his leather duster moves slightly in the breeze, but he can't feel the bite of the temperature. Southern California is not known for it's harsh winters, but this one is a tad cold, even for the residents of the weird little town known as Sunnydale.
Earthquakes, the Santa Anas, dust storms, swarms of bugs; the town's inhabitants have experienced a lot since the beginning, back when the Spanyards called it La Boca Del Inferno. A little chill doesn't dampen their spirits. In fact, the cold weather has made them even more eager for shopping.
Halloween is a week away, and the Christmas decorations are already up on Main street.
The lone man looks upward, the blinking lights wrapped around the traffic signal pole winking at him, causing his pale skin to look blue, then green.
He shakes his head, not understanding the constant hurry up go go go of the mortals rushing around him any more. He had been there once, and had felt it too, then. Go rush rush grow up work family life get there do this now.
His life has slowed down a lot since one night in his hometown, a night when a pretty vision had tempted him to abandon expectations and dream of possibility. Oh, how he wished sometimes that he hadn't hated his responsibilities so much then, and hadn't followed the candy coated image of dreams made pink creamy flesh and blond curled hair.
It's long past too late for regret now, and the man looks in the window of the shop again, a particular necklace snagging his eye, making him reach out his hand and touch the glass, getting as close as he can to the bauble.
His hand feels the heat slightly through the thick material, and his skin sizzles just slightly at the nearness of it.
He makes up his mind, and heads into the shop.
The bell on the door tinkles merrily, and the shopkeeper looks up, a smile on her face, her attention rivited immediately on the dark, deep eyes of the man.
"Hello, sir. How are you this evening?"
He nods, and approaches the till.
"That necklace in the window- how much is it?"
"The cross? It's beautiful, isn't it? Made in Mexico, they have the best sterling silver. It's a hundred. It comes with the chain as well- would you like to see it?"
He bobs his head once in assent, and the clerk bustles out from behind the register, and leans over the edge of the short wall blocking customers from reaching into the display and grabbing the merchandise out of the window.
The man's eyes follow the line of the woman's leg, the curve of her hips, and the place where her shoulder meets her throat. He narrows his gaze, and can see the slow throb of the large vein in her neck. He watches, entranced, as she removes the necklace, and slowly walks back toward him.
"Here it is, sir," she says, and hands him the jewelry. He puts out his palm, his gaze still rivited on the pulse beating beneath her skin.
"Ah!" a hiss escapes his lips, and he drops the necklace, quickly shoving his hand into his coat pocket, the small amount of smoke that drifts from his burns quickly dissapating.
"Oh, are you alright? Did it poke you? I'm really sorry," the woman rattles, blushing furiously, and bends over to pick up the piece.
"I'm sorry, something must have pinched me, I wasn't paying attention," the man says, his voice husky and rusty with disuse. The saleswoman stands, the necklace in her hands. She is suddenly hyperaware of her body, and nervously plays with her hair as she looks at her customer, unconciously licking her lips.
"Did you want to purchase this, sir…" she says shakily, her eyes drawn again to his, and something inside her breaks as she drowns in the pain and regret that she can see in the brown irises.
"Yes, please. Could you wrap it up?"
"O-of course," she answers, and walks on weak legs to the counter, where she hastily places the necklace in a black gift box, dropping it into a small brown paper bag.
"Cash or charge?"
"Cash."
She takes his money, and hands him the bag.
"Thank you, uh," she says, expecting him to tell her his name. She would run across the freeway in downtown Los Angeles to hear him say his name just once.
"Thank you," he looks at her name tag, "Lindsay."
"Anytime," she says, toying with the nape of her neck.
"Lindsay!" a voice snaps, and she turns her head for a moment. "These dressing rooms won't clean themselves."
"Alright, alright, I'll be right there," she grumps, and turns back to the man again, only to see the tail end of his coat as the door shuts behind him.
She stares for a minute, watching as his dark head disappears around the corner.
"Lindsay!"
She sighs, and heads toward the dressing rooms. A little shiver possesses her briefly, and she rubs her arms, willing the goose bumps there to go away.
In truth, she's glad he's gone, glad she doesn't have to look at that beautiful face, that flawless, pale pale skin; and most of all, she's glad she doesn't have to look again into the perfect guilt and shame that had radiated from his intense and shadowed eyes.
*
Two.
The man in the leather coat hustles down the street, hurry hurry it's back to that, and turns quickly down the alley that runs parellel to the nightclub called The Bronze. He stops near a dumpster, discarding the brown paper sack the girl had given him, and opens the top of the black gift box containing the necklace he had bought.
The shiny silver cross lays in the white cotton of the packaging, silently. He squints at it, as if expecting it to jump up at him and yell, "vampire!"
He touches the chain, almost reverantly. His fingers tingle the closer he gets to the main part of the jewelry.
He snaps the box shut, and raises his face, checking the stars, gauging the time. Near enough.
She's coming- he knows that much. And he has to be prepared.
He is now.
He hears the crunch of her footsteps, and secrets himself behind the dumpster, watching as she passes, her blond hair piled messily on the top of her head, the absurdley high boots clacking on the pavement.
He slips out of the alley, following her, preternatural stealth on his side. He stops when she stops, however, and is taken aback that she might hear him.
He keeps following, running his speech in his head, over and over.
She speeds up, heading wisely towards The Bronze, and he continues on after her, stepping into the dark alley she had turned into, another alley, another dark street. He's had his fill of them.
He stops again suddenly. She's not there. The alley is empty.
He looks around, confused. Damn it, he has to do this now, or he's going to chicken out.
Out of nowhere a high heeled shoe rams into his back, sending him sprawling, knocking him on his ass.
She's standing over him, her foot planted firmly on his chest.
He looks up at her, and smiles, assuming the cocky persona he's decided to try.
"Ah, heh heh, is there a problem, ma'am?"
She gives him a look, rolling her eyes, her fists clenched, ready to defend herself.
"Yeah, there's a problem. Why are you following me?"
He winces, and raises his palms. "I know what you're thinking. Don't worry- I don't bite."
She backs off, and lets him up. He stands, rolling his shoulders.
"Truth is, I thought you'd be taller, or bigger muscles and all that. You're pretty spry, though."
He rubs his neck, making a show of it.
In truth, he should be rubbing his heart.
This tiny thing is the Slayer? She's much, much different than she had been the first time he had set his eyes on her, outside of her school in LA, long hair, miniskirt, attitude.
He can see her spirit now, easier than the first time. And he's dismayed to discover it's shadowed.
A bit like his own.
"What do you want?" she asks, her hands still held up defensively.
"The same thing you do," he answers, approaching her slowly.
"Okay. What do I want?" she replies, her guard relaxing slightly.
He hesitates, not sure of what to tell her. The truth is always the best.
"To kill them. To kill them all."
She looks at him, a surprised and humorous expression crossing her features. "Sorry, that's incorrect. But you do get this lovely watch and a year's supply of turtle wax. What I want is to be left alone!"
She whirls on her heel then, and he pursues her doggedly.
"Do you really think that's an option anymore? You're standing at the mouth of Hell. And it's about to open."
She stops, and turns to face him again, a wide eyed look on her face; this time no hint of humor accompanies it.
He reaches into his pocket, retrieving the black box he had purchased earlier in the evening.
"Don't turn your back on this," he starts, and tosses her the box. She catches it. "You've gotta be ready."
She cocks her head at this, the box unopened in her hands. "For what?"
He smiles then, a nasty, flirty, promising smile. "For the Harvest."
She puts a hand on her hip. "Who are you?"
His voice catches in his throat, the remote possibility that she might listen to him making hope fly through his body like a small, trapped bird.
"Let's just say…I'm a friend."
He turns to go, and rejoices silently when she calls out another sentance.
"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want a friend."
He turns back then, but continues walking, taking backward steps gracefully, as if he didn't have a care in the world.
"Didn't say I was yours."
He melts into the darkness, leaving the new Slayer staring after him, trouble marring her young face.
*
Three.
The vampire watches the Slayer as she opens the black box, and stares at the cross, finally lifting it out of the packaging.
He trembles as she twists it, letting the light catch it. She finally puts it away, slipping the box into her pocket, feet hurrying away from the alley, and into the light of the club.
He can hear the pounding of the bass as the door is opened, and he releases a little woosh of stress filled air as she moves quietly into the Bronze.
He lets his head fall back against the brick wall of the alley.
First contact.
Check. And Mate.
He exits the alley, his coat billowing behind him as the wind picks up, his head down and arms tucked closely to his sides, not daring to even contemplate the possibility of accidentally touching one of the rushing shoppers.
He hurries home to his apartment, clicking on the small lamp by the door as he enters, the new smell of the place hitting his sensitive nose like a two by four. He sneezes, and drops his duster on the corner of one overstuffed chair that sits in front of the small bookshelf he's just installed.
He sinks to the bed, toeing off his boots, and lays himself out on top of the covers. He stills, no need to keep up the pretense of the constant little tics that accompany human life.
His chest stops rising and falling, and his body ceases to move.
Memories threaten to overwhelm him, and the familiar and habitual pain of guilt makes it's presence known, and he welcomes it, the momentary joy he had experienced in finally speaking to her dying as quickly as it had come.
In the last minute before he succumbs to sleep, though, his mouth twitches slightly, and a human action that he rarely practices appears briefly. A smile.
He sleeps then.
The sleep of the just? No.
But he sleeps the same, content at least that he's helping.
He dreams of his cross resting around her neck, and in his dream he doesn't walk away.
In his dream when she asks him who he is, he tells her.
And she accepts him, with all his faults, all his remorse, all his crimes forgiven.
His full lips move in his sleep, her name sighing out quietly.
And the vampire with a soul, the only one in the whole world, feels just a little bit less alone.
Fin.
