Disclaimer: We do not own any of the characters or settings mentioned herein. Thank you, Joss, for letting us play with them. Also, we borrowed many lines from both BtVS and AtS that are not ours for flashback purposes, and we thank the writers of both shows for giving us such great material to work with.
Spoilers: Erm. Just to be safe, everything that Angel has ever experienced up until the episode "Billy" in AtS season 3. You'll see what we mean.
Pairings: None, just friendship and hints of what's to come.
Feedback: It is the food that sustains us. Please contribute to the needy.
Triggers: There is a violently sexual scene in chapter six. There is no rape, but things head in that direction before they're stopped. Otherwise, there's some violence, but nothing overly graphic.
Author's Notes: This story was co-written with Babblefest—and I really do mean co-written. She wrote some of the scenes, and I had some of the good ideas. We've been working on this piece together for years (we're not sure exactly how many, but at least six): we both edited, brainstormed, wrote, bounced ideas off each other, researched, brewed creativity-sustaining tea, and provided cookies baked with incentive and motivation. Babblefest has her own profile and story published, which you can (and should) check out here: fanfiction u/836081/. The only reason (and I mean only reason) that this story is published under my name is because I did most of the actual writing. I regret that does not have a way to link one story to two authors, and if they ever figure out how to do that, ours will be the first to do so.
This story takes place between the episodes "Fredless" and "Billy" in Angel season three.
Chapter One
The night was like any other: balmy with a slight breeze; the stars above washed out in the Los Angeles city lights and haze. Teenagers sauntered along the sidewalks, looking for fun ways to start the night. A tired young mother hurried past the myriad of buildings, a long day of work finally over. Paparazzi slid from shadow to shadow, hoping to find that million-dollar shot. It was a typical scene on a typical night. What they didn't know was that back in the allies something equally typical was happening – though anyone not used to it would think it quite atypical, indeed. Behind a popular night club, a beast of horrid proportions lay dead with its dark, thick red blood streaming across the pavement and flowing into a sewer drain with a sickening slosh. Its neck was almost completely severed and there were several gaping wounds in its leathery side. The mouth hung open to reveal three-inch yellowed teeth, and a sticky blue slime dripped from the entire carcass.
Nearby, Cordelia Chase lay seemingly unconscious in a pile of broken wood, Charles Gunn slumped against the opposite wall, and Angel stood in between the two, his hands on his knees in exhaustion and watching Wesley cut the rest of the head off the beast's body, just to make sure it was truly dead.
Gunn groaned from his position against the wall and tenderly checked his body for broken bones. All of them sported various injuries; Angel bore a nasty slice on his left arm, while Wesley could feel a small lump growing at the back of his head. There was a sudden commotion from the pile of wood as Cordelia shoved the few planks of wood off herself.
"Is everyone alright?" She asked, taking Angel's outstretched hand and pulling herself up. Gunn's fatigued voice echoed from across the alley,
"Well, the demon isn't."
"Anyone we care about?" She restated with an impatient sigh.
"We're fine, Cordelia." Angel said. "You?"
Cordelia shrugged and gave an accepting half-smile. "What's a few extra cuts and bruises? They match the ones I got from the Quaylan demon last night. Oh, and that Sherkall last week." She raised a finger. "And let's not forget the Warthog the week before that."
"Nart 'ogg." Wesley automatically corrected, wearily pushing himself to his feet and extending an arm to pull Gunn up. Cordelia didn't respond. She had been inspecting the severity of her new injuries, but instead she noticed the creature's thick blue goo that was splattered all over her shirt.
"Oh, crap! Someone tell me this washes out!" Cordelia surveyed her new shirt with disgust and made a mental note never to wear brand new clothes to the office again. Gunn glanced down at his own slime-covered jacket, extending his arms and assessing the damage. Angel attempted to brush some off his sleeve, but failed when it stuck to his hand and he had to wipe it off on his pants. Wesley, now realizing he couldn't see as well as he ought to, took off his glasses and saw that they were specked with the blue substance.
"Oh! Um, yes, I believe so," he said, unfolding a mercifully unsoiled handkerchief and wiping his glasses. "The blue might stain, but mucus itself is generally not too difficult to wash out."
"What?" Cordy's head snapped up, her eyebrows raised so high they were practically invisible beneath her messy bangs. Beside her, Angel hastily stopped wiping his sword on his jacket. "Mucus? Stain?"
"Whoa, let's stay on the mucus part," Gunn leaned closer to Wesley, as if hoping the few inches would change what he heard. "You sure, man? This is demon snot? Last I checked, I don't sneeze blue."
"Oh, yes, don't worry." Wesley had obviously missed the intent of the question. "The color has nothing to do with its function, which, incidentally, is part of its defense system." He smiled, "This is most certainly Numar mucus."
Not noticing the disgusted looks on Gunn and Cordelia's faces or the distastefully wrinkled nose and on Angel's, Wesley proceeded to label his sample.
"There." Wesley said, straightening up after double-checking that the container was tightly sealed. "Well, then, I'll see you all bright and early tomorrow morning!" He said, smiling cheerfully and pocketing the jar.
"No way, man, I'm sleeping in tomorrow. Since when do we get calls bright and early, anyway?"
"Well, I -"
"Me, too." Cordelia said. "I'm getting this shirt clean!" Wesley looked at Angel, his face falling.
"Hey, I always sleep in," Angel shrugged. He wrinkled his nose again. It had a rather bitter odor, not unlike burnt cauliflower. "But maybe Fred will be up to help you." He added as an afterthought. Of its own accord, Wesley's face suddenly brightened, then turned a delicate shade of pink.
"Oh, well, yes, I suppose that would be alright."
"Good. I'm going home, then." Cordelia said, wondering how fast Numar mucus dried and if she would have enough stain remover to get every trace of blue out of the fabric.
"I'll give you a ride," Gunn offered. Grateful that she didn't have to take the bus home, Cordy quickly agreed and followed Gunn back down the alley.
"Right," said Wesley, dislodging his machete from the creature's throat before helping Angel gather the few remaining weapons to take back to the Hyperion. "What's really fascinating about the Numar," Wesley started as they made their way toward Angel's car, "is that it may have originated in two places simultaneously. Fossilized remains have been found in both Tibet and Mongolia dating from the same time era, give or take a few centuries, of course, and since Numars typically aren't nomadic, all evidence suggests that they originated in both places, in that sense rendering them entirely unique creatures." They reached the end of the ally and entered the crowded sidewalk. Angel hoped that the stream of people would drown Wesley out, but he persisted over the babble of loud college students and tourists on their way to one of the many night clubs and bars that lined the street. "In 1863 Vincent Marchfield–"
"Wesley." Angel turned his head and cut him off finally, only half concentrating on weaving through the people—none of whom took a second look at the sharp, now-slimy-blue weapons that Angel and Wesley were carrying. "It's late. I've had a long night. Not n—" Angel caught himself as he stumbled into an elderly man. A cheap touristy figurine that the man had been carrying clattered to the ground.
"Sorry," Angel mumbled, stooping to pick up the object out of habit more than benevolence. The old man grabbed the object out of Angel's hands with an angry grunt and a curse to "self-absorbed young people," and hobbled off. Angel, in a rather grumpy mood himself, wanted to shout something about his having well over 150 years on the old man, but thought better of it. Angel crossed the few remaining feet to his car and threw his weapons in a little harder than was probably good for them.
The Numar conversation not forgotten, Wesley pressed on, "But really, Angel. Once you hear Marchfield's theory on how a species might originate in two sep—" Angel glared once in Wesley's direction and Wesley cut himself off. Wesley knew when not to provoke a vampire, even if the vampire was a good friend, and this seemed like one of those times. He carefully placed the weapons he was carrying in the car with the rest as Angel slid into the driver's seat.
Trying to sound cheerful, Wesley said, "Maybe tomorrow, then."
"Tomorrow." Angel said as he started the car and drove off, planning to sleep in as late as possible so he would miss Wesley's lecture to the others the next afternoon.
It had been a rough night at Angel Investigations as Angel finally arrived back at his hotel. After helping two terrified people who had called in with zombie problems, Angel, Wesley, Gunn, and Cordelia had come across the Numar demon that had been preparing to devour a young couple. Angel was now covered in cuts, bruises, and the blue mucus that Wesley had been so thrilled to collect.
Exhausted, Angel made his way to his room, washed off the slime, and sank gratefully into his bed. Sleep caught up to him so quickly that he almost didn't notice the sudden weight that materialized at the end of his bed. Angel opened his eyes and peered into the near complete darkness of the room. A small figure was sitting on the corner of the mattress.
"Fred?" Angel asked. "What's wrong?" She didn't answer. Angel reached over to the lamp next to his bed so he could talk to Fred properly.
Angel's un-beating heart almost seemed to pound in his chest. As the light filled the room and illuminated the petit brunette who was watching him with her sweet brown eyes, Angel realized with an unrivaled horror that it wasn't Fred sitting so placidly at the end of his bed.
Angel blinked, and his sister was gone.