Disclaimer: I obviously don't own a single bit of the W.I.T.C.H. franchise. Otherwise, the t.v. series would totally still be running.

A/N: Honestly, I really don't know. The idea for this fic has been sitting around at the base of my skull for nearly a year after I re-watched the series, but I never had enough motivation to do the piece justice. And I'm just lying around today, completely procrastinating from a Forensics paper that's due tomorrow, when blam. Inspiration. Muses are weird and unpredictable...

Hm. I dunno, but I really liked this one. For some reason, the concept of being trapped in a deadlock with a dark fallen angel like Shagon seemed so appealing to me; I tried to make the piece as cynical and dark as I could. And I'm probably annoying you with all of my nonsensical rambling. Right. On to the fic.

Hope you enjoy and all that, and remember to leave some nice constructive criticism on your way out. Much thanks to those of you who do.

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Beneath the Bronze

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The summer air crept through the windowsill, filling the room and turning it into a sauna of unbearable warmth. The sweltering heat caused clothes to cling to sweaty backs in a sticky paste, and the golden glow of the sun was faint on the horizon, vivid and bright in its setting.

But Matt noticed none of these things.

He lay on his bed, hands pulled carelessly behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling and allowed his roving mind to wander.

Will and the others had gone out—or, really, been dragged screaming—by Irma and Cornelia on a soothing, relaxing, magic and freak-free day of bliss, spa, and general girlishness (he was pretty sure that was how the two girls had phrased it). He'd nodded understandingly at Will's apologetic smile, knowing that there was no way to escape a Cornelia hellbent on her goal, and had gracefully surrendered Will to the Guardians.

Nigel had offered to practice today, but he'd turned the offer down because it was way too hot. That, and he was just feeling particularly lazy today and just wanted to longue indoors.

So he was on his bed in his messy room.

Impulsively, he reached over for the CD player on his nightstand, flicked the switch, and rolled the volume up, leaving the headphones to lie listlessly and forgotten on his pillow.

"My dark angel, take me away. Into the night, to a better day..."

Huh. Dark angel.

That was something Matt could understand. Didn't he have something like that lurking in him? It was a thought he'd been pondering over the last few weeks ever since he'd been granted a portion of Lilian's powers, a thought he'd been denying. But it was still true.

Shagon was gone, but a part of him—more than the magic—still clung on to Matt desperately. It was uncomfortable to think that the monster who'd once nearly destroyed everything he loved was now a permanent part of his soul.

He cranked the volume up louder.

He didn't need to dwell on those thoughts. Brooding silently wasn't his specialty, and he didn't have any intention of changing that.

Matt closed his eyes, letting the music and a cool wave of unconsciousness wash over him.

The meadow there was peaceful, green and grassy and quaint. The sun glinted off a nearby pond, lighting the water's surface with a bright glare as the cool breeze raked through his hair. It was a beautiful place.

But it had nothing on Will.

She was standing in front of him, beautiful and shy and smiling. Her hands were twisted behind her back and she was doing that nervous twitchy thing with her foot, her cheeks flushed red with flustered excitement, and it only made her look more gorgeous than before. Actually, she was glowing—radiating like she had her own personal sun hovering behind her eyes.

But she seemed taller for some reason, almost like she was towering over him. And she had this waiting expression on...

Matt felt his heart jump to his throat. He was on one knee.

The realization made him panicky for a moment. What was he doing, what was he thinking? Wasn't he too young, too immature, to take care of Will the way she needed to be? The way she deserved to be?

But then he stamped the thought out—it was as stupid one, anyway. He loved Will, more than anything else, so much that he couldn't really make sense of how maddeningly powerful that love was—and she loved him back. That wouldn't change. And hadn't they already proved by saving the universe several times over that they could take care of themselves?

"Will, will you marry me?"

The words tumbled out of Matt's mouth in his jitteriness, but Will didn't seem to mind. She was still smiling, still glowing, and her mouth was opening... and he could swear that she was going to say yes, and...

"Hello, Matty."

And a voice that wasn't Will's echoed back at him.

The meadow vanished in a wisp of steaming white smoke as Matt cursed under his breath. He knew this place, had seen it far too many times before, and he knew who was calling him.

Shagon floated down gracefully from the misty heavens, the ruffled strands of his discarded feathers raining down over both of them as he descended.

"Screw off, Shagon," Matt snarled. Really, he didn't think anyone could argue that he didn't have a right to be hostile towards the shadow of a man that'd leeched off of his free will and forever corrupted his soul.

"C'mon," Shagon taunted, taking a careful step forward, "don't be like that. It really hurts."

The black wings curved around Matt protectively, possessively, cradling him in their feathery embrace. But he knew from their unique circumstance that it was probably the dark angel's impulsive reflex of self-preservation.

Didn't make it any less creepy, though.

"What d'you want, Shagon?"

"Can't I just pop in to chat with my best bud? It gets a little lonely in your head."

Matt didn't respond.

"Right. I guess your pissed that I broke your utterly fantastic day dream." Shagon laughed cruelly. "Grow up, you idiot. How long do you think any of this will last, before one of you gets killed and the other commits romantic suicide? Are you two trying to up Romeo and Juliet? Or do you really think you'll live long enough to hunker down and live happily ever after?"

"And this is the part where you shut the fuck up," Matt muttered. "Is this what you do all day? Are you so pathetic now that you huddle up in a corner of my head and plot how to piss me off? Is that all that goes on behind that ugly tin mask of yours?"

"What's behind the mask?" the dark angel laughed; a hollow, mirthless laugh. "A void, Matty. An absence of self and will, and a yearning to be more than a ruthless, mindless puppet for murder."

"A little over dramatic?" Matt jeered.

Shagon shook his head. "No. It's the harsh, bitter truth. That's the price you pay when you're just a manifestation of vengeance and destruction." A muscled hand stroked Shagon's chin absentmindedly. "You can't imagine what it's like. The oblivion gapes open like a maw of endless despair, swallowing all sense, all humanity, and everything that makes you who you are... and leaves you empty."

A dark chuckle.

"I guess that does sound a little melodramatic," the dark angel mused. "But it still doesn't change the facts. I'm hollow and empty on the inside, and I stretch on for an eternity without a purpose. You don't know what it's like being without a soul, or anything at all, and stop. Laughing!"

Matt bit back another bout of mocking laughter. "Sorry. You'll have to forgive the cynicism, but I don't really care about your damn problems, Shagon. Sorry you're pathetic, sorry you're emotionless, but I can't really feel bad for you. Now can you let me go, already? I'm tired of your soap opera of a life."

The gnarled strands of black hair spilled over the gold plating as Shagon leaned closer, sightless eyes glaring into the very core of Matt's soul and smouldering.

"Go ahead," the angel whispered. "Take it. Take it and don't ever question my suffering again."

Hesitating for only a moment, Matt reached out, his breath fogging the mask with white mist as his fingers wrapped around the cold metal. He felt a sickening sense of dread, of fear, and... strangely...curiosity. Finally, he'd know what made Shagon tick, know what went on within the soul of a fallen angel turned monster. His numb fingers found their grip and pulled.

And then he woke up screaming.

Matt's hands flew to his mouth, stifling the noise. He bit into them, bit them hard until the taste of something warm and sticky ran over his lips. It took his disoriented mind a while to remember how to pry those bleeding hands from his face.

His heart raced as he looked around the room wildly. The heat of the sun had faded, replaced by a cool draft, and the room was now draped in a velvet curtain of purply night. He registered this, trying to convince himself that he'd only fallen asleep, that it had all been a dream.

But a part of him already knew that it wasn't.

He'd been wrong before, about Shagon and everything he stood for. He'd been certain that the dark angel had enjoyed his work, that he'd relished it with a sort of sick, sadistic passion that made his skin crawl with pleasure and arousal.

He'd thought that that was all that existed in the depths of his blackened soul. But he'd been wrong. So very, very wrong. The truth made his spine shiver and bile roll in the back of his throat.

Beneath the bronze—beneath the vanished anger and rage and hatred—there was nothing. Nothing at all.