AN:
This final chapter is dedicated with thanks to Leanne from ff.net, who's reviews always brightened my day, and gave me a lot of insight into my writing. Thanks Leanne, I really appreciate it.
Part five.
Enjoy.
Angel hesitates, staring at the man, body shaking, anger right at his core. "…and I would care because…"
The man sets his briefcase down, and puts out a hand as if to shake. Angel does not counter with his own. The man sighs, and puts his hands in his pockets.
"Look, Angel. The council being in town was a coincidence. Really and truly. Althought it was easy to get them to help us. They do owe us a few favors. There was that time with the Mohra demons…not to mention lots and lots of apocalypse prophecies they just can't quite understand. Like the one that mentions you, for example."
Angel starts at this, getting a good look at the man finally. Tall, young, clean cut, pressed suit, short dark hair. "Okay, Manners, was it? What exactly do you want from me?" Hearing the words outloud, Angel's anger is upon him, and he slams the young lawyer into the wall, his forearm resting under Manners' throat. "I'm tired of playing games. You put something in the blood. Some type of hormone, a rage booster. Why me? And do you really know who you're dealing with?" he grits out, Angelus roaring with laughter in the little cage in Angel's mind.
Bring it on, baby.
Manners begins to choke out something, and Angel presses a little harder. "What was that? I can't quite hear you."
Manners pushes Angel's arm away from his throat, and gasps out, "You don't know your own place in the world, do you? How important, what kind of role you'll play? Or maybe the role Angelus will play? We're just trying something out, Angel. Something to help you, help the Watchers. Will he, or won't he? And how will it benefit my firm, most importantly?"
Angel drops his arm, and the man falls to his knees, breathing hard. He begins to laugh slowly as his breathing returns to normal.
"All I know is for fifty years I've eaked out an existance away from mortals. And I really would like to keep it that way…you know of Angelus? Then you should know how idiotic you are to try and call him up. It sounds as if you don't even know what role I'm playing in this so called apocalypse. And when the hell did prophecies start becoming reliable? And why would a law firm care? You fools have no idea who you're trifiling with."
"You're a blind idiot if you don't know who we are, Angel. We've been here since the beginning. We'll be here at the end. Anything remotely evil or immoral, we've got our fingers in. I've a feeling we've crossed paths before. We have roots all over the world. Even in Romania."
Angel feels what little blood that was in his face drain from it.
"Enough of these games. You've proven that you're too dangerous to deal with now. No matter what the prophecies decree. But I think you'll be interested in some of the details…maybe not now, but in say, oh, about 47 years? Stay away from the blood banks. We won't be contacting you again. And the Watchers? They're inept fools. They can be called off."
Angel cocks his head at the man, confused. "Wait a minute. Didn't you just tell me there was a plan to bring Angelus out, see what he's made of? See what side I'll play on for your apocalypse? Why the sudden change of heart?"
Manners stands, straightening his tie. "Because, Angel. This was simply a trial. A test, if you will. Now that we know you, and know of your mettle, we don't need to poison you further. The blood? Just a prototype. It's effects will wear off in a few days. We know you now. And that's enough. But I'll need to leave something with you."
Holland reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small black box. "I think you'll be wanting this. Not anytime soon, but…soon enough." He pitches the box to Angel, who catches it in one hand. "Be seeing you around, Angel. Oh, and by the way…" Manners claps his hands suddenly, and the room becomes darker, if that's possible. A loud chanting fills the air, and Angel is suddenly swimming in dizzyness and the smell of incense, and he slumps to his side, unable to stand. He watches as Holland Manners walks out of the room, and his final movement before the blackness takes him is to grip the tiny box in his hand so hard his knuckles ache as his eyes ultimately snap shut.
A few days later, and Angel is in an alley behind the local Italian eatery. Rats scurry by, but not fast enough. Snap! Dinner.
He wipes his mouth, and dejectedly trudges back to the Hyperion. He's been feeling a bit dodgy lately, and can't figure out why. The last few days have been a blur to him; he vaguely remembers fighting, but can't remember who or why.
And then there's the mystery of the black box he discovered in his jacket pocket this morning.
After opening it, he could only stand and stare, not comprehending where he got it or why he had it in his pocket.
The small box only contained one item- a silver Claddagh ring like the ones from back home. He's not sure why, but he feels compelled to hold onto it. So he has.
His tattoo seems to be healing nicely, quickly like he expected. He has the feeling he's missing some vital information, but for the life of him, he can't dredge it up.
He's getting that restlessness again. That feeling that something isn't exactly right. That feeling of wanting to hide all over again. And he can't shake the guilt. It's always there, but this time it's so much worse.
And Angelus feels oh so close right now.
He leaves the Hyperion, ostensibly to take a walk, and passes by several loud residents discussing the latest Elvis movie. He dimly notices as a young woman with dark hair bumps his legs with her suitcase, a square number that seems twice as large as she is. The bellhop is telling her to go to the second floor, that's where she'll find her room.
Mumbling apologies, he brushes past her, and out into the night.
Now.
I watch him as he finishes, cocking my head to the side, and I raise my eyebrows.
"Wolfram and Hart gave you the Claddagh. And how is it you remember all this now, and didn't before?"
He sighs at me, and states, "You know, now that you mention it, I honestly didn't remember any of it until I was telling you. And that really pisses me off. They did a mind wipe on me? Had I known any of this…damn it. Things could have been…" he stops, clearly crestfallen.
"Angel? You know…things have always kind of been this way for us. 20/20 hindsight, you know? I'm sorry- I know its weird to have things happen to you that you tend to…overlook, or to forget. But that's all passed now. And you have that tattoo to remind you. You won't ever forget again."
He locks his fingers together, gazing down at them. "They gave me the Claddagh. 47 years before I met you. All of this was pre planned, Buffy. All of it. God."
I kneel before him, and take his hands in mine. "Sweetheart, I would have cared a lot last year. Heck, I would have cared last week. But so much has changed, and I don't care. I don't care if some evil beasty wanted us together so it could destroy L.A. or the world. We won. And we're still together. And no spell made me love you. You made me love you. And nothing is ever gonna change that. You're stuck with me, okay?" I tell him, and some part of me inside thinks, oh god I hope he feels the same way. It's funny after so many years and so many trials together I can still be unsure of him.
He meets my gaze, and smiles at last, the crooked grin. "Trust me, I'm okay with that," and he leans forward to meet my lips with his. Bliss…but there's something missing. "Angel…if you're gonna do that, you gotta concentrate, okay? No brooding, no worrying. Wedding nothwithstanding, you and I have a lot of catching up to do. This will work itself out, I promise. And if it doesn't…we have plenty of time and resources to figure it out. Now, me time!"
He laughs, and pulls me to him, and all thoughts of demon law firms, tattoos, drugged blood, and a morose Angel flee my mind as we touch.
I hope he doesn't ask me about my tattoo.
Fin.