Authors note: Lines from I Will Remember You are the property of it's authors, ME, Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox, The Wb, etc. No copyright infringement is intended.
Four.
August 20, 1941.
A week after Xander's funeral, Angel is back in Pearl Harbor. The Navy had kindly flown him home and back for the event, citing the fact that they needed their officers back at their positions as soon as possible, and didn't want to wait for a boat.
He sits in the dark in his room, unshaven, hair uncombed, tie askew around his neck. A soft knock on the door alerts him to his roommates presence.
"Come in," he says, his voice sounding rusty. He hasn't talked much in the week that he's been back, except to do his job.
"Hey," Wesley says, poking his head in. "How're you?"
Angel shrugs. "Fine."
"Can I turn on one of these lamps? It's really dark in here."
Angel shrugs again, and Wes enters the room, snapping on the bedside lamp that rests on a small table next to the window.
The yellow light makes shadows play across the room, throwing Angel's up against the wall, making it look skinny and uneven.
Wes sits on the bed next to him, and puts a hand on Angel's shoulder. His friend gazes out the window at the beautiful vista of nighttime beach, but Wesley's pretty sure Angel isn't seeing it.
"Angel? We're going to the Luna Bar. I'd really like it if you came. Kate's meeting us there, and they've just set up some Billiard's tables. Apparently Daniel Summers is a champ, and he's bringing some of his Army buddies down for a game. Should be fun…?"
Angel stands, walking to the window. He still hasn't turned to face the other man.
"I'm okay, Wes. Really. I appreciate the offer. I think I'll just stay here, I'm kind of wiped out from my shift."
The monotone coming out of Angel's mouth makes Wesley sad. He's never in the five plus years he's known Angel seen his friend like this. As soon as Wes had heard the news, he had rushed to the house, to find Angel packing to go home. The look of anguish on his friends' face was enough to tear a hole in his gut.
"Oh, my God. I'm so sorry," Wes had said. "Do you know what happened?"
"Routine training," he had answered, voice trembling and cracking. His face was creased and marred by dried up tears that had tracked their way down it.
"It was an accident. One of his associates was showing him a new model of automatic weapon they had received that week. You know he had started working with the artillary, right?" Angel had paused. Wes nodded.
"Somehow some of the models had shipped loaded," Angel snapped out bitterly. "And when they were dry firing it," he continued, but couldn't finish the sentence. He had slumped against the bed, shoulders heaving with sobs. Wes was shocked into silence, immobile, not knowing what to do. Finally he had approached the other man, and tentatively laid a hand on his back.
Angel had jumped up then, fiercely swiping a hand under his eyes.
"I've talked to my folks. The funeral is the eleventh. I'll be back on the 14th. Captain Rayne knows the situation, and my shift will be covered. Can you give me a lift to the airfield?"
Wes had nodded, thankful to have something to do. "Absolutely. You need anything for the trip?"
"No. Just come get me when I get back, okay?"
Wes had bobbed his head in assent, and had taken his friend to the airfield. Angel hadn't said another word until his goodbye before he boarded the small aircraft.
*
"Angel, come on. It won't be as fun without you there," Wes tells him. In reality Wes knows that if Angel were to come, he would sit in the corner, nurse a beer for a few hours, and then walk home by himself. So he's not surprised when he shakes his head. "I'm good here, Wes. You go. Tell Kate I said hello."
Wes shrugs his own shoulders, and says, "Well, if you're sure. But we'll be there for a while. Come on down if you get the notion."
"I will. Thanks."
They both know that won't happen.
*
Angel lets out a sigh of relief when he hears the click of the door shutting. He sinks back down onto his bed, and rolls his large frame into a fetal position.
The funeral had been…a nightmare. And that was being kind.
His mother had wept the entire three days he had been there. And his father had barely said two words to his younger son, choosing instead to make inquiries into everything his elder son had been involved in, the clubs he went to, the friends he hung around with, the daily activities he had engaged in on the base. By the end of the three days, Angel was intimately familiar with the sound of his father's raised voice speaking to the man in charge of Xander's case, a Lieutenant McGregor.
"Nothing in a Watcher's life is coincidental," Rupert had said to Angel, one of the few sentences he had spoken the young man. "There's something fishy at work here."
One time Angel had tried to reason with his father. "Dad- can you please let it go! It was an accident! No one is out to get us, it was a mistake! A horrible, awful mistake! Let Mom have a break from the investigation, okay? For the love of God-" and Rupert had turned his back on his son, slamming the door to his study shut in Angel's face.
They had exchanged a few more words after that, but his father had not accompanied him and his mother to the airport, where Lilly O'Connell had held on to her remaining child, sobbing and clinging to him. He had had to practically peel her arms off his back.
She had stood alone then, watching forelornly as Angel had boarded his transport back to Hawaii.
The almost week he's been back has been a haze of work and sleep, and more work and a few bottles of tequila. He doesn't remember the last time he showered, and if he doesn't shave for his shift tomorrow, his CO will definitely say something to him.
Captain Rayne had already offered him the use of the staff psychologist, but Angel had refused point blank, saying all he needed was a few days to get his legs back. The man had nodded, telling him, "Very well. You are back on official duty. Report to your post at the regular time tomorrow."
Angel had saluted him, and returned to his quarters.
Buffy has tried to visit a few times, but Angel had told Wesley he didn't want to see anyone. At first he had been sorry to turn her away, but now numbness has set in, and thoughts of her haven't crossed his mind recently.
He tries not to look at the beach too much, because it makes him think of her, makes him think of her smile, and her hair, and her strength, and the feel of her small but powerful body wrapped in his arms, her lips on his. And if he allows that, thoughts of his brother will be pushed out of his mind, even for the briefest of minutes, and he can't allow that. It wouldn't be right.
He scrubs a hand over his face, sighing quietly. Maybe just a quick walk on the beach. It's late enough on Friday night that most of the servicemen and women will be in town, drinking it up and having a grand old time.
He shoves shoes on his feet, and exits the house, leaving behind his belt, and his revolver.
*
The ocean breeze pulls at him, trying to whip his cap off his head. He pushes it to the back, where it looks kind of funny, but will stay on.
His uniform flaps in the wind, and he realizes with a start that he hadn't changed into civilian clothing. No big deal, he thinks. No one will be down here.
He's standing at the water's edge, toes getting wet, shoes having been kicked off a few dunes back, when a polite coughing rouses his attention. He swivles around, a thousand emotions racing through his mind at the sight of her.
"Hi," she says softly, and approaches him. "I ran into Wesley on the way to your house, he said you might be out here."
"Oh," he says, and they stand and stare at each other. After a few moments, her face crumbles, and she begins to cry. Alarmed, Angel goes to her.
"What is it? Has something happened?"
"No," she gulps. "I just…I know how much you're hurting, and I don't want to intrude or get in the way, or God forbid cause any more trouble for you, but all I want to do is hold you and feel your arms around me…feel you touching me, everywhere, your lips on mine…and I know that's wrong, cause you're in so much pain, and please help me, the only thing I can think right now is, if he's not holding me, I'll die…I'll wither and expire and God I'm so sorry, so sorry you're going through this, but I need you so much…and it's like somehow, I could feel it, feel you, in me," she sputters, and his own façade cracks, and tears begin to leak down his stubbled cheeks.
They crash together, falling on their knees at the edge of the surf, kissing as if it's their last day together. As if it's the last kiss. And for all they know, it could be.
"Buffy," he sobs her name over and over, his voice cracking. "I love you. I didn't see it before, because it was so fast. But I do. God, I do. I want you, too. So much. Please don't ever leave me," he groans, and she nods frantically, her hands roaming all over his chest, his back, his arms, as if she's trying to assure herself he's there.
"I don't think I could take it if you ever left," he whispers, and she kisses him again, peppering light touches all over his face.
"I won't. Ever. I love you, too," she murmurs to him, her hands entwined with his.
He stands abruptly, swinging her up into his arms. She gazes at him, eyes half lidded with desire, and body radiating heat, her outburst of emotion coloring her face.
He doesn't say a word, but carries her back to the place where he had entered the beach, and up the short porch stairs to his empty house, shutting the door behind him with his foot.
*
In the darkest hour of the night, Buffy and Angel lay together in his bed, limbs entwined, sweat pooling in the hollows of their bodies. She laughs gently as his stubbled face rasps against her cheek. He quirks a half grin at her, and kisses the top of her head. She sighs, a leg wrapped around his, one arm thrown over his chest, her head pillowed in the crook of his neck.
"I've never felt this way," she whispers almost too quietly for him to hear. He opens his eyes, looking down at her.
"What way, love?"
"Just like a normal girl, in the arms of her normal boyfriend," she says, and he squeezes her more tightly against his chest.
"What would make you think you're not normal?" he asks.
"Uh, Slayer? Super powers, abnormal strength, healing ability? It can be a little off putting," she answers.
"I wouldn't want you any other way," he tells her, and she tries to smile, a troubled expression crossing her face. "You don't know me any other way, Angel."
"Buffy," he says, sitting up against the pillows and forcing her to look at him. "I've spent my entire life surrounded by supernatural things and weirdness that regular people couldn't possibly imagine. I don't think I would like a 'normal' girl. You fit me perfectly."
She grins wickedly and drops her hand below the covers. He tries unsuccessfully to stiffle a groan, and pulls her to him.
"You mean fit like this?" she teases, cocking an eyebrow.
"Let me show you," he says, voice a deep rumble.
*
A rustling noise rouses him from her side a few hours later. He leaves the bed, tiptoing so as not to wake her. He slips on his uniform pants, and creeps down the stairs, toward the front door, where he thinks the noise is coming from.
He listens for a moment, and hearing nothing else, opens the front screen, stepping out into the pre dawn air.
Taking a deep breath, Angel fills his lungs with the smell of hibiscus and honeysuckle, blowing out a huge gust of air as he relaxes.
His soul drags at him, but he is definitely feeling a little better. He's determined not to dishonor his brother's memory by becoming a recluse. Xander would want him to live his life, to fulfill his duty to the United States Navy, and to make something of himself. He knows this because he'd want the same thing of his brother if something had happened to him. Especially if the things that have been happening to him lately were happening to Xander.
He considers some of the things Buffy had said to him before, out on the beach. It's like somehow, I could feel it, feel you, in me.
He's used to the strange things, used to psychics and monsters and power that he just barely understands.
There's something about this girl…he does love her.
He's been with plenty of women before, he's no innocent.
But he's never felt the intensity of emotion he feels around this one. And it frightens him. But something in her, something in both of them, is connected.
He knows coming from a Watcher's family, interest in the Slayer is common place. But he's never fallen so hard, so fast before. When they're apart, it's like something is missing from his being. He's never kissed a girl after knowing her for three hours. And if he hadn't kissed Buffy, he knows his whole existence, body and soul, would have felt wrong.
There's something to this. I have to figure it out.
He stretches lazily, and knows instantly that she's awake, and wondering where he is. He smiles, and turns to go back inside the house, noise forgotten.
The clawed hand is around his neck before he can move a muscle. He struggles mightily against it, but can do nothing but try not to pass out as the flow of oxygen is slowly cut off to his brain.
The world lists crazily to one side, and just before he blacks out, he hears a voice say, "This him?"
Another voice replies, the British accent recognizeable to Angel as a lower class twang.
"Indeed it is. Take care with him, wouldn't want any bruising on that pretty mortal skin."
Angel tries to say something along the lines of Let me go! but his head hits the concrete with a meaty smack, and all is darkness.
*
He raises his head groggily, and is really sorry he did. His vision is spotty; white light trails blur across his eyes, and his temple throbs painfully where he had struck the concrete.
A few moments of deep breathing, and he risks cracking open an eye again. Better.
He seems to be in some kind of old, unused warehouse. Boxes and all kinds of junk are piled around the large room, reaching in towering hulking stacks almost to the ceiling.
The dank smell reminds him of the basement in his childhood home. He shifts slowly to a sitting position, and from the clank of metal, realizes his hands and legs are tethered to the wall with chains.
"Hello?" he croaks out, throat raw from the dust in the room.
No one answers. From a tiny window at the top of the room, he can see the sun streaming in, almost high enough to be noon.
He panics suddenly, straining against his bonds, pulling as hard as he can, yanking his hands several times against the rusty cuffs around them.
Gotta get out get out get out Buffy oh my God is she alright they have to know I'm missing by now-
He stops when blood from his wrists drips onto his leg, soaking through his pants.
He thinks crazily for a minute my gun! but of course they wouldn't let him keep it, even if he had remembered to put it back in its place.
A noise reaches his ears; for a minute he thinks he's hearing the whispering clatter of bats, but realizes that can't be it. He tenses, ready for anything.
A figure comes out of nowhere, and crouches down next to him, long coat dragging the floor, crazy blond hair picking up stray glints from the tiny wisp of sun creeping in through the small window.
"Awake at last, my bonnie prince," the man laughs at him quietly. "I can smell that fresh blood a mile away."
"What the hell do you want?" Angel rasps out, trying to push his entire body through the brick wall at his back.
"Just a little snack," the man whispers, and grabs Angel's hand roughly with his own.
The man sniffs at Angel's palm, and then, as he watches in abject horror, sticks out his tounge and laps up some the blood leaking from Angel's still crimson wrists.
"Gah! Stop!" Angel shouts and tries to pull away. The blond man, no, not a man, jerks his arm back, practically pulling it out of the socket. He clocks Angel across the face with the back of his hand, and Angel stops moving, blood from his newly split lip trailing down his chin.
"William!" a voice roars through the warehouse. The blond, William, drops Angel's hand, and scuttles away from him, bowing in submission to the new figure who swaggers into the room.
"I. Told. You. No. Touching. The. Prisoners." The man hisses, and William prostrates himself on the dirty floor.
"Master, I apologize, I'm just so hungry," he whines.
"You will be fed soon enough. These others must be left alone. The Slayer will have no choice but to try and save them."
The Slayer? Angel is alert again at those words. He snakes his tounge out, trying to lick up the blood on his lips.
"I'm sorry," the other man tells Angel, sounding all the world like he's apologizing for spilling his drink. "Did he hurt you?"
"Oh, no. I like having a split lip," Angel spits a wad of bloody phlegm on the floor.
"A sense of humor. That's good. It might keep you alive longer."
"What do you people want?" he asks tiredly, putting the emphasis on the word people, knowing full well they aren't.
"You're the Watcher's brat, aren't you?" the man replies, ignoring Angel's question.
"What's a Watcher?" Angel says.
"Nice. But I know about you, John O'Connell, and I know that you have family back in Cleveland. Now cooperate or they might have a problem."
Angel shuts up quickly. He's lost Xander already; he doesn't know what he would do if anything happened to the rest of his family.
"Who are you?"
"I'm you're new best friend, O'Connell. Your salvation. Your ticket to fame and fortune in the ever expanding demon community here in Hawaii. Maybe even the rest of the US!"
He stops preaching, and looks back at the chained, bleeding man in front of him, sticking out his hand.
"Oh, you meant who am I. Lindsey McDonald. Pleased to meet you."
TBC.