Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot.
Prologue
All was calm. His apartment was dark, just the way he liked it. Angel flitted from one room to the next in a parody of a bat.
Strangely, his bathroom had a slight golden glow emanating from beneath the door. Pulsing lights, coming regularly like a heartbeat. Angel watched silently, curiosity coursing through him with each new blazing throb.
Stepping as silently as a ghost, he nervously pushed the door open, content in the knowledge that his two-hundred and forty two years of existence must have prepared him for whatever could be lurking in his own bathroom.
What he did see however was like a kick in the teeth, and, had he had a heart, it would have been doing a riotous dance. Doyle stood before him, a golden sheen seeming to roll and drip off of him.
Even aware that he was in dream, Angel knew that the metallic light had to have been a deep-rooted wish that Doyle had found peace and rest. In the cold, logical part of his brain though he knew that his late friend was probably still travelling the ghost roads.
Before Angel had time to become accustomed to the situation, worry about his mental sanity for imagining Doyle in his bathroom or dredge up any painful memories, the apparition began to speak.
"An ancient evil, it wakes." He paused, as though simply projecting his form took up effort that could not be wasted. "It will spoil the world." Doyle sighed heavily, this simple action so human, yet at the same time so very bizarre coming from a transparent ghost. A moment past, and part of Angel wondered whether he was meant to say something. Cautiously, he locked eyes with the phantom, terrified as to what he would see, the vampire was expecting nothing though, if it indeed was a figment of his imagination then the eyes would show naught, in the same way as the body could not breath and the ears couldn't hear.
There was recognition. In Doyle's eyes, he knew who Angel was, he knew where he was, and there was a ghost of a smile that showed that he knew the irony of the room he picked to appear in as well.
Angel sucked in a sharp, unneeded, breath. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Doyle held up a hand cutting him off.
"Look mate," he started, the familiarity of that much-missed voice shocking Angel to the core. "I'm here to warn you. There's this freaky evil thing which is gonna awaken, y'know the drill." He looked directly at Angel, "Things are going to change drastically," he paused, "man." Doyle widened his eyes meaningfully as though trying to give Angel a clue.
Angel frowned, still entirely in the dark. "How exactly are they going to change?" he asked curiously, was he in danger? I'm always in danger, came his mental reply.
"Look my time here is nearly up," his old sidekick replied, his speech getting faster and faster. "But people who you care about are going to be hurt." Doyle winced, as if feeling past pain.
"Cordelia?" Angel wondered out loud.
"Yes, look after her," replied Doyle softly, slowly his image was becoming softer and more translucent, fading altogether around the edges. Angel could clearly see the toilet sink through him now, and the blue-fringed ceramic tiles. "And Bu…" Without a sound, the phantasm that was Doyle vanished completely.
"Buffy?" Angel asked sharply into midair, his mind racing at the name that had not graced his lips for so long, but frequently touched his thoughts.
Without warning a blinding light assaulted his sensitive eyes. For a moment he thought that Doyle may have returned, but the light got brighter than was humanly possible, dispersing throughout the bathroom, causing Angel to squint and fight the urge to cover his eyes. Soon, everything was concealed by the light, no shapes were visible, nothing to show that he was still standing in his own dream-bathroom, although he knew he must be because he hadn't felt any movement to depict otherwise.
From nowhere, and at the same time everywhere at once voices began to resound. It was as if they were speaking, through him, into him, vibrating into his very bones and back again. It was very disorientating.
"You and four others, your strengths you will lose,
You must give them up for another, at the end you must choose.
All in good time the future divine will show you that you do not need them.
Friendship is needed if you want to endure,
Love is a virtue for it is pure."
The incantation-like tune echoed through his, the rhythm pumping with that of his heart.
Hang on, my heart?
Abruptly he woke in the soft confines of his own bed, taking deep essential breaths into his lungs. His heart pumped furiously, beating insanely inside his chest as though trying to make up for lost years.
What the fuck happened?
His brain immediately turned to analysis of the strange dream; life had turned quite upside down in nothing more than a heartbeat. Heartbeat being the operative word. He'd spoken with Doyle again, it was strange to think that the presence of his old-friend was not just his imagination, but then again it could have been. You could never be too certain in the kind of life he lived. And now it seemed that he would actually be living it.
Where are Cordelia and Wesley when you need them?
They were going to have to do some major research.
Spike awoke sharply, already disintegrating memories of blinding lights and strange charms ricocheting around his head. Daylight attempted to intrude through the dusky, blocked up windows. Damn, he must have really overslept.
The dream already banished from his thoughts he got up, too restless to stay still another second, the desire to do something, anything, pounded through him like the strong diaphragm of a speaker playing really loud music. He hadn't been this energetic since he couldn't remember when.
In between his pacing and cursing he managed to knock the bottle of holy water, kept especially for uninvited guests, flying down his front.
Cursing fluently and artistically he waited expectantly for the familiar hissing and burning sensation. Nothing.
"Bloody faulty Holy Water," he cursed, shattering the bottle against the opposite wall.
On its trajectory from his hand a sharp edged nicked his finger. Curiously he watched as blood welled from it, a pinprick of pain sprouting through. It would heal in a minute though, good thing about being a vampire.
Thing was, it didn't.
Slowly he began to connect the dots, red, thick, healthy blood (that he had no desire to eat), 'non-working' Holy Water… an energetic pounding in his chest… almost like a heartbeat…
"Holy shit."
The night had been eventful for Oz. For the first time the Werewolf Reworking had had an effect on him. For some reason though Teresa did not share his happiness (however understated it may seem).
"It wasn't me," she repeated over and over.
"Of course it was you," he had replied, slightly worried at her strange behaviour. Naturally not letting it show.
But she had cried and clung to him like a wet rag, her red hair - well auburn hair - catching on his clothes, forcibly reminding of someone he knew long ago. Someone he knew in another lifetime.
He sighed, leaning back on the chair and crossing his arms behind his neck in a universal position of relaxation. The success of the Werewolf Reworking was a giant step for all of them; maybe he'd be raised to Instructor levels amongst the other Reformers. Oz didn't think he'd like that, he preferred being a student to being a teacher. Teaching was too much work, like tutoring in high school. Another link to a forgotten era.
He shook his now ebony head, and patiently watched the sun work its way over the horizon, keeping his mind firmly off the time before.