Summary: Angel's point of view as he stalks Buffy during Welcome to the Hellmouth

Disclamer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I am making no money off of this fic.

Preperation

When I finally found her, I didn't greet her or introduce myself. I followed her. I assessed her. I analyzed her, trying to remain aloof. It wasn't a winning battle. She walked with the confident, hip-swinging swagger that girls her age seem to adopt. But she moved quickly, head turning, eyes moving, taking in what was around her the way I was taking in her. We were both analyzing. But she made more sound when she walked.

I stalked her for awhile, maybe ten minutes, before she seemed to sense my presence. She picked up speed while she walked, and glanced behind her many times. I thought that she would have noticed me earlier. It took her too long. She wasn't prepared. And I cared that she wasn't prepared. I hadn't cared about something since the paranoia demon in the 50's. The caring scared me. I fingered the small jewelry box in my pocket. It contained something I'd never dare hold without the box. It contained something about as big as half as my thumb. Something that hurt me. Something that would prepare her.

The box reminded me of our differences. It helped the knot in my stomach to untie itself. She would die soon enough, and another would take her place. I might never die. No one would ever need to take my place. No one would ever want to take my place. This was a depressing train of thought, but I took comfort in the familiarity of it.

Her pace quickened, bringing her to near jog, bringing me back to the dark street which we were following. Or at least, she was following. I was following her. She turned right into an even darker alleyway, something no one brought up in Sunnydale would ever think of doing. She really wasn't prepared. I turned in the alley after her, but when I looked around, she was gone. I could still sense her presence, though, she seemed to be coming from above. . . I walked in further, looking around when –

"Uhhh!" Something, her kicked my back, sending me down to the pavement. I rolled over and tried to get up, but she placed a black, polished, high-heeled boot on my chest, effectively halting any chance I had of standing. I gasped for unneeded air, slightly dazed from the fall.

I chuckled, which I often did when defensive. It was more of a rasping and desperate exhale then a chuckle.

"Is there a problem, ma'am?"