In some ways; I've always been dead.

That's how Angel started writing. But that didn't feel satisfactory. He furrowed his brow and erased the sentence with a flourish of his writing utensil. Quills and even fountain pens were just too hard to come by these days, though he would have preferred one or the other for an assignment such as this. Angel sat in his comfy black leather chair on the first floor of the Hyperion, suddenly finding the color on the back of his hand very interesting. Over the few years he had been in LA, his skin had begun to take on a tone of the city.

Not exactly pale anymore, or even more human, but grittier. And, he might add, with a hint of warmth. Sure, he might not be able to walk into the sweltering LA daylight, thank God for small miracles, but in the shadows of night he could fit right in en masse. Angel smiled a little and sharpened one of the sides of the pencil with his left fang.

The irony of it all was that this entire process, right from the moment Darla had changed him, had started because he hadn't wanted to fit in. He had left home to see the world; to experience life. But Angel tried to not think of Darla much anyways. Or any of the old family, really. Even if Spike kept pushing his way back in.

Decades had changed, but for all Angel knew, Spike hadn't and may have never had the capacity. He had just become...someone new. His interior was full of something opposite of the Billy Idol image he sported. Angel's mind recognized that it was starting to drift. Why was he thinking about William?

He looked down at the paper. Oh yes, the memoir. It had been Cordy's idea. Write it all down. Take a look at everything; all the tough stuff. Maybe the broodiness will let up a little. Angel shook his head a bit more and ran his fingers through his hair. He didn't dare think of Cordy without thinking about how far she had come. As a seer, she had matured into someone Angel wished Buffy could have been. Cordy hadn't whined incessantly like Buffy had. She had accepted it all somewhere down the road and had matured like all the other humans turned fighters had. Like Willow and Oz. And Xander.

Angel stopped at the sound of his name in the back of his throat and ran his cold hands over his forearms. Angel preferred to call him Alex, but the boy had preferred Xander. Had preferred it in the howls of ...oh, but Angel couldn't even bear to think of what he'd done to Xander. Not poor, innocent Xander, but that smart, rebellious Xander he had captured. The Xander that was part soldier, part hyena, and all ready to be suited up for war.

Or love, which could be a lot like war in Angel's opinion. Another sigh escaped his lips and Angel stood to look up at the moon behind him in the window. The week had been quiet, too quiet. Of course, most weeks were when not near the Hell mouth. Angel had almost succeeded in allowing himself to fade off into oblivion. Of course, he could think of one lad who hadn't let him fade off without a fight. How he had begged to be turned, even though he hated the thought of it but still couldn't admit it, just to be with Angel.

There were times when he wondered what Xander had seen in him. Angel felt like he had become an Atlas type over time. High off the ground; never involved or intact to anyone except the ceiling of the Earth which he held. Xander had surprised Angel; going from enemy to friend. Of course, Angel didn't blame him for being weary at first, but there was a sensual part to that boy that was thirsty for a fight. Thirsty to learn the sword and the ancient texts. Thirsty to be an authentic hero with delicious flaws and vivacious sidekicks. He was wise to stick to the increasingly-powerful Willow. Wise to be the reason she didn't destroy everything. Angel wished he had been that wise, silently to himself. He smelled someone coming near.

Spike was already donning his best Cordy impression. "Brooding is not good for the posture, Angel."

Angel straightened up his face, his heart, his shoulders and turned to face Spike, fresh from the training room. Shirtless blond man in the general vicinity; Angel just rolled his eyes. He thought that Spike should wear an "am too horny to be dead" shirt and get it over with.

But Angel was in no mood and had said so many times to his childe's childe before. It wasn't a headache or an excuse; it just wasn't right. He wasn't young by any standard anymore and that first year between them had been too wild. Too unrestrained. William simply couldn't expect that from Angel anymore. And he wasn't even willing to role play Angelus; the little bugger that growled from his inside out. He leaned against the frame and turned his head to face Spike.

"Done playing with the dummies?"

Spike nodded in return. "Yeah, just a bit of a break. Wouldn't need to let off so much steam in there if someone would let me out once in a blue moon."

Angel shook his head. They had this argument more often than he cared to recount. "Now, now Spikey, you know I can't let you do that. I wouldn't want the streets of LA to be less dangerous, letting you at them. You and I both know human blood on our hands is no good."

Spike sneered at Angel as he swaggered over to a moonlit window and brushed his fingers along the sill. "No. Here is where we belong, isn't it?"

Angel remained calm. Spike was merely having another temper tantrum, once again refusing to know the difference between being mocked and honored. "We are relics. Make no mistake."

"We're not relics, Angel! We're celebrated as gods! They dance to us in the streets."

Angel wondered briefly how long Spike had been trying to phrase that argument. Spike just hated that Angel was always so introspective and calm these days. Of course, what Angel didn't know about the revolving doors in this place didn't hurt either. For all Angel knew, Will didn't go anywhere.

That, or his grandsire pretended not to care. Like he hadn't pretended to care about Penn. But he had cared. Spike often thought of Angel as an angel with those protective wings outspread, though he would never admit it to anyone. The biggest challenge Spike witnessed was when Angel tried pulling back those wings of safety and just let people be. Spike tested the dangerous waters inside Angel's intellect.

"Been thinking about him again, haven't you?"

Angel didn't have the energy to deal with lying. "It's all Cordy's fault. She's the one who recommended I write the memoir."

"You can't blame this on Cordy, mate. You miss the blighter, and I can't blame you. But, come on, let's get your mind off of him."

Will linked his forearm with Angel's in the blink of an eye. Angel sighed, he supposed he could put off the memoir for another night.

Spike suddenly leapt into one of his mood changes. "Tag, you're it!"

Angel's interest wasn't quite piqued, but anything was better than thinking about Xander. They flew around the floors of the hotel like vampiric pinballs, blurs to the normal human eye. The bounced around paintings and wilting flowers that would never nor could ever bloom again because of the incident involving a demon of hatred that had set up shop here so long. But Angel wouldn't think about any of that tonight. He thought solely about chasing Will.

Or he did until he heard a slight crash from the main hall. The faded red carpets greeted the Angories demons. A pair of, well the human equivalent of standing pigs as far as Spike could wager, gruesome slimy monsters with dead eyes. And no rhyme or reason as to why they were here.

"Oh c'mon! We just had the carpets redone!" It was Spike's turn to cock his slightly shaved brow and found a grimacing Angel at the top of the first story landing. "I thought we had a enacting spell protecting those doors."

Will pointed to the bulk of drywall splintered all over, right next to the solidly closed doors. "Somehow, I don't think they understand the concept of doors, Angel love."

It was quick battle. A bit of flash, a bit of wit, and even a bit of poking round just as though this was an extra obstacle in tag. Killing an Angories demon means, however, that you have to get the carpets redone again. Angel was bored with fighting all these inane trooper demons.

No challenge; no thrills were really left. And, at this point, he didn't quite care who had sent them and what yada yada dangerous, world ending plot their boss had involving prophecies and whatnot. It was all rehashed and overdone. Angel just wanted to finish it, and to have it done quickly. The demons looked like a pair of Hawaiian piggies ready for roast.

Spike stood back and admired their handiwork. "Mate, that fight isn't as gone as you'd like us all to think, is it?"

"Nope, just buried."

Spike furrowed his brow, pointing to the pig on the left. "Does something look wrong with one of them?" There was a thick purple acid shooting all over the floor at this point.

Angel grimaced as he backed up, placing an arm across his visage to protect any acidic goo that shot toward his face. "Well, at least we have a plan for tomorrow. We're getting the carpets cleaned."

"We are sending Cordy to deal with that, right?"

They yammered and bantered on for a few more minutes until they figured out it didn't really matter and they'd just leave a note for Cordy in the morning. The curious side effect of the acidic blood had given the camera in the eye of the left demon time to self-destruct. And somewhere, someone scoffed. Because Angel thought he was better. But that was all just a matter of perspective. Spike and Angel's game of vampiric tag resumed briefly.

The incident happened as they zoomed around the second corner of the third numerous hallway on the fourteenth floor of the building. Angel had climbed the ropes of the elevator, as an excuse to lose his shirt and be all sweaty, ripped, and out show Spike. Angel heard his name whispered from somewhere low, an echo of an echo as he exited into another hallway.

Not Angel, but Angelus. Whispers in a time gone by. And the dead plants began to overgrow. Jungles of thick ferns in a misgiving cool steam of the French forests. The pictures began to step out of time all around him as Angel sped around, trying to outrun whatever it was. A fluttering silver coat came by and Angel began to run faster than was wise, out of a rising panic that thundered through every absent blood cell in his body.

Angel couldn't seem to find his own balance, instead finding himself bounding into the sides of walls and leaving indentations that threw grime all across his shoulders, broken lamps strewn in his path. Spike found him in a fetal position with dinner running down his ears and dust from the walls caked against his grimacing vampiric features. As William cradled him, horrified, Angel could only mutter one word.

"Anorous."