Los Angeles, Present Day - Angel Investigations Headquarters
Angel ran a hand through his gelled hair as he stared at the phone. It lay on the desk like a menacing black serpent, waiting to strike at any moment. He'd been seated in the office for nearly an hour now, letting his gaze wander across stacked documents on the desk and cabinets, errantly strewn pictures on the walls, and the closed velvet curtains.
He didn't have a cell phone; he was absolutely terrible with modern technology. Being 250 years old probably had something to do with it. He'd seen many things; lived through most of them. He'd also spent most of his time trying to make up for all the things his evil self had committed over the blood-strewn centuries, thanks to a little gypsy curse installing a soul inside him and riddling him with guilt.
Souls were so bothersome at times.
"Angel," Cordelia complained from her central desk seat, "Is there really any need to brood over the phone like that? It's not going to run away, and you're kind of getting on my nerves."
"It might ring any second," Angel mumbled. Cordelia propped her elbow on the desk and leant into her palm, looking unamused. She'd recently cut her hair short and highlighted it. Privately, Angel thought it made her look like a mushroom.
"I already said I'd handle it. I'm your secretary, remember? I'm not just sitting here for the fun of it. This is my actual job. Did I already mention the getting on my nerves part?"
"They should have called by now. They said they were coming over six hours ago." Angel reclined like a limp rag against the chair, ignoring Cordelia's exasperated sigh. "What could be taking them so long?"
Cordelia doodled on the bottom corner of a important-looking document with a ball-point pen. "Well, if you ask me, I guess they're probably lining up the firing squad right now."
"What? Not funny, Cordy." Angel glowered at her.
"Considering we've been withholding vital information from them for weeks, and then dropped the bomb yesterday saying; 'Yeah, we have some really bad news that we want to share with you and oh, by the way, we know about Buffy, and it's kinda our fault she's here?' Firing squad is getting off light."
"Giles didn't sound too bad when he answered. Although I think there was a moment when he stopped breathing."
"Yeah… we don't generally stop breathing like that unless we're dead, or having difficulty processing." Cordelia rolled her eyes. "God, you're so out of touch." She paused for a moment, chewing on the lid of her pen. "I had to be really careful about that annoying female Watcher, though. She seemed suspicious I knew more than I was letting on."
"You were the one who told her to rescue Buffy," Angel pointed out.
"Without telling her it was Buffy. She's not going to be happy I lied about that." Cordelia sighed, putting down the pen before she chewed it into an unintelligible piece of plastic. "PTB couldn't have vagued up the whole fiasco more."
"Mmm." Angel recovered from his slouch, feeling distinctly unhappy. His eyes focused on a little placard on the desk:
Angel Investigations. We help the helpless.
A white angel logo, (which from another angle also resembled a clothes hangar) embellished the statement. Angel rarely felt like his namesake. Most good guys wouldn't burn to a crisp the instant the curtains were drawn to let in sunlight.
"Mmm." Cordelia enunciated the sound. "Elaborate?"
"Nothing. Everything. I don't know. I just have a bad sort of feel about this."
Cordelia's hawk-like stare softened. "End of the world sort of feel?"
"Something like that." He dropped his gaze, unwilling to say anything else. Cordelia noticed his inward retreat with a frown and got up, organising her papers into some sort of order. Angel let his eyelids drop at the sound of rustling pages, weariness etching deep into his bones.
When Cordelia finished neatening the files in the cabinets, she announced: "I'm going to go check on the others. This office is stuffy and I need a break and I have a headache and you're most of the reason I have one. Do you know what they're doing?"
"Playing poker, last time I saw."
"Yeah?" Cordelia tucked her chair against the desk.
"Strip poker," Angel added helpfully.
"Even better." She promptly vanished out of the room.
Angel blinked a few times, before shaking his head and absently crumpling up a stray piece of paper. Now the office was empty, his mind began to wander through the thoughts that had plagued him in the past few weeks, stirred up with the introduction of the replica Slayer in Sunnydale.
He thought about Buffy Summers. He thought about the day he found her dead.
He threw the crumpled parchment into a waste bin.
It hurt so damn much.
Four Days in the Past - Creepy Vampire Lair
Buffy stared at her bruised knuckles. At the blood smeared over her hands, flecked over her jacket, trapped under her fingernails.
She realised she was trembling. Mostly from horror, partly from a chill that no jacket could shield from. All brain activity and electrical impulses had braked to a squealing stop. It took some time before thoughts began to re-circulate.
She hadn't meant to - she didn't - she hadn't meant to - it wasn't supposed to be like this -
Just a little fight. Just a spar. Her throat rattled out a choking sob, the kind only achieved by a combination of recent asphyxiation, hysteria, and the sheer freight-train force of emotions.
She fixated on the broken form of the dark Slayer in front of her. After a few seconds doing nothing, she finally stirred into action. In a second, she knelt by the brunette's side, taking even breaths in an attempt to calm down, trying to gather herself together to deal with the situation.
Check for a pulse, the Inner Slayer commanded, in a chill tone.
Buffy swallowed and reached out. Faith's matted tresses latched to Buffy's hand as she fumbled for the prominent jugular vein. She pressed firmly, panicking because she initially couldn't feel the Slayer connection - couldn't hear Faith's heartbeat with her preternatural sense of sound.
She pressed as hard as she dared into the vein, sighing in palpable relief at the feel of life throbbing under her fingers. The connection sputtered, weak.
Get that wound covered up immediately. She won't need a transfusion - unless you let it keep bleeding. Slayer healing is already fighting to seal it up.
The voice of the Inner Slayer acted as a balm, a whisper of reason. It constantly nudged her whenever her thoughts began to veer off into the parts that offered nothing but panic.
She felt like she'd tasted the darkness. More than tasted it. She felt like she became it.
What if it happened again? What if in some crucial moment, it took her over?
What if the next time it happened, she actually killed someone?
She shuddered and prised her palm away from Faith's hair, removing the linen bandage from her pocket. This dimension was too messed up. And she had messed up. No doubt when - if - Faith woke up, their tentative relationship would be irreparable. There was too much damage, and too little provocation for it.
Seemed liked she brought her baggage across realities and let it screw everything up.
Your morbid self-wallowing is really starting to tick me off. Patch her and get her out of here. Now. Move it, Summers. We still have a bunch of vamps below us.
But what if it happens again? The going postal thing? I don't want to risk that.
Keep contact with her skin.
Buffy shook her head in puzzlement, looking at Faith's ashen, battered face in the pale moonlight. Dust motes swirled in the stray beams around. She didn't understand what the Slayer meant, but after finishing the sloppy application of the bandage, she gently hefted Faith up, and did as advised.
The Slayer connection fluttered, the hum growing stronger the longer she held contact for. By the time she pushed through the doors of a mausoleum and opened the trapdoor into the surface, the connection pulsed vibrantly, as if leeching energy. Buffy gritted her teeth, one thought prominent in her brain. How am I going to get out of this mess?
Present Day - Los Angeles - Angel Investigations
Brooding had a few flaws, Angel decided. The phone didn't want to ring anytime soon, and just downstairs, a game of strip poker was on full throttle. He rarely joined in because he almost always won. His poker face was fantastic to the degree of total unfairness, and his experience piled up to be more than all their lives put together.
The thought of seeing Wesley in undergarments made Angel grin devilishly. Man couldn't play poker to save his life.
After a little more brain-stewing, he stood up to go. That was when the phone chose to ring. Naturally. He leapt at it like a ravenous animal and whipped the receiver to his ear.
"Yes?"
A surprised pause greeted him from the other end. "Good lord," Giles said. "Barely the first ring and you answer."
"Was nearby." Angel didn't want to admit how long he'd been loitering for the call.
"We're about five minutes away, Angel. And I must say, I'm having a hard time adjusting. It's quite…"
"Unbelievable? Well, that's the Prophecy at work for you." Angel rifled through the file cabinets, heading straight to P.
He knew it should be here, unless Wesley had removed it for some night-time reading. Angel was just convincing himself of that version of events when his eyes caught the title of a document in elegant script format:
Prague Ascension Prophecy
Stolen directly from Wolfram and Hart itself. Indirectly stolen, since Wolfram and Hart really didn't like anyone going anywhere near it. Wesley managed to photograph each page in the rush of confusion that nearly ended with Angel gutted and tossed out of a window. Angel filched the papers out of the sprawl, accidentally pulling others out and scattering them to the floor - Cordelia wouldn't be very pleased to see the mess later on - and held it out, running over the document for the umpteenth time. "Wesley finally managed to translate the last segment of it a few hours after we spoke to you. It's nothing but bad news."
"Why didn't you tell us about the Prophecy and your work on it before?" Giles pressed. "Especially when it seems to be concerning information about, uh, Buffy and Faith in it, and the Hexagons." Voirrey's voice could be heard in the background, grumbling at Giles. Apparently he talked loudly over the phone, being nearly as inept with technology as Angel himself. Angel's sensitive ears picked up the sound of a gear shifting in their car. He scratched absently at his hair.
"Yeah. I'm sorry we kept it from you for so long. Complicated. Complications. You get the picture."
"I daresay," Giles murmured, heavy disapproval in his voice. "I'm still very curious as to how you claim you are responsible for Buffy's presence. I trust you will give us a full explanation rather than the cryptic message yesterday." Angel blinked when the line went dead. He placed the receiver back on its hook, stiff as a board.
This confrontation promised to be fun. Bags and bags of it.
He headed towards the door with a light gait, winding through the building until he located the poker game.
"Hey! That's not fair!" Wesley's voice drifted, high pitched and whining. "I swear to God, you both are cheating. There is no conceivable way you could win every hand and I lose each one -"
"Yeah, yeah, suck on it, tweed," came the retort.
Angel dipped into the room. Littered about the various sofas (all pulled in close together) were clothes. Wesley wore a tie and underwear - and nothing else. Cordelia was also in the process of removing his tie.
"All in?" Faith sniggered at the former Watcher, eyes trailing lasciviously up and down his form. She still appeared remarkably clothed, and most of the chips sat on her side of the coffee table. Cordelia missed her jacket, boots and hair-band, but she also had a decent sized pot. Wesley had one single chip left.
"He's right, you know." Angel cleared his throat. "You must be cheating."
Faith swung her body around to dangle her legs over the arm of the green leather sofa. "Oh, Fang! Was wondering when you were gonna join in on the action. I'm on a lucky streak tonight. Reckon I can take you."
"Yeah, you're joining, right?" Cordelia waved her card hand at him. "Because we're really just getting started!"
Angel shook his head, eyeing the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels and the shot glasses all askew on the coffee table. He really, really hoped none of them were starting to tip the scales between sober and drunk. "Put your clothes back on. We got some Watchers turning up in a minute." He directed a stern glare at them. Playtime over.
"Spoilsport," Faith muttered, but flashed him a quick grin. "Barely enough time to work up a sweat."
"My goodness!" Wesley lunged at his clothes in a panic, grabbing the blue tie Cordelia lazily flicked at him. "I wasn't expecting them this soon!" He started wriggling around one the sofas for a missing sock.
"Come with me." Angel indicated to Faith. She nodded, placed her cards down and strutted to him. Angel walked through the door, swinging it open wide.
"Gallows time, huh?" she joked, following Angel out of the room. Angel didn't respond. His thoughts lingered on the damming words of the prophecy, and on Faith. Their original plan to keep the Faith affair to themselves unravelled when Wesley translated two pages worth of bad news - apocalypse worthy news. It offered key elements to help end the thing when it happened, but it didn't tell them how to prevent it from firing off in the first place.
The Prague Ascension Prophecy, if it held true, meant a lot of people would die. That was what got Angel ringing up the Sunnydale Watchers and promising to spill all the secrets.
"Angel," Faith began as they stepped into the main office, "You sure you can't just tuck me away somewhere until it blows over?"
He offered an empty chair to the jumpy Slayer. "Too late for that. They already know."
Faith's expression toughened. "Well then. Bring on the lynch mob."
Angel bent down to begin the arduous task of scooping up pieces of paper. "No one's going to lynch you. If anything, as the apparent instigator, I will be the lynched one. All the others will be semi-lynched. But you, my friend, will be lynch-less."
"You sure do have a way with words." Sarcasm dripped from the brunette Slayer. "I'm inspired."
"Hopefully you won't have to worry about it for too long, if everything goes to plan."
Faith lowered her head, staring at a spot on the floor. "Yeah. So you say."
Angel patted her on the shoulder. "As for how they'll take you… I have every faith in you that you'll be fine."
Faith looked up and rolled her eyes, but seemed unable to prevent the pleased smile creeping past her façade. "Thanks, Fang."
Four Days Past - Giles' Home
Buffy stumbled through the front door after placing Faith down and groping in her pocket for the keys. With shaking hands it took about four attempts before the door gave way. She cradled Faith, careful to make sure she didn't aggravate the injuries more than necessary. Turning the light on revealed a quiet lounge, with two empty mugs on the small side table. The upstairs hall-light shone. Buffy positioned the comatose Slayer gently on the sofa before creeping upstairs. Skittering anticipation fluttered in her chest.
She crept and leant against the wooden frame of Giles' bedroom for a few moments, using hypersensitive hearing to pick up the sound of his breathing. The feedback was slow and regular. Asleep. She made her way back to Faith and carried her quietly to the bathroom. The affair was awkward at best, since Faith dangled limply as dead weight.
Buffy propped the dark Slayer against the bathtub, untangling her hands from Faith's matted, sticky hair. The brunette's face was a mask of pain. Discolouration mapped her eyes, cheeks, and jaw, promising to swell more and look ugly. Buffy scrabbled around for a first-aid-kit in the cabinet, opening it up to pick through the options. After a little lip chewing, she eventually fished some clothes out of her room, which were baggy monstrosities belonging to Giles. She took off her own jacket.
Buffy didn't know where to touch. She went pale at the thought of stripping Faith off to access the damage. She'd have to see everything - every laceration, punch and kick pounded into Faith's body, every little mark inflicted.
Suck it up, Summers.
Peeling off the clothes and taking off the linen bandage turned out to be meticulous and not for the faint-hearted. The loose flaps of skin around the clavicle nearly made Buffy throw up on the spot. Whatever injury that used to be there now blended into a bloody swathe of exposed sinew. Everything else seemed minor in comparison. Two broken ribs, the blood-spot on the thigh, bruises like rotten apples all over Faith's arms and legs. All those would heal without a problem. The clump of dried crimson at the back of her head from hitting the wall, perhaps several walls, was superficial, already sealing up thanks to accelerated Slayer healing. Faith's ruined top and jacket lay in a heap with her boots and jeans. The only thing concealing her modesty was a stained black bra and dark underwear. Buffy turned on the sink faucet, waiting for the water to go warm. She watched it swirl about, gurgling and popping until the tell-tale shimmer of steam hissed out. She plugged the bowl and dipped a hand-towel in.
She worked on the clavicle wound first, clearing away the worse of the loose skin and blood with gentle, butterfly dabs, wringing out the bloody cloth several times in the sink, and draining away the water often. All the while through the administrations, Faith gave neither a peep or twitch. The wound appeared better after the fifth attempt swabbing it.
Buffy's hands continued to wobble the whole time, but stopped their trembling when she made sure she could feel the Slayer connection through prolonged skin contact. It soothed her, somehow.
Most of the injuries appeared home-treatable, probably vanishing with a full night's rest. The collarbone wound, however, possessed a mind of its own, unresponsive in her attempts to stop it seeping. After rinsing it thoroughly in an alcohol solution, she slapped layer after layer of dressing on, hoping Slayer healing would finish the job.
The sides of the sink dribbled with crimson. The whole bathroom resembled some cult horror movie. Faith didn't react or stir or show any signs she lived at all, apart from the subtle rise and fall of her chest.
Buffy rinsed out the cloth again. She wrung it and examined Faith, vulnerable and dead to the world.
She stood there for a long time, unmoving and strangely numb, as if her limbs had weights strapped to them. She tried reaching out for the connection again, but it didn't offer as much comfort as earlier.
Buffy wasn't sure how she ended up against the wall, sliding down it. Numb emptiness morphed quickly into suffocating emotions. Tears, hot and salty, blurred her eyes, leaking out as tiny snail-trails down her face. She felt sore and bruised. Her windpipe hurt, her knuckles hurt. Everything hurt. It all damn hurt, and she didn't know what to do.
She missed everyone and everything about her own life that didn't exist here. She felt sure she had destroyed all chances of coping in this world. She wanted nothing more than to disappear or to sink into despair.
Everything was a nightmare.
Sobs echoed horribly in the confines of the bathroom, hitching and stuttering from her throat, mingling with tears and snot. She didn't know how long she cried for. Cold tiles pressed into her back.
Through the haze of misery, something prodded its way through. Warm and tentative. Fragile and strong. Connection.
Faith's dark eyes snapped open, boring into Buffy like a pair of homing missiles. Buffy immediately stopped crying. She emitted a startled hiccup.