The next night Angel found his particular splurge of rooms to be taking a significantly lengthy amount of time. He was uncertain as to whether or not this was because of his alleged increasingly lethargic state, or if the rooms were just unusually mucky today. It was also possible, of course, that he was distracted.
Maybe it had been Faith's words which had stuck to him, despite how much he had attempted to shake them off. After all, having a voice wasn't the same as having a girlfriend.
I heard that.
Angel wheeled his way over to room 196, a room that he usually had no trouble with. Perhaps it was because it was most often occupied by the higher class of bums, due to the select amenities which could not be found throughout the rest of this hallway. Whatever the reason, a sense of relief always washed over his body the minute Angel saw those three digits in that one order. And today was no exception. If anything, he was more ecstatic than usual, given how dreadful his first two rooms of the day had been. He needed a break.
Maybe you can date this door. You're certainly drooling over it.
Angel couldn't help but notice the increased hostility on Buffy's end, which was yet another mess he would have to clean today. This increased his longing for Room 196, a hyperbolic godsend in these tense times. However, the longer Angel dwelled on his craving for simplicity, the more hesitant he was the turn the handle. He needed this room so much, that he wasn't ready to clean it. In cleaning it, he would have to finish cleaning it. And in finishing cleaning it, he would have to leave.
Open sesame? Buffy remarked, seeming oblivious to Angel's current train of thought. Perhaps she was far too busy conducting her own.
Despite the equally uncertain and belligerent state of his mind maiden, Angel interpreted this line of questioning as the encouragement he had needed. So he put on his game face. And he opened the door.
Instead of the warm and scarcely occupied room which Angel had expected, he found himself facing a visceral hellhole. The first thing he heeded was the scent. There was a pungent foulness to the room, so vibrant that Angel nearly puked upon the mere aroma. In addition to the sour and decaying meat smell, there was the mingling of a certain sweetness, as if one had sprayed fruity perfume to mask the scent of the roadkill they had just used as a toilet.
Gulping dramatically, Angel took a step inward. Sometimes puking your guts out was the sacrifice that must be made to get the job done. Buffy on the other hand, was less than enthusiastic.
What are you doing? She declared, so panicked that Angel himself winced at the "sound".
"My job," the stoic man replied, as he took yet another step forward.
Angel, she persisted, you need to look down.
The words were more irritating than anything else. Of course, he would have to eventually look down. That was how he would clean the floor. Did she think he had forgotten? Still, to amuse her, he obliged.
The instant his eyes met those of the deceased, he felt the murky fluid gliding up his throat. Incapable of restraining himself or his liquids, the vomit slid out of his body unchallenged. As a former alcoholic, Angel was used to the sensation of puking. He knew how it felt to have hot and frothy gushing out of you, burning and scratching up your insides. He was however, not used to having the chuck he had upped defile a dead body.
I tried to warn you.
Angel wiped at the corner of his mouth. "Vaguely so. And would you mind a little compassion, Buff? I think I'm having a mental breakdown."
You need to get out of here. But first, you need to breathe.
Angel chuckled, though his chuckling quickly mutilated itself into a string of coughs and gags. "Breathe," he said, "what's that?" He lowered himself to the body, for no reason he could now or later name. But if he was going to see, he was going to see it all.
What are you-Ew. Stop it. Stopitstopitstopit.
"You don't have to watch, but I'm curious."
More like psychopathic.
Angel's breathing hitched again, and he felt his stomach jump dangerously close to his neck.
This isn't me agreeing with your actions, but if you're going to play detective, you need to stop lingering on the grotesque. You haven't eaten enough to be puking all that you've been puking.
He nodded wordlessly, looking in the opposite direction this time. There was no need to dwell on the grisly, the numerous indentations, the pooling ichor. The single eyeball, implying that another human being had reached deep into the left socket and curled their twisted little fingers around the gelatinous blob of-
There's no point in not looking if you're still going to let your mind run off like that. Just how masochistic are you?
Angel's mouth was too filled with vomit to conjure up any sort of response.
Listen to me. This is nothing, okay? A manikin. Better yet, a movie prop. Nothing worth looking or thinking too much about.
Again, he wiped at his mouth, as if he could wipe away all he had seen and known in these past five minutes. He flicked the grey-ish greenish gunk off of his hand, and knelt in front of…in front of something.
Good boy. Now, what are we doing?
"Looking for identification." His voice was still unsteady, but he was doing well, considering all that had befallen him. One large hand rifled one side of the object, while the other analyzed its opposite. His right hand at last settled on a fat brown wallet, complete with driver's license and credit cards.
He focused his eyesight on the rectangular contraption, as opposed to the subject which he was holding it over.
"Riley," he read aloud, "Riley Finn." He blacked out approximately one second later.