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Ok so the meanies at LJ said that my original post was too long *pouts* so I split it... for the rest you need to Enjoy!!!!!
This time Angel did raise his head, knowing the question was directed at him even though it was addressed to Drusilla. His soft brown eyes met hard blue ones, the type of eyes he had only ever seen on Darla in the foulest of moods. He had no idea what Liam had done to William, but the older male seemed to hate him and therefore Angel with every fibre of his immortal being. It was an irrational hate and it chilled Angel to the core because that was the most dangerous type of hate out there. It also only added to the confusion that he was feeling as this was one change he couldn’t figure out at all. From the start he and William had been friends, there had been a slight hostility, but it was nothing more than settling the dispute of dominance. As with all pack creatures, everything settled once all knew their place and after the initial putting down of William, there was no spite between them. At least not until after the soul. Before that they had been friends and Angel was at a loss to think what could have happened here to have changed that.
"Yes Daddy. Liam knows he was a bad boy… he wants to apologise."
His eyes flew from the beginnings of the smirk on Williams face to Drusilla’s innocent china doll visage. He couldn’t believe what she was intending for him to do. Her eyes flicked to him and all he saw in them was a steely resolve that matched their colour quite perfectly. As she held his gaze he knew he would have to apologise or else they were both in danger from Williams’s wrath. There was a part of him that was growling and rattling in rebellion at the idea of bowing to the vampire before him it was his damn Grand-Childe. It was his body, his voice, his scent, his infuriating smirk it was Spike… just he was called William. Never had he bowed to a vampire lower than him before and he really didn’t want to start now. Yet, there was a small part of him that was unwilling to bring any harm to Drusilla. It was little more than a flickering fledgling flame, delicate and fragile in its struggle for life, but it was there and that was enough to undermine Angel’s pride. Pulling himself from the protective embrace of his Sire, he lifted himself from the bed, hissing as his movement stretched the stiff healing skin. But there was no other acknowledgement of his wounds. He moved across the Victorian bedroom, away from the safety of the fluffy bed and towards the smirking demon that stood in the jaws of the door. He felt like he was approaching Cerberus in the Underworld as sharp eyes tracked his every movement, hawk-like in their observation of him and so he kept his movement’s soft and smooth, unwilling to provoke the predator.
He stopped about a foot away from his once Grande-Childe now Grand-Sire and for a brief second made eye contact, brown colliding with blue unflinchingly. He let all of the animosity he felt towards the creature who had instigated his beating, making it quite plain that he was only submitting under duress and that he would rather kiss the daylight than bow down to William. As he stared into the icy eyes that were looking on him with such undisguised animosity, he realised that the vampire before him wasn’t his Spike, the Spike of his world did not exist in this William. Even when Angelus had been at his worse, had been cruelly tormenting Spike with his paralysed inadequacies and flaunting his relationship with Drusilla, even then Spike had not looked at him with such undisguised hatred that burned in those blue orbs. Spike had hated him with an unquenchable fire - a point that had been driven home to Angel by the glowing tips of red hot pokers. But either Spike hadn’t hated him as much or was much better at hiding his feelings than William was. He only held the gaze for a few seconds - just until he saw the flicker of recognition spark in the blue eyes and twitch of lip as William recognised the intent behind the stare. He wanted William to realise that even though he was physically inferior to him, nothing was going to intimidate him. He adopted his most angelic countenance, the face that had gotten him taken in to many a deserted homestead on dark winter nights without a second thought, his brown eyes sliding away to submissively gaze at the carpet. With his gaze averted he moved forward to kneel at polished wingtip shoed feet, tilting his head to the side, revealing the long column of his throat to the blue eyes.
“I apologise for my transgressions.”
He used his most submissive voice, but still there was a detectable note of insolence in his words.
"Master."
His head shot up. Brown eyebrows colliding with his long brown fringe in astonishment. His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he tried to question what he had just heard.
"W-w-what?"
A smirk curved its way on to the angular face of the figure standing over him.
"You need to learn your place boy. Understand this, you are nothing more than an Irish peasant that has wormed his way into one of the most powerful Demonic families every made. But, you need to remember that whilst you are something by virtue of the blood in your veins - you are nothing in this house. You are the lowest of the low… and I think that you need to remember that. In this household I make the rules. Drusilla may have pampered you for the last year, but I will do no such thing. And to reinforce that I think that you should show the proper respect to me… and you can start by calling me Master."
The corner of Angel’s lip curved up into the beginnings of a snarl, his demon thoroughly affronted by what was being demanded of him, but he stifled it. Barely. There was a flash of white teeth before, practically choking on what was coming from his mouth, he managed to get the words out with only the slightest hint of a growl.
“Master.”
“Good boy.”
He felt a hand ruffle at his hair, fingers purposefully snagging at the ends of his sable locks, tugging them viciously. He didn’t wince or yelp knowing that William wanted him to, and his pride refused to allow him to stoop that low. He simply smiled up at the demon that was trying to torment him, a saccharine sweet smile designed to infuriate, and remained kneeling at his feet waiting for some signal to be dismissed. Eventually Drusilla cooed to him, calling him back to their nest, pulling him into her arms and under their thick eiderdown.
"Don’t get too comfortable my sweet. I have been without your company for some time and tonight we are rectifying that indiscretion on your part. You spend too much time mollycoddling your puppy. Be ready to leave within the hour."
The door frame shook as William left the room and Angel let out a shaky breath. The wood had barely stopped vibrating before Drusilla gently kissed his cheek and left their bed. Sitting in front of her useless dressing mirror she began to apply blush to her pale cheeks before coming out her hair, hundreds of long strokes into the thick, shiny, black locks, humming softly all the while. Angel watched her, mesmerised by the side of Drusilla he had never been privy to before. Angelus had never really paid that much attention to the smaller activities that occupied his Childe’s time. As long as she wasn’t pestering him or being too loud he really hadn’t cared that much for her. She had been his… toy. He winced inwardly as he realised that that was all Angelus had ever been. He was a spoiled child. A spoiled child who wanted to play with everyone else’s toys. And break them if they meant something. He saw what he wanted and he took it - regardless of how much pain it caused others. In fact the more pain it caused the better. Drusilla had been his ultimate goal. He had wanted her from the very second that he had seen her and he was not going to let anything get in his way. Neither the threat of the God that guarded the convent she fled to, nor the family that she surrounded herself with. Want. Take. Have. That had been the code that he had lived by and Drusilla had most definitely come under the ‘want’ category. The first time he had seen her he had been captivated by the air of innocence that surrounded her, enveloping her, it had been visible to his eyes, a swirling cloud of the purest pale green, the very colour of life. He had always had a talent for sniffing out innocence - Darla had often praised him for it and Drusilla had shone so brightly with hers that he had had to have her, to make her his. He had always believed that the work he did was about mocking God, about challenging the very figure that had presided over and daunted his mortal life, leaving him a prisoner to his father and the views of his closed minded little town. He had carved the cross on the cheeks of his victims, defiled nuns in their sanctuary and impersonated priests to hear the congregation spill their multitude of sins but taking Drusilla was the one act that he deserved damnation for. If there was a God, a singular all powerful being that presided over the army that marched in the name of Good against the tide of wickedness, then taking a creature like Drusilla and turning her into a champion for evil, perverting all that was good and pure in her and twisting them into an unrecognisable parody of what her gifts were meant for was the ultimate slight to him. And yet God still hadn’t revealed himself to Angelus. Yet it was said that God moves in mysterious ways and what could be more mysterious than allowing a tribe of unorthodox gypsies to carry out the revenge that he could or would not? It certainly was the perfect vengeance and Angelus himself couldn’t have come up with a better torment.
Here though, in this strange and foreign world he had been thrown into, Drusilla was not his toy. In this twisted place she was his Sire, his shield, his protector and in many ways his saviour. As he studied the vampire he was suddenly so reliant upon he could feel the thoughts of Liam as they flitted through his mind, much too quick for him to fully understand them or learn from them, but he knew one thing - Liam was besotted with his Sire and she with him. If he was to survive in this time long enough to work out what was going on and find a way home, his only option was to trust in Drusilla and become Liam for her. He would have to become the vampire she expected him to be, the artistic Irish boy she had taken. The vampire she so greatly cared for and was willing to do anything for as long as he was safe. If he couldn’t become Liam, then this world was going to become a very hostile place for him to live in.
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He waited a good fifteen minutes after he heard the front door slam behind William and Drusilla before daring to leave the sanctuary of the bedroom, his ears pricked for the slightest sound. His stomach felt thick and heavy with warning that it would be in his best interests to stay away from William. The demon hated him and Angel was in no doubt that he would use the smallest excuse to punish him, above and beyond the nature of his transgression. He imagined that the smallest slip would result in fiercest whipping and he didn’t want to lose what little intact skin he still had on his back. He also couldn’t afford to have the elder vampire watching his every move. He had work to do - like find out what in the hell was happening with him.
The house had settled, the only noises that could be heard were the creaks of the wood joints as the house breathed with the cooler night air and the whistling of the air trapped in the chimneys. Eventually, the house was so silent that he could clearly hear the noises of the street outside, and only then did he dare to slip from the large rumpled bed, dress in the clothes found in the closet, before carefully approaching the bedroom door. He stood for a long while with his ear pressed to the wood before slowly turning the handle and stepping out into the hallway. Every step he took through the house was done with more trepidation than he could ever remember moving before. A year old fledgling moving with the skill and precision of a two hundred and fifty year old Master was quite the sight to behold. He didn’t make a sound as he headed to the one room in the house that he believed would hold some answers. If William was anything like Angelus - which Angel was beginning to believe he was - then he was risking his very life by being in William’s study. But there were times when needs must and this was most definitely one of the times when his desperate need for knowledge was worth risking hide and hair.
Luckily the door wasn’t locked and the handle turned smoothly, granting him access to what he hoped was his salvation.
Taking a moment to look around the room he felt a wave of nostalgia sweep over him as he realised how similar it was to his own room. If he hadn’t been looking for any differences then he was quite convinced that he wouldn’t have spotted the subtle disparities that were very evident. There were pictures he had never seen before and most definitely not created over the mantle, in place of his own oils and sketches of Darla and Dru and his William. But in their place were weak pastels and water colours of London in the night time, muted shades of blue and black and glowing yellow reflecting off the murky Thames. It was most likely that they had belonged to the humans the vampires had taken the house from as no self respecting demons would have hung such insipid pictures in their lair. The desk was the same as it had always been, deep dark ebony that had been highly varnished and inlaid with the deepest red leather and ivory pieces. It was a beautiful piece of furniture but unlike the desk he had owned, this one was intact. It was totally free of its Spike customisations. Any time Spike had been truly annoyed with Angelus, he had taken it out on the desk, carving boorish symbols into the gorgeous wood. Often, he had sat on the edge of the desk, his leg swinging, his inappropriate boots leaving scuff marks on the varnish. All of these marks were gone, they had never been made on this desk, there had been no Spike here to make them. As he moved around the desk, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood, he found that he actually missed the ink splatters on the leather that Spike had made when he had insisted on trying to write with Angelus’ ancient calligraphy pen. He actually preferred his desk, it was full of memories… each scratch and scuff was an episode of his life that was permanently engrained into something that would last as long as they might. He had moved that desk from country to country, house to house, a small part of him too sentimental to leave it behind. Every time a minion had complained about moving it or had dropped it or knocked it against a wall he had whipped them raw or dusted them if they had actually caused damage to the piece. And that was nothing compared to what he had done to Spike every time he had transgressed against the desk.
More often than not though he had made Angelus laugh - mainly with the absurd excuses he had had to come up with to cover up what he had done.
Angelus and William - or Spike as he had preferred - had been very good friends. They had been family through both blood and choice. Had they been children living in the modern world, Angel was under no illusion that they would have made themselves blood brothers, swearing silly little oaths about eternity and fraternity. It was amazing what a century of estrangement could do to even the strongest of bonds. They had been the very best of friends, and it gave Angel the smallest flicker of hope. If Angelus, the most intolerant and vicious creature ever to walk the earth could find it in his black heart to care about Spike - even in the smallest way - then even in this topsy turvy world there was the hope that somehow he could make William at least tolerate him. He would just have to find a way to ingratiate himself with the older demon.
The rest of the room was pretty much the same as it had been when it had belonged to him. There was definitely the indication of Darla’s touch in the furnishings of the room. All the furniture had obviously been chosen by her as had the drapes and colour scheme of the room. It had been the same for his room. The only thing that he had owned and chosen had been the desk. If it was the same for William, then it was a fairly certain bet that what he was looking for was going to be found in this room. Darla had been fanatical about breeding and Angelus had been determined that his family should know everything that they could about the world they walked in. He wanted his Childer to be strong and that didn’t just mean that they had to know how to fight. Know thy enemy. Even simple human minds had been able to grasp the importance of knowledge in warfare. He hoped that should any of his family fail in physical combat then they would always be able to fall back on their minds to get them out of trouble. Thus Angelus’ study had doubled as a well stocked library, containing the most salient volumes of demon law and myth - a small but specific demon anthology based upon gaining the most pertinent knowledge in the least amount of time. If he were to understand any of this, he might as well start at the very beginning. Quickly browsing the fully loaded shelves Angel selected the volumes he knew would provide the most answers, along with the Halgan’s Demon Anthology. It was more fiction than fact, a who’s who of the demon world with a list of their greatest exploits, but it would give him a starting point. After all it had to have the Order of Aurelius somewhere in its pages. He stole a few sheets of paper and a pencil before settling himself on the floor in front of the fire with his work.
Leafing through the stack of books his head began to hurt as he digested all the information they surrendered to him. His mind soaked up fact after fact like a sponge, his pencil flying over sheet after sheet as he tried to map out all the information, sifting fact from fiction and working out what he actually needed to know in order to survive. The mantle clock ticked a dull metronome as the wood crackled and popped in the fire place, but he hardly heard any of that as he turned page after page desperate to know where and who he was. Eventually, exhausted and bleary eyed from the infinite procession of printed prose, he had to stop. Drunkenly he staggered to his feet, his muscles snapping as he stood, his hair tickling his eyes as it slipped over his brow. Mind numbed by all he had learned he poured himself a glass of whisky from the beautiful crystal decanter next to the fire before collapsing onto the hard leather sofa, his eyes unflinchingly fixed on the books and papers strewn over the dark carpet.
There was nothing he could think about what he had read. Every page, every paragraph had confirmed his fears, confirmed them and doubled them.
Darla was pretty much the same demon whore she had been when she was his Sire. She was as vicious as she was manipulative. Still the Master’s right hand she seemed to spend more time at his Court than with her Childe, which actually amused him slightly - either William didn’t want his Sire around that much or she wasn’t as enamoured with this Childe as she had been with him. Either way it gave him an in that he could not afford to ignore. Drusilla’s tale was also pretty similar. She had been pursued relentlessly by William the Bloody and eventually turned. The only thing he hadn’t been able to work out was whether or not she had actually been insane before she had crossed the demon’s path. If she had been then… if she had been then maybe she was always meant to be a mad vampire. But if she had been sane… if the actions of her hunters had warped her mind and pushed her into the fantasy that kept her safe then he had to weep for her - because there was no one else, alive or dead that would.
But, it was William that struck a deep resonating chord of fear on his heartstrings as William was a mirror he was not willing to look into. An obsidian reflection of who he really was inside, and Angel didn’t like it one bit. This William had taken Angelus’ place in this world, he had taken the role and made it his own - and part of Angel knew that he applauded it. The demon that he kept buried, and the small pettiness of the man that he never let surface, those parts of himself where in silent awe of what William was in this world. But the pure soul, the part of him that was there to control the demon and that had learnt from everything that he had done and knew the limitless potential of humanity, recoiled from William with the speed of a rattlesnake. William was him and he was William. And there was no way that he could ever pay penance for the crimes they committed.
William had been born in 1726 in London to an increasingly prosperous wealthy merchant and his beloved wife. Sadly, for the mortal William, his father died in 1741 of tuberculosis, leaving a tearful widow and young son as the master of both house and businesses and despite his social inadequacies, William did surprisingly well, steering his father’s businesses through tough tides and into profitable waters. Like Liam, William was turned by Darla when he was twenty seven years old, the only difference between the two was that William wasn’t drunk, he just happened to be wandering through the wrong area at the wrong time, giving Darla the chance to snag herself a pretty golden haired Childe. William went on to sire his mother, but staked her shortly afterwards, and after a whirlwind death tour of the British Isles, he was presented to the Master’s Court at the age of seven creating quite the impression on his GrandSire when he refused to bow to the older vampire. What followed next was unprecedented in the history of demon kind and to other vampires it was nothing short of inspirational. He and Darla left London that year, sweeping through Europe leaving a path of bloody destruction in their wake and earning William the rousing name of William the Bloody, Scourge of Europe. They had returned to London just under a century later, where he eye was caught by a young girl with long dark hair and grey eyes that saw more than the real world. Drusilla was turned three years after their return in a convent in 1860 a mere shell of a human, into which a demon was forced creating the insane creature that was Drusilla the Mad. The malevolent trio had spent the following twenty years wandering the country, going back and forth between London as they enjoyed their immortality.
William the Bloody was this world’s Angelus, that much was plain to see. The major events of their reigns had been the same, their careers mirrors of one another. They had died at the same age in the same way. They had visited the same countries, killed the same pertinent victims and made the same names for themselves. They were interchangeable and that was incredibly unnerving. Yet despite all their physical similarities, despite sharing the same Sire, GrandSire, Childe and the same blood-soaked careers, there were still some huge disparities between the two. For one, William did not share the same love of mental and physical torture and torment that Angelus had wielded as his insignia. William inspired fear and horror by simply being the most bloodthirsty and brutal bastard that anyone could ever hope to come across. He was the Slayer of Slayers. He had killed a young Slayer in Seville when he was just twenty three - an age unprecedented in history and had then gone on to hunt down and kill her replacement in Milan less than a year later. According to the eye witness reports of her Watcher indicate that up until the very last minute. Her blows had been landing steadily and causing a great deal of damage to the seemingly prone vampire. But then William had gained a second wind, nailing her body to a wall with her own stake and leaving her Watcher to deal with her broken bloody body. He had taken the blood of a third Slayer in Vienna in 1805, leaving her head on the steps of the Watcher’s Council outpost in Rome a few days later. Her eyes had been removed and then replaced, the pupils focused inwards, her lips had been sewn together and her once glorious hair was burnt and blood caked. But for the Watchers that found her, the worst part of the whole event came when they dared to open the Slayer’s mouth. Inside they found blood and shattered teeth and fangs. Her own canines had obviously been ripped out from the roots, pulled and twisted until they had snapped out, leaving two deep holes in her gums, into which had been unceremoniously shoved the fangs, most probably ripped from the mouth of a young vampire. It was reported that the Council had had no other choice but to burn the head, rather than give the Slayer the hero’s burial she deserved, as every church that they had approached had refused to give the Last Rites and inter such a blasphemy. The death of a Slayer in St Emillion in 1845 was also attributed to the monster now aptly named William the Bloody, if only for the state of her corpse. Her throat had been ripped out with no care or finesse, both of her legs had been broken and her body was a mass of contusions and cuts. There was also a crudely carved scene of her death on her chest, with the vampire staking her with her own stake. She was being held together by the smallest amounts of skin and sinew but nothing else. Her body was no longer the vessel which held her life, the square she was found in was awash with her crimson essence. The reports failed to mention into which orifice William had shoved the girl’s stake.
He felt sick.
Four Slayers. Angel let out a shaky breath. Four Slayers.
Spike had been impressive. He was a whirlwind of violence and destruction that couldn’t be tempered by any amount of threatening or cajoling. He pursued Slayers with the tenacity of the most well trained blood hound, eager to get off on the violence and lust of the ensuing battle. But he had only managed to take down two; William had obliterated four of the killing machines, becoming truly deserving of the name it earned him. Two Slayer’s had been considered an unprecedented feat in Angel’s world, but to be able to kill four… that didn’t make William a monster, it made him a God. And all the more dangerous for Angel. In this world Liam was quite obviously a mar on the William’s perfect life. He didn’t even achieve the status of black sheep. He was nothing more than a dirty ink spot. One which William would gladly erase as soon as he was presented with the perfect opportunity. He had to suspect that such a task wouldn’t prove too challenging for such a creature. The only thing that was keeping him relatively safe was Drusilla and the demon’s obvious affection for his Childe, but he doubted that even she would be able to prevent anything from happening to him should William take it into his mind to destroy him. All he could hope to do was to keep William as sweet as possible, remain Drusilla’s beloved Childe and pray to the Powers that he could charm Darla when she made her entrance.
His mouth felt dry. Looking down he realised that he had yet to drink the whisky he was holding. His mind swirling, he swiftly knocked back the burning fluid, inhaling sharply with the satisfying burn that came as it hit his throat and stomach. Deciding that one glass of whisky really wasn’t worth a whipping he poured himself another, deciding to take his time over the second measure. Staring into the amber liquid he became mesmerised by the play of the firelight through the crystal shards and dancing on the whisky. The strange glints and sparkles soothed him and soon his mind quieted and all he was focused upon was the liquid and the light. It was then that he noticed the real change… it was quiet. For the first time in a long while it was truly silent.
With all the thoughts that had been swirling through his mind as he read about himself and his family he hadn’t noticed anything. But now that his mind was quiet and the house was still without the minions moving around, he realised that the world was silent. There was no insidious whisperings from that tormented and depraved little parasite to disturb his quiet contemplation. And that distressed him more than anything he had read over that night.
Despite his brief research session answering most of his questions, it had created a whole set of new ones. most of which pertained to what had happened to him. He could easily accept that magic had transported him to an alternate reality and had merged his being with that of his counterpart, after all - as many theorist proposed - it was impossible for their to be two of any one of the same being to be present in the same dimension. It was all about balance and… he really should have paid more attention to Wesley when he and Fred had argued these points out. Even so, he could accept that he was in the body of his counterpart but there were so many things that were fundamentally wrong about this body he was trapped in. For a start there was the simple fact that Drusilla had allowed him to keep his soul. He had no idea as to why she had done that. Not the slightest inkling of an idea. She had abhorred his soul, the spark that had stolen her Daddy away, with all the darkness that was contained in her small frame and yet she had allowed her Childe, the Childe she protected so fiercely, to keep his. She had purposely created a vampire that shouldn’t exist. A vampire that was truly an abomination… to its own kind at least. Then there were the physical abnormalities that Liam seemed to have. He was a year old, and even though Angel was almost three hundred years old he had not forgotten what being a year old fledgling was like. True, it was nothing like having the power, the exhilarating rush of strength that came with being a Master Vampire had but there was power there. But Liam had no power, no strength… no vitality. Angel could feel it in every limb, every movement, every twitch of muscle. He felt the lack of power, like he felt a lack of heartbeat. Liam had no more supernatural strength than the average human man and his body had been this fragile since the second he had been pulled from his grave. There was always the chance that Drusilla’s madness had made it so that she was incapable of turning properly, but the vague scraps of memories that he had been able to cling to were leading him to believe that she had known what she had been doing when she made him. Plus Spike had proved to be a phenomenally successful vampire. He had to believe that she had purposefully made him weak and soulful, but he couldn’t begin to fathom why.
And he wasn’t going to find his answers sitting in William’s study.
Quickly he tidied the room; there was less chance of William noticing his missing whisky if his study didn’t look like a localised tornado had whipped through it. As he replaced all of the books in the correct positions, he couldn’t squash the pang of nostalgia that bubbled in the pit of his stomach. Here, in this room, so similar to his own, and in a time he remembered so well, it was impossible to lie to himself anymore. At his lowest points he had always told himself that it was the company he missed, the feeling of family. That he missed sharing a home, a joke, a bed, a thought. But deep down, he knew that he had tried to convince himself so desperately, so that he could continue his charade in the real world. If he admitted to the real world that he missed this life, then everyone would naturally assume that it was the darker side of the demon that he missed. The blood and the brutality. But he had missed it. He had missed it desperately. He had missed his family - fealty and friends forged in blood - because if the saying was true, and friends are the family you choose, then what the hell were his demonic family if not more than that. if not more than any bond he could hope to form through a human fashion. They coveted one another, as a dragon coverts its gold. The loved one another with a passion that would make poets weep in frustration at the inability to describe it on paper. They hated one another with the ferocity of a nuclear catastrophe. They were one another’s alpha and omega and he had missed it dreadfully When Dru and Spike had appeared in Sunnydale, he had clung so desperately to Buffy and her band of followers to stop himself from throwing himself at their feet and begging for them to take him in. when he had awoken that morning, he had mourned the loss of the family that he had managed to piece together in LA - waifs and strays the lot of them. They weren’t all tied together by blood but they had shared an intense bond. Or they had at one time. The one blood link he had made had been brutally shattered by a centuries’ old hatred and the breaking of a fraternal bond. Now all LA held was the possibility of renewing and recreating bonds that he hoped weren’t beyond repair, assuming he could get back there…
He ignored the niggling thought that crept n, spider-like scuttling to suggest that here, in this time and place he had the opportunity for a whole new start. A chance to prevent the loss of his blood family… a chance to be something other than self flagellating soul he had become. He viciously swept the thought to one side, just as he had done with so many thoughts he had entertained over his solitary century.
Heart heavy with new thoughts and old regrets, he trudged back to the room he had awoken in, the only place he trusted in the entire house. He closed the heavy door, listening as the thud echoed round the empty house, drew the thick drapes and lit the fire. Other than the weak light given out by the flickering flames the room was completely dark, the shadows lengthening as they were given room to breathe. He shed his jacket, waistcoat and tie, unlaced his shoes and kicked them under the four poster bed, before making himself comfortable on top of it. Sitting cross legged in the centre of the plush bed, he let his arms fall loosely to his sides, and taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. He hadn’t tried this in many years, but his only other choice was to ask Drusilla who he was - and probably come across as more insane than his Sire. If he wanted to find out who he was and what was wrong with him - why he was so undeniably weak - then he would have to look deep inside himself, just as he had had to before.
After Buffy had died, a thick oppressive darkness had settled over him. Everyone had said that it was normal- that the love of his life had died and he was expected and allowed to grieve and mope. But to him it seemed more than that. He had felt as if a piece of him had gone, been ripped away with her. In a sense he had expected that, he had expected Buffy’s death to rip him into shreds, tear his heart and soul from his body in one rendering tug… but what he had felt had been different. Nothing had torn, nothing had splintered, shattered or fragmented and cut him into a thousand pieces. What was that quote? This is the way the world ends… not with a bang but a whimper. This was how he had felt. He had expected to collapse screaming and sobbing uncontrollably, but instead he had merely thanked Willow for her consideration, hugged her and Cordelia and headed up to his bedroom he had run his shower, waited until the water had reached the desired temperature before stepping under the spray. He had been almost clinical in the way he had lost his body. He had simply towelled off, pulled his silk sleeping pants on and slid into bed. That had been his routine until Cordelia had convinced herself he was having a mental breakdown and Wes had suggested that he took a vacation. He had in some ways. He had headed for Sri Lanka and the monastery rather than the bright lights of Las Vegas. He decided that peace and quiet was what he needed to heal rather than distractions.
It had taken him a while to realise that he had lost something, but it wasn’t what he had expected to lose. It had taken one old man days to teach him the meditation technique that had allowed him to dive into his subconscious and realise what was wrong. It had been so simple when he had looked back over it. He had created someone for Buffy, a small part of him had been a fabrication made especially for her and now that part was superfluous. He had never realised until then, that the man he had been for Buffy in Sunnydale was not the man that he really was or was meant to be. The man he had been when he was human, Liam Kearns, was never quiet. He never lurked or listened, he was the life and soul of the party. He was a drunkard, a brigand, a rogue and a rascal. He was the embodiment of good natured wickedness. He was popular - if only for his high spirits and hated for his carefree attitude. He stole, swore, whored and drank. He fought with his fists and with his mouth and he wouldn’t have laid down his life for his fellow man unless there was something in it for him. There had been nothing nasty about him but there had been nothing overly good about him either. He wouldn’t have ended up in Hell for his human life, but he wouldn’t have had a long life to live. He would have died either drunk in a gutter or from a lucky punch thrown in a bar fight. All of that exuberance and childishness had been transformed into the very worst that he could have become. The ale-inspired taunts were nothing compared to the damage that could flow from his mouth and a bar fight seemed nothing more than a juvenile dare compared to the damage that he could cause now. But neither Angelus nor Liam had any of the traits that Buffy’s Angel had shown. They had been capable of kindness to those they had cared for - Kathy had taken every bit of softness that Liam had to offer and Drusilla, Darla, Spike and even Penn had been subjected to the gentle side of Angelus, the quieter contemplative side that he would occasionally offer them. The side that was happy just to sit in company and be with them. But neither of them had been such a broken and beaten puppy. Angel or the being that he created for Buffy was nothing more than her lap-dog as Spike had so affectionately put it. He had held all of his true passion for life and love inside because that was too close to the creature that he wasn’t supposed to be to be acceptable. The Angel of Sunnydale was nothing more than a shadow of life in everyway possible. He didn’t laugh, he hardly smiled or talked, he was dark and that wasn’t always being true to himself.
When Buffy had died he had realised for the first time that although they had loved each other, they had never truly known each other. Or to be more accurate she had never truly known him. She was as easy to read as the dawning sky, so bright and clear and unblemished by life. But he had kept so much from her - and not just the tales of his demonic exploits. He had never really told her what he thought about situations, he had meekly followed her into battle when he knew that he would have done it another way. He had never shut Xander up or praised Willow and Giles like they had truly deserved. He had just stayed there as Buffy’s shadow, nodding and supporting her decisions like he was expected to. And it was this that was lost when she died, he lost a part of himself that he had created just for her and it died with her. But rather than the destruction of his world that he had expected to come with her death, he had merely felt numb and detached. So he had learned to meditate, so learn who he really was again and how to be true to that person.
And that was what he meant to do now.
He closed his eyes and began to breathe in and out. He would inhale over the count of ten, hold it for three seconds and then exhale over the count of ten. He didn’t know how long it was until he started to fall, fall deep down through his mind, tumbling into his subconscious. He pushed through the murk, the hazy confusion of two colliding lives. He saw himself living with two sets of parents, both familiar to him but at the same time both so foreign. He saw his siblings and his sister who he loved and didn’t know. Fragments of a life that had been lost and never even lived passed before his eyes, ingraining themselves on his memory for further exploration. He went deeper, down into the darkness that he hated seeing, the core of his being that he feared more than anything else...
Angel opened his eyes.
Wide eyed he sat on the bed, his body straining as he tried to breathe, as he tried to calm himself.
He closed his eyes once more and focused, pushing himself to his limits as he tried to capture the faintest whisper that would negate what he now knew to be true. But there was nothing to be heard. There was no one in the room but him. For the first time in over a century Angel was alone. Or rather he was whole.
For the first time in over a century, Angel was finally one being. Demon and soul. One a part of the other.
United.
OMG - that was so much Fun!!!
Tootles xxx
p.s. If anyone read it all... then as a pressie I will do a request - drabble, ficlet etc... am in a good mood today - Just gimme a prompt!!!
This time Angel did raise his head, knowing the question was directed at him even though it was addressed to Drusilla. His soft brown eyes met hard blue ones, the type of eyes he had only ever seen on Darla in the foulest of moods. He had no idea what Liam had done to William, but the older male seemed to hate him and therefore Angel with every fibre of his immortal being. It was an irrational hate and it chilled Angel to the core because that was the most dangerous type of hate out there. It also only added to the confusion that he was feeling as this was one change he couldn’t figure out at all. From the start he and William had been friends, there had been a slight hostility, but it was nothing more than settling the dispute of dominance. As with all pack creatures, everything settled once all knew their place and after the initial putting down of William, there was no spite between them. At least not until after the soul. Before that they had been friends and Angel was at a loss to think what could have happened here to have changed that.
"Yes Daddy. Liam knows he was a bad boy… he wants to apologise."
His eyes flew from the beginnings of the smirk on Williams face to Drusilla’s innocent china doll visage. He couldn’t believe what she was intending for him to do. Her eyes flicked to him and all he saw in them was a steely resolve that matched their colour quite perfectly. As she held his gaze he knew he would have to apologise or else they were both in danger from Williams’s wrath. There was a part of him that was growling and rattling in rebellion at the idea of bowing to the vampire before him it was his damn Grand-Childe. It was his body, his voice, his scent, his infuriating smirk it was Spike… just he was called William. Never had he bowed to a vampire lower than him before and he really didn’t want to start now. Yet, there was a small part of him that was unwilling to bring any harm to Drusilla. It was little more than a flickering fledgling flame, delicate and fragile in its struggle for life, but it was there and that was enough to undermine Angel’s pride. Pulling himself from the protective embrace of his Sire, he lifted himself from the bed, hissing as his movement stretched the stiff healing skin. But there was no other acknowledgement of his wounds. He moved across the Victorian bedroom, away from the safety of the fluffy bed and towards the smirking demon that stood in the jaws of the door. He felt like he was approaching Cerberus in the Underworld as sharp eyes tracked his every movement, hawk-like in their observation of him and so he kept his movement’s soft and smooth, unwilling to provoke the predator.
He stopped about a foot away from his once Grande-Childe now Grand-Sire and for a brief second made eye contact, brown colliding with blue unflinchingly. He let all of the animosity he felt towards the creature who had instigated his beating, making it quite plain that he was only submitting under duress and that he would rather kiss the daylight than bow down to William. As he stared into the icy eyes that were looking on him with such undisguised animosity, he realised that the vampire before him wasn’t his Spike, the Spike of his world did not exist in this William. Even when Angelus had been at his worse, had been cruelly tormenting Spike with his paralysed inadequacies and flaunting his relationship with Drusilla, even then Spike had not looked at him with such undisguised hatred that burned in those blue orbs. Spike had hated him with an unquenchable fire - a point that had been driven home to Angel by the glowing tips of red hot pokers. But either Spike hadn’t hated him as much or was much better at hiding his feelings than William was. He only held the gaze for a few seconds - just until he saw the flicker of recognition spark in the blue eyes and twitch of lip as William recognised the intent behind the stare. He wanted William to realise that even though he was physically inferior to him, nothing was going to intimidate him. He adopted his most angelic countenance, the face that had gotten him taken in to many a deserted homestead on dark winter nights without a second thought, his brown eyes sliding away to submissively gaze at the carpet. With his gaze averted he moved forward to kneel at polished wingtip shoed feet, tilting his head to the side, revealing the long column of his throat to the blue eyes.
“I apologise for my transgressions.”
He used his most submissive voice, but still there was a detectable note of insolence in his words.
"Master."
His head shot up. Brown eyebrows colliding with his long brown fringe in astonishment. His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he tried to question what he had just heard.
"W-w-what?"
A smirk curved its way on to the angular face of the figure standing over him.
"You need to learn your place boy. Understand this, you are nothing more than an Irish peasant that has wormed his way into one of the most powerful Demonic families every made. But, you need to remember that whilst you are something by virtue of the blood in your veins - you are nothing in this house. You are the lowest of the low… and I think that you need to remember that. In this household I make the rules. Drusilla may have pampered you for the last year, but I will do no such thing. And to reinforce that I think that you should show the proper respect to me… and you can start by calling me Master."
The corner of Angel’s lip curved up into the beginnings of a snarl, his demon thoroughly affronted by what was being demanded of him, but he stifled it. Barely. There was a flash of white teeth before, practically choking on what was coming from his mouth, he managed to get the words out with only the slightest hint of a growl.
“Master.”
“Good boy.”
He felt a hand ruffle at his hair, fingers purposefully snagging at the ends of his sable locks, tugging them viciously. He didn’t wince or yelp knowing that William wanted him to, and his pride refused to allow him to stoop that low. He simply smiled up at the demon that was trying to torment him, a saccharine sweet smile designed to infuriate, and remained kneeling at his feet waiting for some signal to be dismissed. Eventually Drusilla cooed to him, calling him back to their nest, pulling him into her arms and under their thick eiderdown.
"Don’t get too comfortable my sweet. I have been without your company for some time and tonight we are rectifying that indiscretion on your part. You spend too much time mollycoddling your puppy. Be ready to leave within the hour."
The door frame shook as William left the room and Angel let out a shaky breath. The wood had barely stopped vibrating before Drusilla gently kissed his cheek and left their bed. Sitting in front of her useless dressing mirror she began to apply blush to her pale cheeks before coming out her hair, hundreds of long strokes into the thick, shiny, black locks, humming softly all the while. Angel watched her, mesmerised by the side of Drusilla he had never been privy to before. Angelus had never really paid that much attention to the smaller activities that occupied his Childe’s time. As long as she wasn’t pestering him or being too loud he really hadn’t cared that much for her. She had been his… toy. He winced inwardly as he realised that that was all Angelus had ever been. He was a spoiled child. A spoiled child who wanted to play with everyone else’s toys. And break them if they meant something. He saw what he wanted and he took it - regardless of how much pain it caused others. In fact the more pain it caused the better. Drusilla had been his ultimate goal. He had wanted her from the very second that he had seen her and he was not going to let anything get in his way. Neither the threat of the God that guarded the convent she fled to, nor the family that she surrounded herself with. Want. Take. Have. That had been the code that he had lived by and Drusilla had most definitely come under the ‘want’ category. The first time he had seen her he had been captivated by the air of innocence that surrounded her, enveloping her, it had been visible to his eyes, a swirling cloud of the purest pale green, the very colour of life. He had always had a talent for sniffing out innocence - Darla had often praised him for it and Drusilla had shone so brightly with hers that he had had to have her, to make her his. He had always believed that the work he did was about mocking God, about challenging the very figure that had presided over and daunted his mortal life, leaving him a prisoner to his father and the views of his closed minded little town. He had carved the cross on the cheeks of his victims, defiled nuns in their sanctuary and impersonated priests to hear the congregation spill their multitude of sins but taking Drusilla was the one act that he deserved damnation for. If there was a God, a singular all powerful being that presided over the army that marched in the name of Good against the tide of wickedness, then taking a creature like Drusilla and turning her into a champion for evil, perverting all that was good and pure in her and twisting them into an unrecognisable parody of what her gifts were meant for was the ultimate slight to him. And yet God still hadn’t revealed himself to Angelus. Yet it was said that God moves in mysterious ways and what could be more mysterious than allowing a tribe of unorthodox gypsies to carry out the revenge that he could or would not? It certainly was the perfect vengeance and Angelus himself couldn’t have come up with a better torment.
Here though, in this strange and foreign world he had been thrown into, Drusilla was not his toy. In this twisted place she was his Sire, his shield, his protector and in many ways his saviour. As he studied the vampire he was suddenly so reliant upon he could feel the thoughts of Liam as they flitted through his mind, much too quick for him to fully understand them or learn from them, but he knew one thing - Liam was besotted with his Sire and she with him. If he was to survive in this time long enough to work out what was going on and find a way home, his only option was to trust in Drusilla and become Liam for her. He would have to become the vampire she expected him to be, the artistic Irish boy she had taken. The vampire she so greatly cared for and was willing to do anything for as long as he was safe. If he couldn’t become Liam, then this world was going to become a very hostile place for him to live in.
*******************************************
He waited a good fifteen minutes after he heard the front door slam behind William and Drusilla before daring to leave the sanctuary of the bedroom, his ears pricked for the slightest sound. His stomach felt thick and heavy with warning that it would be in his best interests to stay away from William. The demon hated him and Angel was in no doubt that he would use the smallest excuse to punish him, above and beyond the nature of his transgression. He imagined that the smallest slip would result in fiercest whipping and he didn’t want to lose what little intact skin he still had on his back. He also couldn’t afford to have the elder vampire watching his every move. He had work to do - like find out what in the hell was happening with him.
The house had settled, the only noises that could be heard were the creaks of the wood joints as the house breathed with the cooler night air and the whistling of the air trapped in the chimneys. Eventually, the house was so silent that he could clearly hear the noises of the street outside, and only then did he dare to slip from the large rumpled bed, dress in the clothes found in the closet, before carefully approaching the bedroom door. He stood for a long while with his ear pressed to the wood before slowly turning the handle and stepping out into the hallway. Every step he took through the house was done with more trepidation than he could ever remember moving before. A year old fledgling moving with the skill and precision of a two hundred and fifty year old Master was quite the sight to behold. He didn’t make a sound as he headed to the one room in the house that he believed would hold some answers. If William was anything like Angelus - which Angel was beginning to believe he was - then he was risking his very life by being in William’s study. But there were times when needs must and this was most definitely one of the times when his desperate need for knowledge was worth risking hide and hair.
Luckily the door wasn’t locked and the handle turned smoothly, granting him access to what he hoped was his salvation.
Taking a moment to look around the room he felt a wave of nostalgia sweep over him as he realised how similar it was to his own room. If he hadn’t been looking for any differences then he was quite convinced that he wouldn’t have spotted the subtle disparities that were very evident. There were pictures he had never seen before and most definitely not created over the mantle, in place of his own oils and sketches of Darla and Dru and his William. But in their place were weak pastels and water colours of London in the night time, muted shades of blue and black and glowing yellow reflecting off the murky Thames. It was most likely that they had belonged to the humans the vampires had taken the house from as no self respecting demons would have hung such insipid pictures in their lair. The desk was the same as it had always been, deep dark ebony that had been highly varnished and inlaid with the deepest red leather and ivory pieces. It was a beautiful piece of furniture but unlike the desk he had owned, this one was intact. It was totally free of its Spike customisations. Any time Spike had been truly annoyed with Angelus, he had taken it out on the desk, carving boorish symbols into the gorgeous wood. Often, he had sat on the edge of the desk, his leg swinging, his inappropriate boots leaving scuff marks on the varnish. All of these marks were gone, they had never been made on this desk, there had been no Spike here to make them. As he moved around the desk, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood, he found that he actually missed the ink splatters on the leather that Spike had made when he had insisted on trying to write with Angelus’ ancient calligraphy pen. He actually preferred his desk, it was full of memories… each scratch and scuff was an episode of his life that was permanently engrained into something that would last as long as they might. He had moved that desk from country to country, house to house, a small part of him too sentimental to leave it behind. Every time a minion had complained about moving it or had dropped it or knocked it against a wall he had whipped them raw or dusted them if they had actually caused damage to the piece. And that was nothing compared to what he had done to Spike every time he had transgressed against the desk.
More often than not though he had made Angelus laugh - mainly with the absurd excuses he had had to come up with to cover up what he had done.
Angelus and William - or Spike as he had preferred - had been very good friends. They had been family through both blood and choice. Had they been children living in the modern world, Angel was under no illusion that they would have made themselves blood brothers, swearing silly little oaths about eternity and fraternity. It was amazing what a century of estrangement could do to even the strongest of bonds. They had been the very best of friends, and it gave Angel the smallest flicker of hope. If Angelus, the most intolerant and vicious creature ever to walk the earth could find it in his black heart to care about Spike - even in the smallest way - then even in this topsy turvy world there was the hope that somehow he could make William at least tolerate him. He would just have to find a way to ingratiate himself with the older demon.
The rest of the room was pretty much the same as it had been when it had belonged to him. There was definitely the indication of Darla’s touch in the furnishings of the room. All the furniture had obviously been chosen by her as had the drapes and colour scheme of the room. It had been the same for his room. The only thing that he had owned and chosen had been the desk. If it was the same for William, then it was a fairly certain bet that what he was looking for was going to be found in this room. Darla had been fanatical about breeding and Angelus had been determined that his family should know everything that they could about the world they walked in. He wanted his Childer to be strong and that didn’t just mean that they had to know how to fight. Know thy enemy. Even simple human minds had been able to grasp the importance of knowledge in warfare. He hoped that should any of his family fail in physical combat then they would always be able to fall back on their minds to get them out of trouble. Thus Angelus’ study had doubled as a well stocked library, containing the most salient volumes of demon law and myth - a small but specific demon anthology based upon gaining the most pertinent knowledge in the least amount of time. If he were to understand any of this, he might as well start at the very beginning. Quickly browsing the fully loaded shelves Angel selected the volumes he knew would provide the most answers, along with the Halgan’s Demon Anthology. It was more fiction than fact, a who’s who of the demon world with a list of their greatest exploits, but it would give him a starting point. After all it had to have the Order of Aurelius somewhere in its pages. He stole a few sheets of paper and a pencil before settling himself on the floor in front of the fire with his work.
Leafing through the stack of books his head began to hurt as he digested all the information they surrendered to him. His mind soaked up fact after fact like a sponge, his pencil flying over sheet after sheet as he tried to map out all the information, sifting fact from fiction and working out what he actually needed to know in order to survive. The mantle clock ticked a dull metronome as the wood crackled and popped in the fire place, but he hardly heard any of that as he turned page after page desperate to know where and who he was. Eventually, exhausted and bleary eyed from the infinite procession of printed prose, he had to stop. Drunkenly he staggered to his feet, his muscles snapping as he stood, his hair tickling his eyes as it slipped over his brow. Mind numbed by all he had learned he poured himself a glass of whisky from the beautiful crystal decanter next to the fire before collapsing onto the hard leather sofa, his eyes unflinchingly fixed on the books and papers strewn over the dark carpet.
There was nothing he could think about what he had read. Every page, every paragraph had confirmed his fears, confirmed them and doubled them.
Darla was pretty much the same demon whore she had been when she was his Sire. She was as vicious as she was manipulative. Still the Master’s right hand she seemed to spend more time at his Court than with her Childe, which actually amused him slightly - either William didn’t want his Sire around that much or she wasn’t as enamoured with this Childe as she had been with him. Either way it gave him an in that he could not afford to ignore. Drusilla’s tale was also pretty similar. She had been pursued relentlessly by William the Bloody and eventually turned. The only thing he hadn’t been able to work out was whether or not she had actually been insane before she had crossed the demon’s path. If she had been then… if she had been then maybe she was always meant to be a mad vampire. But if she had been sane… if the actions of her hunters had warped her mind and pushed her into the fantasy that kept her safe then he had to weep for her - because there was no one else, alive or dead that would.
But, it was William that struck a deep resonating chord of fear on his heartstrings as William was a mirror he was not willing to look into. An obsidian reflection of who he really was inside, and Angel didn’t like it one bit. This William had taken Angelus’ place in this world, he had taken the role and made it his own - and part of Angel knew that he applauded it. The demon that he kept buried, and the small pettiness of the man that he never let surface, those parts of himself where in silent awe of what William was in this world. But the pure soul, the part of him that was there to control the demon and that had learnt from everything that he had done and knew the limitless potential of humanity, recoiled from William with the speed of a rattlesnake. William was him and he was William. And there was no way that he could ever pay penance for the crimes they committed.
William had been born in 1726 in London to an increasingly prosperous wealthy merchant and his beloved wife. Sadly, for the mortal William, his father died in 1741 of tuberculosis, leaving a tearful widow and young son as the master of both house and businesses and despite his social inadequacies, William did surprisingly well, steering his father’s businesses through tough tides and into profitable waters. Like Liam, William was turned by Darla when he was twenty seven years old, the only difference between the two was that William wasn’t drunk, he just happened to be wandering through the wrong area at the wrong time, giving Darla the chance to snag herself a pretty golden haired Childe. William went on to sire his mother, but staked her shortly afterwards, and after a whirlwind death tour of the British Isles, he was presented to the Master’s Court at the age of seven creating quite the impression on his GrandSire when he refused to bow to the older vampire. What followed next was unprecedented in the history of demon kind and to other vampires it was nothing short of inspirational. He and Darla left London that year, sweeping through Europe leaving a path of bloody destruction in their wake and earning William the rousing name of William the Bloody, Scourge of Europe. They had returned to London just under a century later, where he eye was caught by a young girl with long dark hair and grey eyes that saw more than the real world. Drusilla was turned three years after their return in a convent in 1860 a mere shell of a human, into which a demon was forced creating the insane creature that was Drusilla the Mad. The malevolent trio had spent the following twenty years wandering the country, going back and forth between London as they enjoyed their immortality.
William the Bloody was this world’s Angelus, that much was plain to see. The major events of their reigns had been the same, their careers mirrors of one another. They had died at the same age in the same way. They had visited the same countries, killed the same pertinent victims and made the same names for themselves. They were interchangeable and that was incredibly unnerving. Yet despite all their physical similarities, despite sharing the same Sire, GrandSire, Childe and the same blood-soaked careers, there were still some huge disparities between the two. For one, William did not share the same love of mental and physical torture and torment that Angelus had wielded as his insignia. William inspired fear and horror by simply being the most bloodthirsty and brutal bastard that anyone could ever hope to come across. He was the Slayer of Slayers. He had killed a young Slayer in Seville when he was just twenty three - an age unprecedented in history and had then gone on to hunt down and kill her replacement in Milan less than a year later. According to the eye witness reports of her Watcher indicate that up until the very last minute. Her blows had been landing steadily and causing a great deal of damage to the seemingly prone vampire. But then William had gained a second wind, nailing her body to a wall with her own stake and leaving her Watcher to deal with her broken bloody body. He had taken the blood of a third Slayer in Vienna in 1805, leaving her head on the steps of the Watcher’s Council outpost in Rome a few days later. Her eyes had been removed and then replaced, the pupils focused inwards, her lips had been sewn together and her once glorious hair was burnt and blood caked. But for the Watchers that found her, the worst part of the whole event came when they dared to open the Slayer’s mouth. Inside they found blood and shattered teeth and fangs. Her own canines had obviously been ripped out from the roots, pulled and twisted until they had snapped out, leaving two deep holes in her gums, into which had been unceremoniously shoved the fangs, most probably ripped from the mouth of a young vampire. It was reported that the Council had had no other choice but to burn the head, rather than give the Slayer the hero’s burial she deserved, as every church that they had approached had refused to give the Last Rites and inter such a blasphemy. The death of a Slayer in St Emillion in 1845 was also attributed to the monster now aptly named William the Bloody, if only for the state of her corpse. Her throat had been ripped out with no care or finesse, both of her legs had been broken and her body was a mass of contusions and cuts. There was also a crudely carved scene of her death on her chest, with the vampire staking her with her own stake. She was being held together by the smallest amounts of skin and sinew but nothing else. Her body was no longer the vessel which held her life, the square she was found in was awash with her crimson essence. The reports failed to mention into which orifice William had shoved the girl’s stake.
He felt sick.
Four Slayers. Angel let out a shaky breath. Four Slayers.
Spike had been impressive. He was a whirlwind of violence and destruction that couldn’t be tempered by any amount of threatening or cajoling. He pursued Slayers with the tenacity of the most well trained blood hound, eager to get off on the violence and lust of the ensuing battle. But he had only managed to take down two; William had obliterated four of the killing machines, becoming truly deserving of the name it earned him. Two Slayer’s had been considered an unprecedented feat in Angel’s world, but to be able to kill four… that didn’t make William a monster, it made him a God. And all the more dangerous for Angel. In this world Liam was quite obviously a mar on the William’s perfect life. He didn’t even achieve the status of black sheep. He was nothing more than a dirty ink spot. One which William would gladly erase as soon as he was presented with the perfect opportunity. He had to suspect that such a task wouldn’t prove too challenging for such a creature. The only thing that was keeping him relatively safe was Drusilla and the demon’s obvious affection for his Childe, but he doubted that even she would be able to prevent anything from happening to him should William take it into his mind to destroy him. All he could hope to do was to keep William as sweet as possible, remain Drusilla’s beloved Childe and pray to the Powers that he could charm Darla when she made her entrance.
His mouth felt dry. Looking down he realised that he had yet to drink the whisky he was holding. His mind swirling, he swiftly knocked back the burning fluid, inhaling sharply with the satisfying burn that came as it hit his throat and stomach. Deciding that one glass of whisky really wasn’t worth a whipping he poured himself another, deciding to take his time over the second measure. Staring into the amber liquid he became mesmerised by the play of the firelight through the crystal shards and dancing on the whisky. The strange glints and sparkles soothed him and soon his mind quieted and all he was focused upon was the liquid and the light. It was then that he noticed the real change… it was quiet. For the first time in a long while it was truly silent.
With all the thoughts that had been swirling through his mind as he read about himself and his family he hadn’t noticed anything. But now that his mind was quiet and the house was still without the minions moving around, he realised that the world was silent. There was no insidious whisperings from that tormented and depraved little parasite to disturb his quiet contemplation. And that distressed him more than anything he had read over that night.
Despite his brief research session answering most of his questions, it had created a whole set of new ones. most of which pertained to what had happened to him. He could easily accept that magic had transported him to an alternate reality and had merged his being with that of his counterpart, after all - as many theorist proposed - it was impossible for their to be two of any one of the same being to be present in the same dimension. It was all about balance and… he really should have paid more attention to Wesley when he and Fred had argued these points out. Even so, he could accept that he was in the body of his counterpart but there were so many things that were fundamentally wrong about this body he was trapped in. For a start there was the simple fact that Drusilla had allowed him to keep his soul. He had no idea as to why she had done that. Not the slightest inkling of an idea. She had abhorred his soul, the spark that had stolen her Daddy away, with all the darkness that was contained in her small frame and yet she had allowed her Childe, the Childe she protected so fiercely, to keep his. She had purposely created a vampire that shouldn’t exist. A vampire that was truly an abomination… to its own kind at least. Then there were the physical abnormalities that Liam seemed to have. He was a year old, and even though Angel was almost three hundred years old he had not forgotten what being a year old fledgling was like. True, it was nothing like having the power, the exhilarating rush of strength that came with being a Master Vampire had but there was power there. But Liam had no power, no strength… no vitality. Angel could feel it in every limb, every movement, every twitch of muscle. He felt the lack of power, like he felt a lack of heartbeat. Liam had no more supernatural strength than the average human man and his body had been this fragile since the second he had been pulled from his grave. There was always the chance that Drusilla’s madness had made it so that she was incapable of turning properly, but the vague scraps of memories that he had been able to cling to were leading him to believe that she had known what she had been doing when she made him. Plus Spike had proved to be a phenomenally successful vampire. He had to believe that she had purposefully made him weak and soulful, but he couldn’t begin to fathom why.
And he wasn’t going to find his answers sitting in William’s study.
Quickly he tidied the room; there was less chance of William noticing his missing whisky if his study didn’t look like a localised tornado had whipped through it. As he replaced all of the books in the correct positions, he couldn’t squash the pang of nostalgia that bubbled in the pit of his stomach. Here, in this room, so similar to his own, and in a time he remembered so well, it was impossible to lie to himself anymore. At his lowest points he had always told himself that it was the company he missed, the feeling of family. That he missed sharing a home, a joke, a bed, a thought. But deep down, he knew that he had tried to convince himself so desperately, so that he could continue his charade in the real world. If he admitted to the real world that he missed this life, then everyone would naturally assume that it was the darker side of the demon that he missed. The blood and the brutality. But he had missed it. He had missed it desperately. He had missed his family - fealty and friends forged in blood - because if the saying was true, and friends are the family you choose, then what the hell were his demonic family if not more than that. if not more than any bond he could hope to form through a human fashion. They coveted one another, as a dragon coverts its gold. The loved one another with a passion that would make poets weep in frustration at the inability to describe it on paper. They hated one another with the ferocity of a nuclear catastrophe. They were one another’s alpha and omega and he had missed it dreadfully When Dru and Spike had appeared in Sunnydale, he had clung so desperately to Buffy and her band of followers to stop himself from throwing himself at their feet and begging for them to take him in. when he had awoken that morning, he had mourned the loss of the family that he had managed to piece together in LA - waifs and strays the lot of them. They weren’t all tied together by blood but they had shared an intense bond. Or they had at one time. The one blood link he had made had been brutally shattered by a centuries’ old hatred and the breaking of a fraternal bond. Now all LA held was the possibility of renewing and recreating bonds that he hoped weren’t beyond repair, assuming he could get back there…
He ignored the niggling thought that crept n, spider-like scuttling to suggest that here, in this time and place he had the opportunity for a whole new start. A chance to prevent the loss of his blood family… a chance to be something other than self flagellating soul he had become. He viciously swept the thought to one side, just as he had done with so many thoughts he had entertained over his solitary century.
Heart heavy with new thoughts and old regrets, he trudged back to the room he had awoken in, the only place he trusted in the entire house. He closed the heavy door, listening as the thud echoed round the empty house, drew the thick drapes and lit the fire. Other than the weak light given out by the flickering flames the room was completely dark, the shadows lengthening as they were given room to breathe. He shed his jacket, waistcoat and tie, unlaced his shoes and kicked them under the four poster bed, before making himself comfortable on top of it. Sitting cross legged in the centre of the plush bed, he let his arms fall loosely to his sides, and taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. He hadn’t tried this in many years, but his only other choice was to ask Drusilla who he was - and probably come across as more insane than his Sire. If he wanted to find out who he was and what was wrong with him - why he was so undeniably weak - then he would have to look deep inside himself, just as he had had to before.
After Buffy had died, a thick oppressive darkness had settled over him. Everyone had said that it was normal- that the love of his life had died and he was expected and allowed to grieve and mope. But to him it seemed more than that. He had felt as if a piece of him had gone, been ripped away with her. In a sense he had expected that, he had expected Buffy’s death to rip him into shreds, tear his heart and soul from his body in one rendering tug… but what he had felt had been different. Nothing had torn, nothing had splintered, shattered or fragmented and cut him into a thousand pieces. What was that quote? This is the way the world ends… not with a bang but a whimper. This was how he had felt. He had expected to collapse screaming and sobbing uncontrollably, but instead he had merely thanked Willow for her consideration, hugged her and Cordelia and headed up to his bedroom he had run his shower, waited until the water had reached the desired temperature before stepping under the spray. He had been almost clinical in the way he had lost his body. He had simply towelled off, pulled his silk sleeping pants on and slid into bed. That had been his routine until Cordelia had convinced herself he was having a mental breakdown and Wes had suggested that he took a vacation. He had in some ways. He had headed for Sri Lanka and the monastery rather than the bright lights of Las Vegas. He decided that peace and quiet was what he needed to heal rather than distractions.
It had taken him a while to realise that he had lost something, but it wasn’t what he had expected to lose. It had taken one old man days to teach him the meditation technique that had allowed him to dive into his subconscious and realise what was wrong. It had been so simple when he had looked back over it. He had created someone for Buffy, a small part of him had been a fabrication made especially for her and now that part was superfluous. He had never realised until then, that the man he had been for Buffy in Sunnydale was not the man that he really was or was meant to be. The man he had been when he was human, Liam Kearns, was never quiet. He never lurked or listened, he was the life and soul of the party. He was a drunkard, a brigand, a rogue and a rascal. He was the embodiment of good natured wickedness. He was popular - if only for his high spirits and hated for his carefree attitude. He stole, swore, whored and drank. He fought with his fists and with his mouth and he wouldn’t have laid down his life for his fellow man unless there was something in it for him. There had been nothing nasty about him but there had been nothing overly good about him either. He wouldn’t have ended up in Hell for his human life, but he wouldn’t have had a long life to live. He would have died either drunk in a gutter or from a lucky punch thrown in a bar fight. All of that exuberance and childishness had been transformed into the very worst that he could have become. The ale-inspired taunts were nothing compared to the damage that could flow from his mouth and a bar fight seemed nothing more than a juvenile dare compared to the damage that he could cause now. But neither Angelus nor Liam had any of the traits that Buffy’s Angel had shown. They had been capable of kindness to those they had cared for - Kathy had taken every bit of softness that Liam had to offer and Drusilla, Darla, Spike and even Penn had been subjected to the gentle side of Angelus, the quieter contemplative side that he would occasionally offer them. The side that was happy just to sit in company and be with them. But neither of them had been such a broken and beaten puppy. Angel or the being that he created for Buffy was nothing more than her lap-dog as Spike had so affectionately put it. He had held all of his true passion for life and love inside because that was too close to the creature that he wasn’t supposed to be to be acceptable. The Angel of Sunnydale was nothing more than a shadow of life in everyway possible. He didn’t laugh, he hardly smiled or talked, he was dark and that wasn’t always being true to himself.
When Buffy had died he had realised for the first time that although they had loved each other, they had never truly known each other. Or to be more accurate she had never truly known him. She was as easy to read as the dawning sky, so bright and clear and unblemished by life. But he had kept so much from her - and not just the tales of his demonic exploits. He had never really told her what he thought about situations, he had meekly followed her into battle when he knew that he would have done it another way. He had never shut Xander up or praised Willow and Giles like they had truly deserved. He had just stayed there as Buffy’s shadow, nodding and supporting her decisions like he was expected to. And it was this that was lost when she died, he lost a part of himself that he had created just for her and it died with her. But rather than the destruction of his world that he had expected to come with her death, he had merely felt numb and detached. So he had learned to meditate, so learn who he really was again and how to be true to that person.
And that was what he meant to do now.
He closed his eyes and began to breathe in and out. He would inhale over the count of ten, hold it for three seconds and then exhale over the count of ten. He didn’t know how long it was until he started to fall, fall deep down through his mind, tumbling into his subconscious. He pushed through the murk, the hazy confusion of two colliding lives. He saw himself living with two sets of parents, both familiar to him but at the same time both so foreign. He saw his siblings and his sister who he loved and didn’t know. Fragments of a life that had been lost and never even lived passed before his eyes, ingraining themselves on his memory for further exploration. He went deeper, down into the darkness that he hated seeing, the core of his being that he feared more than anything else...
Angel opened his eyes.
Wide eyed he sat on the bed, his body straining as he tried to breathe, as he tried to calm himself.
He closed his eyes once more and focused, pushing himself to his limits as he tried to capture the faintest whisper that would negate what he now knew to be true. But there was nothing to be heard. There was no one in the room but him. For the first time in over a century Angel was alone. Or rather he was whole.
For the first time in over a century, Angel was finally one being. Demon and soul. One a part of the other.
United.
OMG - that was so much Fun!!!
Tootles xxx
p.s. If anyone read it all... then as a pressie I will do a request - drabble, ficlet etc... am in a good mood today - Just gimme a prompt!!!