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WELCOME TO THE HELLMOUTH
Author : Jo
Feedback : Pretty please. At LJ or to
thelibrarian2003@yahoo.com
Rating : General
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Summary : How does Angel feel about his welcome to the Hellmouth?
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He wants to live. Everything wants to live, to evade for as long as
possible that final individual extinction. No matter whether it believes in
hell and retribution, as he does, or in complete cessation of being, as he
might pray for, if he thought he would be heard, or whether it has
insufficient brain power to understand any of these concepts, every
creature under the sun strives to maximise its time among the living, to
put off that inevitable day when it will be seized by the unknown. It’s an
instinct engrained into every cell of every being, and it leads to dreams
of eternal life.
He shakes the water from his hair and steps out of the shower. As he
reaches for the towels, he understands that, in this at least, he’s no
different to every living thing. Why else would he have survived all those
years since the gypsies? Why else has he survived through that terrible
century of desolation and remorse and hopelessness? All those sweat-soaked,
tear-streaked, tooth-sharpening nightmares? He’s often been one for the
grand gesture, but he still wants to live. In his blood and sinew and bone,
he wants to live, even in his own obscene version of life.
He’s not sure he’s going to do that, now. Not now that he understands
what’s happening at the Hellmouth.
He puts aside the used towels and walks to the armoire, relishing the
silken slide of air on damp, naked skin. His basement room is cool, but he
savours the chill of the sensation.
There isn’t much in the armoire, and it doesn’t take long to make his
choice of what to wear, but by the time he does, he’s quite dry. As he sorts
out his clothes, his mind circles back to life and death.
Whistler showed him the gateway to a whole new life, and something that
used to be Angelus walked into it. Something that might become Angel had
walked out the other side. They’d given him money, although not much, and
they’d given him hope, although not much of that either, because with his
record, how much hope could there be? It was better than he’d had before,
though. And they’d given him her; they’d shown him something worth
becoming someone for, something worth protecting.
What they hadn’t done was to tell him what he’d be protecting her from.
He’d assumed vampires, and he’s good with that. He’d guessed demons, and
he’s good with that, too. He’s had a hundred years of those nightmares, remembrances
of his blood lust, and he’s all too ready to try and earn a little
untroubled sleep through vengeful action.
And he needs something to put into the cosmic balance against a hundred and
fifty years of inventive murder and damnation. When they’d shown him this
new life, they’d surely known that there can be nothing as implacable as a
truly reformed sinner, and he’d discovered that his lethal urges and his
lust for death could be sated almost as much by slaughtering his own kind
as they had been by slaughtering humans.
All that is fine with him, as he cautiously picks his way into this new
life.
One thing they had told him about was the Hellmouth. He knows that it’s
been drawing vampires for years, but only now has the real influx begun.
Something’s afoot. It’s been enough to panic Whistler and his Powers into
recruiting help, and that little girl really, really needs all the help she
can get. It’s a pity, then, that Whistler could find nothing better to
offer her than him, a broken soul. And he’s a broken soul who might not be
able to stand up to what’s out there.
Because now he knows.
He was given the key to his apartment, small and cheap, but better than
he’s had in decades. He’d hunted out some minimal furniture and brought
some of his own mementoes of a life not well lived. But, no sooner had he
moved in than he’d found out who else was here, and realised that this was
why he’d been offered his chance.
The evil here is his own heritage, and the Powers clearly expect him to
help clean up the shit that’s part of the fabric of his being. It’s part of
his blood. It’s probably not a fair initiation, but then nothing about life
and death is fair.
He’s never had much truck with the rest of the family, not since that time
at the beginning when being a vampire was still new and exciting. It was
the night when the Master had scared him almost witless with the sight of
that appalling batnose, and then had slapped him around, before watching
him take Darla out of that place of hidden waiting, and up into the night.
He hates the Master with a passion, and he’d welcome the death of that
monster. But Darla...
At least Spike and Drusilla aren’t here. He’s not sure he could stake
either of them. He’s damned sure, though, that he can’t stake Darla, so now
he’s no idea at all what use he’s going to be to the newly-arrived Slayer.
He’s attuned to Darla in such a way that he can feel her moving around
underground in the day time, and emerging after sunset from this new place
of waiting. He never thought she’d forsake her life of stolen luxuries, and
give herself back to the tunnels and sewers and crypts, but here she is.
Over the few nights since he arrived, she’s proved that she’s still attuned
to him. She knew that he was following silently in her wake as she hunted;
she knew that he went down into the Master’s lair when he hoped they would
all be lethargic or asleep; and she allowed a trap to be set for him. He
doesn’t want to think that she set the trap herself. Only good fortune and
a strong right fist got him away with his unwelcome but carefully hoarded
life.
They all know he’s here now. They’ll be watching for him. If he goes too
close to the Slayer, they’re likely to come after her even before they know
what she is, for no better reason than his association with her.
There are some old and strong vampires in Sunnydale, not counting the
currently-helpless Master, and they have some seriously dangerous plans. He
thinks that Darla alone is too strong for a single girl, even a Slayer. Far
from bringing Buffy help, he might have only brought her death. Nothing new
there, then. Still, it means he’s had to change his plans, resolve to stay
away from her as much as possible, even though he badly needs to be part of
what she’s doing. To be near her.
He knows that she doesn’t want the job. She isn’t ready for it. He heard
her today, in the Library. He’d been lurking way back in the stacks, behind
the other eavesdropper, the boy called Xander. She’d been arguing with her
Watcher, unwilling to accept what she was.
She’d said, “...First of all, I'm a Vampire Slayer. And secondly, I'm
retired.”
The boy in the stacks had almost dropped the book he was holding, and then
stood rigid, not comprehending what was happening but desperate to hear
more. Angel, behind him, had shrunk deeper into the shadows, and remembered
how he had watched the girl’s baptism of power in Los Angeles.
He remembers it now, as he buttons up his shirt. He thinks of her face, as
he watched through her window; he remembers her inner loneliness. He has
the same choice now that he had then. He can run, or he can stay. He’s not
going to run, even though he knows what’s here.
He tries to stop the feelings that the memory has invoked, because they
will make him weak, and he can’t afford that. It’s going to be hard enough
as it is. He has to stay dispassionate, and he has to stay away from her,
except for the few brief minutes of business when he has information that
she must hear.
He shrugs into his jacket, and then he picks up the black velvet jeweller’s
box that’s lying on his desk. Slowly, he opens it, and stares at the silver
cross, gleaming malevolently against the silk lining. As though attracted
by the promise of pain, his forefinger reaches out to it, but he pulls back
before he touches it. She’ll need this, if she isn’t to be part of the
Master’s Harvest.
He slips the box into his pocket. He’ll meet her for the first time
tonight, and give her this. And then he’ll slip away. She’ll never know
that he’s spied on her before, that he saw the moment of her nascence. When
he finds her, he hopes she doesn’t stake him first and ask questions later,
although he thinks he can get through that part safely. In and out, and
nobody gets hurt, he tells himself. It’s the rest that he’s worried about.
As he lets himself out, he can feel Darla, stirring from the lair. And he
can feel the pull of the Slayer, silvery sharp in the duller ache of the
Hellmouth.
Like every other creature, he wants to live, and he has more reason than
most to hope for a reprieve, for a longevity that might bring forgiveness.
But the Slayer has brought him here, into the jaws of family, and he’s sure
that she’ll be the death of him.
THE END
June 2008
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