Prompt 63 - Informing all that we become - BtVS

[thismaz]

Title: Informing all that we become
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: 63 - Enamoured
At: tamingthemuse
Rating: I'm not much good at this. I'd say it is more than Pg, but not NC-17. Anyone want to make a suggestion?
ETA: sevendeadlyfun advises R for the implied sex, so I'll go with that.
Summary: More of my backwards extrapolation from season 1 (follows from the previous post, here. ). Set approximately six months before Buffy's arrival. Angel settles into his new home. Can be read as a stand alone.
Word Count: 3,305
Disclaimer: here.
Now beta'd by the wonderful laazikaat



2. Informing all that we become

Angel allowed himself to feel some satisfaction for what he had achieved in the weeks since his arrival in Sunnydale. Although his body was still weak, it was slowly repairing itself and while his senses were still dulled to almost human level, he was no longer half blind as he'd been in New York.

The drive from New York to California had been long and he'd spent the journey in an apathetic daze, ignoring most of Whistler's attempts at conversation. The demon wouldn't tell him why he was dragging him right across the country and Angel couldn't summon up the energy to force the reasons from him. Eventually Whistler gave up and withdrew into himself, and since silence didn't seem to suit him, he kept it at bay with a rotating sequence of the few cassette tapes stuffed into the glove box of his car. By the end of the journey Angel was ready to swear he knew the lyrics to every song in Barry Manilow's far too extensive repertoire. Whistler also provided a minimal but regular diet of fresh calves' and lambs' blood, telling Angel that he needed to wean himself back onto a regular feeding schedule. For Angel himself, starvation had become such habit that he hardly noticed that it was never quite enough, until fasting became unnecessary.

When Whistler eventually dropped him off in Sunnydale, right outside the abattoir, he was so overwhelmed by the sounds of squealing animals and the sharp, tangy scent of adrenaline and fear that he scarcely registered the demon's departure. The atmosphere around the sprawling sheds was redolent of blood and guts. It was heady. And wasn't that pathetic, that he became excited by the fear of animals, when once he had been the source of nightmares to princes and generals?

Getting hold of some of the blood was surprisingly easy, he hadn't even needed his quickly concocted line about wanting to make black pudding. In exchange for some of the cash Whistler left him, the night foreman sold him four pints of pig, with no questions asked - and it had still been warm. That was the moment Angel finally recognised exactly how starved he'd allowed himself to become and he drank the lot in greedy, desperate gulps in the lee of one of the holding sheds, unable to wait long enough to find a more discrete hiding place. The comparative richness of the pigs' blood actually gave him a rush and although the growth hormones and antibiotics it was laced with added an odd chemical flavour, it was full of the memory of life and vitality and the energy flooded his system bringing elation in its wake. For a moment he felt like laughing. Instead he walked back into the street, gazed up at the stars and promised himself that he would change. The Slayer was coming and he would be here, waiting.

That night he walked the streets, still buzzing from the fresh feed, and he began to notice some interesting facts about the town Whistler said would be the site of his destiny; it appeared to be home to an unusually large population of vampires, which, he supposed, explained why The Watchers' Council was intending to send the Slayer here. He also recognised that he was still far too weak to take any of them on. He hadn't survived for a quarter of a millennium without understanding relative power and when to avoid a fight. So he kept to the shadows as he explored.

The first day was spent in a boarded-up shop. Surprisingly large inside, with both a back room and a basement, he spent part of the first hour after sunrise seriously considering means of acquiring it. The semicircular window onto the street looked sufficiently un-business-like for a conversion to residential status to be a simple task. But in the early afternoon he was woken by a loud crash and was forced to hide under the cellar stairs from a couple of humans delivering timber and tools, who appeared to be preparing to renovate.

The next evening, after another warm meal, he set about finding a more suitable base and planning how to finance his future. The theft of some almost clean clothes went a long way to improving his appearance, so the next few days were spent in a cheap motel, while he carried forward his plans for his own rehabilitation. He would certainly need more than an alley and the rats that shared it, if he was going to help the Slayer rid the town of its undead population.

In the meantime there was the sheer relief of physical comfort. Just sleeping with pillows and sheets felt decadent, that first day in the motel, and that evening, when he awoke, he stretched luxuriously and decided that maybe one set in heavy silk would be a deserved reward and incentive to continue on his new path. The luxury of a shower was intoxicating too. He stood under the jets for as long as the hot water lasted, scrubbing away the last memory of the streets. Now that he had a mission and a purpose he couldn't imagine how he'd allowed himself to sink so low, and he was desperate to rid himself of any remaining traces. In his weakened state he didn't trust his own sense of smell and no one could be allowed to connect him with a shivering, cowering wreck in an alley in New York.

Three days later he moved into a semi-basement apartment, the least attractive in the building from a commercial point of view, but perfectly suited to his needs, and the day after that he set in motion the processes to access his ill-gotten gains from a century before, in the name of the greater good, to buy it, which would guarantee him his privacy and ensure there could be no mid-day evictions. Once that was done, he could start living like a human again. It seemed an age since he had last bothered to pass himself off, but it was a skill honed during the first decades of his existence - the art of humanity, the skill of the deceiver. It wouldn't be hard. Humans only ever saw what they wanted to see. As a derelict in the alleys of New York he'd been invisible to them, while occupying the same space. They'd walked past him constantly and never known he was there. Even on that morning, when he was so weak he hardly made it into the shade as the sun topped the roof of the theatre across the square, even then they hadn't seen him. Humans, he thought cynically, always ready to turn their eyes away, even from a man on fire, because he obviously had no home. And their willingness to not see would make it that much easier for him to blend into the respectable background, respectability now being a necessity to the future he had planned.

So after a scant three weeks there was real satisfaction in the knowledge that his muscles were already beginning to bulk up, although it would take months to rebuild his body to its stable weight. The apartment was small, but comfortable, and he'd spent a couple of evenings at the mall furnishing it - a bed, a fridge, the basic furnishings. He would keep it simple, he thought, austere, a monastic cell. This new life was going to be a challenge, so he would set it up in a fashion that reflected his resolve. He was going to change. No more hiding. If he was to help the Slayer, he would, inevitably, have to contact her, eventually, and to do that he would have to look like a regular person. He would use his old skills, but he would use them for good, instead of to kill. Resolve gave him a buzz too. Virtue warmed his frozen soul, chasing away the helpless hopelessness of recent decades. Whistler's faith in him made him believe in himself, and the memory of a bubbly schoolgirl turned into a sad young woman by her parents' raised voices, fuelled his determination.

Rolling out of his new bed, he made his way to the kitchen area. The blood was not so potent after a day in the fridge but it still tasted good and he felt the first stirrings in his groin as he drank it. Not an erection, the impotence of his long starvation diet had not worn off yet, but it was a sign that his body was beginning to heal.

It was when he went shopping for those silk sheets, and maybe just a few more clothes, that he saw the statue in the antique store. He really didn't mean to go in, but just as he was passing another customer opened the door to leave. Although her body obscured most of his view, he saw enough and without his intending it, he found his feet taking him inside.

There it was. It was amazing. Two feet high and carved of sandalwood, it stood on an ebony stand in a glass case. There was no way it should be anywhere but a museum, or a temple. Angel stood in awe and shock, his mind harking back to Paris and the salon of the Comtesse. It was not just a similar piece. This was the very same Bodhisattva. It had stood to the right of the fireplace in her withdrawing room. God only knew how it had ended up in a small Sunnydale antique shop, where it was obvious that its true value was not recognised. For a moment he lost himself in the memories of her, her blood, her willing body, her decadent laugh, her bed.

She had been a leader of Paris human society and secretly the lover and property of its vampire elite. Angelus had shared her bed, as a gift from the Master of Paris. Angel smiled at the memory of Darla's petulance at her exclusion from that feast, although she had swiftly found alternative attractions.

A small voice in his head told him to walk away, now, but he quashed it. No, he would buy this. He would set it up in his new home to remind himself of what he was working to avoid, to remind himself of the past. Through gazing at its perfections he would remember what he had come from and why what he was doing now was so important. It wasn't possible to move on while denying the past. He'd spent years trying to forget, but if he was to succeed in this new life, he would only do so by recognising and acknowledging what he'd been. And besides, the subject was the Bodhisattva of Compassion, it would help him to meditate and to come to terms with himself, so that he could really do good. When the Slayer arrived.

So he bought it. It required yet another transfer of funds from the Swiss account, but three days later it was delivered and he set it opposite the door so it would be the first thing he saw whenever he entered the apartment.

That night he dreamt of Paris, of entering the double doors to the salon and stepping into the pulsing mass of human flesh. Armand had brought the Comtesse over to be introduced immediately and he had released his hold of Darla's hand as they approached. The Comtesse's sky-blue silk gown had rustled as she curtsied. Her low-pitched voice with its broken English had welcomed him to her home. Her wrist, as he bent over it to place a kiss, had throbbed enticingly and she had shivered delightfully as he gave a teasing nip, sliding smoothly back into his human face as he raised his head to inspect the rest of her. Darla had snorted with annoyance, and some amusement, beside him and Armand had turned to her, offering his own arm and making some comment about a pair of twin boys. She had laughed her tinkling laugh and swung off into the room with their host, calling out to him to have fun and not break anything.

The Comtesse had gazed up at him from beneath her lashes and smiled. "Please, Monseigneur, my Master says and I obey. Anything you wish from me tonight is yours to ask for."

He'd gazed down at the smooth, pale globes half exposed by the cut of her bodice and toyed with the idea of telling her to strip for him there and then, just to test the promise. But Darla had been firm that the charade must not be broken in front of the humans present - not polite to frighten the Master of Paris's herd, so he had merely suggested a glass of wine. She had led him across the room and served him herself and later led him to her boudoir where, after he threw Darla out, she had stripped happily and indeed fulfilled her promise that anything he wanted was his.

He came five times that day, using all three of her entrances. She was well-schooled and eager to please, enamoured of the mystery of his kind, and when he left he had the added satisfaction of knowing that Armand would have to feed her well and rest her for at least a week before she would be useful to him again.

Angel woke with a gasp of dismay, sitting bolt upright and staring around the room in confusion, the dream so vivid that for a moment he didn't recognise where he was. Then he remembered and slumped forward, running his hands over the silk of the sheets, anchoring himself back into the present. Clambering out of bed he staggered to the fridge and grabbed a carton of blood, drinking it cold to minimise the buzz it gave him. Then he did his best to wash the memories away in a scalding shower. But he left the statue opposite the door where it was still the first thing he saw when he came home.

So he had a home and he had a life. Over the past three weeks he'd thoroughly explored the town and now he was getting to know it. He didn't disturb his neighbours upstairs and they ignored him. As the only apartment on the lowest floor, with sewer access from the adjacent garage, it was the ideal situation for someone wanting to avoid notice. He never used the front door onto the street, with its plate-glass doors and granite floor tiles, preferring the back entrance which allowed his movements to go unmarked. And if he occasionally woke up gasping from vivid dreams of blood and excitement, that didn't mean anything except that he was getting stronger. He was ready. He just had to wait. Whistler had said she would come soon, but that it could be a few months; something about her mother needing to deal with the practicalities. Whoever heard of a Slayer who had a mother? He'd seen the family in LA, seen that it was falling apart. He'd been surprised that The Council had left their slayer in that situation, that they left her with her family at all. Maybe their power was not so great in this New World, maybe they didn't have the authority to take her away.

Meanwhile, he patrolled the streets, familiarising himself with Sunnydale at night: the locations of the demon hangouts and the buildings most likely to be taken over as a nest, den or business, by the less amenable members of the various species he'd spotted around town. He also noted the locations of animal and human blood supplies: the butchers' shops, the hospital and the vampire blood houses. He watched the humans and noted their behaviour. He watched the demons and learned their business dealings.

Sunnydale was a strange place. He'd never seen such a concentration of demons in such a small space before, especially not one also occupied by humans. And there was something strange about the humans; they didn't seem to notice and yet they were aware, if only subconsciously. There was no particular sense of magic in the air, no suggestion of, well, 'suggestion', although he had to admit to himself that he might not be capable of picking up that subtle scent just yet. As a home ripe for vampires, Sunnydale could not have been better if it had been designed specifically for them.

Angel walked the streets each night, watching, noting and learning. He watched the older, working folk hurrying home as dusk fell. He watched the teens necking near the park. They had an air of rebellious bravado, as if they knew they were breaking some unwritten rule. Whether they knew just how dangerous their actions were, Angel couldn't judge. And on top of that, the whole town stank of Aurelius. Even with his dulled senses Angel was swamped by it; overwhelmed by the familiar and much missed scents of family. Two months ago he would have turned and run, left town to go anywhere but here. But now he couldn't. He had a mission and he would not fail. When the Slayer arrived she would find that he was already here and able to provide the information she needed.

His days were restless. He tossed and turned in his sleep as dreams of the past crowded in on him. Dreams of Darla, who he thought he could sometimes feel so close, dreams of the Master, who he knew was here, dreams of Penn and Dru and Spike - dreams of family and of belonging and of the hunt and of the feast. Vivid dreams of long days spent not wanting to sleep and long nights prowling the streets together, slinking through the shadows, stalking the rooftops, herding the prey to the exact place chosen for the kill. Every evening he woke in a sweat of excitement, fear and slowly returning arousal, fear of the arousal and fear of the pleasure his dreams brought him. He felt the blood crying out to him in his dreams and at night in the streets he began to sense it humming beneath the skin of the humans he passed. He began to wonder about the hospital, about whether the easy co-operation of the staff at the abattoir might not extend to the night shift in Accident & Emergency. He was still too weak to consider the blood houses; he would be helpless facing more than a single minion at the moment. He needed to build his strength first. He couldn't afford to let himself be seen by any vampire who could possibly sense his soul.

So he took his revenge, as he had always done, through violence. Starting cautiously, by tracking the newly risen who had no Sire waiting for them to rise and catching them before they ate. He lay in ambush, setting himself in their view in quiet places where their ignorance and ravenous need saw him only as an easy meal, then staking them before they knew the truth. Even then it was not always easy and he acquired bruises that took too long to fade. On one occasion he was too slow and the fledgling found someone else first. That time he decided that discretion was the better part and turned away, looking for easier pickings. He would be no use to the Slayer if he didn't survive until she arrived. With each minion staked he felt the sweet, blessed release of his pent-up fear. With each blast of dust he reaffirmed his resolve. He would do what was right. He would prepare. He would be ready and he would help her when she came.

Sticking close to the shadows he patrolled the night-time streets of Sunnydale.

Continued here.

Comments

[smwright.livejournal.com]

Ah, now we know where Mandy comes from. Excellent!

when once he had been the source of nightmares to princes and generals? Lovely turn of phrase.

and when he left he had the added satisfaction of knowing that Armand would have to feed her well and rest her for at least a week before she would be useful to him again. So Angelus. Very nice.

Beautiful and strange look into a tormented mind's return to sanity and purpose. I really enjoyed this piece (though I wish he hadn't kept the statue). *g* It reminds me of their first meeting when he says, "I didn't say I was yours," implying her friend, that is. He did go to help, but there's still so much complexity beneath the surface.

Very nicely done.

[thismaz.livejournal.com]

Thanks, hon. I'm so pleased it worked. I'm not sure whether he has completely succeeded in his return to sanity and purpose, but I'm glad you enjoyed watching him try.

I wish he hadn't kept the statue.
I suspect he should have listened to that little voice and never bought the statue, but I don't think Angel was ever really very good at the whole self-denial thing.

Thank you again, for your lovely comment.