thismaz | Prompt 77 - A fall of shades

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Title: A fall of shades
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: 77 - Rocking the boat
At:

tamingthemuse
Rating: Older Teen
Summary: Part 16 of my pre-season one story which includes Xander, Willow, Jesse, Angel and Spike.
Note: With thanks to

peasant's History of the Aurelian Vampires for saving me from having to look up all the individual scripts to check my historical time line.
Word Count: 1,685
Comments: Are greatly appreciated, loved and cherished.
Previous parts, in reverse order, are here or in my memories.
Disclaimer: here.
Now beta'd by the wonderful

laazikaat

Warning (highlight the white area to see the warning text):

Vamp Xander story

16. A fall of shades

Monday

Xander. The boy's name was Xander. His young girl friend had called him that. Then they'd walked away together, Xander's arm around her shoulders, leaving Angel to watch, furious and impotent, from the shadowed safety of the store.

Lying in bed and trying to find a comfortable position for sleep, for the few remaining hours before nightfall, Angel's brain nagged at him for his failure. It insisted on replaying the conversation over and over, supplying alternative approaches, other ways he could have introduced the subject, better, more reasoned arguments. Even lies that a human would have accepted. He used to be so good at that, at getting humans to believe what he said, do what he wanted. What had gone wrong? Why did he stumble and fail when faced by one human boy? He tossed and turned unable to escape, or forgive, his own maladroitness, until the sheets gradually tangling around his legs creased under him into uncomfortable ridges.

Staring blindly up at the ceiling above him, the image of the boy's indignant face and his harsh words giving him no rest, Angel admitted it was Jeb's fault he'd tried to talk to Xander in the first place. He could remember every single person he'd ever killed, they all hung heavy on his heart and his soul, but Jeb was a particular regret. Even to Angelus.

Eventually realising that he was never going to get to sleep like this, he gave up. In the kitchen he heated and drank the last of his stock of human blood, then he went and remade the bed from scratch, pulling the bottom sheet tight to the mattress and tucking it firmly under, so it would stay secure. That done, he climbed back under the covers and at last, he was able to sleep.

He dreamt of Jeb. Of his apparent innocence, but his willing, knowing eyes. He dreamt of long limbs and hands that clung to his shoulders, a throat that stretched in erotic exposure as Jeb threw back his head and mewled with need. He dreamt of William, tutoring the boy, passing on his own experience for the satisfaction of his grand sire. He dreamt of a warm mouth and a warm arse and a growing fascination with the contradictions of the boy's ambitions and his obvious, instinctive skills.

Abruptly the dream flashed forward and Angel was jerked awake, a half strangled cry of dismay escaping his lips as the images and remembered sensations shattered around Darla's smug, taunting smile.

Glancing at the clock, Angel saw that it was already gone nine. He'd slept for hours then. Dragging himself up he staggered back to the kitchen, his shoulders slumping when he opened the fridge and remembered that his supply of human was gone. Wearily he extracted the last carton of pig and placing a saucepan of water on the stove, set about warming it up enough to be palatable. Then he collapsed into the nearest chair, rested his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands.

Angelus had planned to tie Jeb to him by blood, leave him alive and come back when he'd grown a couple of years, to claim him and turn him. But Darla had ruined that scheme, just as she ruined so many of his plans to build a bigger family. Jealous of his attention being directed towards anyone else, she'd almost staked Penn any number of times, until eventually Angelus had tricked his childe and sent him away. She'd probably have staked Dru, except that the visions made her useful. Even the Master had acknowledged that. Distracted by that thought, Angel wondered again if it was the Master's word that had kept Dru alive for so long. She was cunning and strong, but there was something about her that made other demons' hackles rise. The unique brokenness of her mind caused others to underestimate her, but also left her vulnerable. With a sigh, Angel acknowledged that he'd done many unconscionable things as Angelus, and Dru was probably the worst, but she was his in ways that no one else had ever been, not even Penn.

The water was beginning to simmer on the stove, the soft hissing of small bubbles breaking against the walls of the pan pulling Angel out of his memories and he got up to retrieve the blood before it cooked and was ruined.

Pouring it into a mug he sat back down, cradling the cup carefully in both hands he absorbed the only source of warmth available to him now. And as the heat soaked through the pottery and into his skin, he looked around the room and wondered if this was the shape of his eternity. Drinking slowly, doing his best to savour the flavour and ignore the fact that it was old, animal and slightly singed, he tried to wake up enough to calculate the shift patterns of his contact at the hospital blood bank. Then he got up, got dressed and went out. He'd patrol the main streets and take a swing past Xander's on his way back, just to check the boy was safe.

*****

Wednesday morning

The sun eventually drove Angel back to his apartment after a night of hopeless sentinel duty outside Xander's house. The light had not come on in Xander's room, again, and by standing on the bicycle leaning against the wall under the window, Angel had been able to confirm that nothing had been moved in the room. The bed was still unmade, the sheets in the same disarray, and the same shirt hung over the back of the chair.

The small scrap of conversation he'd overheard through the open kitchen window the previous night had told him that the parents assumed Xander was at one of his friends' houses, but visits to the two other places Angel had seen Xander leave had revealed that he was not at either of those.

Of course, a boy like Xander probably had any number of friends. Just because he was neither with the other boy, nor with his girlfriend, didn't mean something was wrong. In spite of his best efforts at clinging to that thought, a feeling of dread was building in Angel's chest. Tonight he'd find out where Spike was staying. He silently berated himself for not doing so before. He should have kept a closer eye on his grand childe. Wherever Spike went, trouble followed close behind. And he'd been stupid. Instead of driving Spike out of town, he'd gone out hunting with him. What kind of protector of humanity did that make him? He'd walked away, after Spike made it clear he knew who Xander was and his one attempt to warn the boy of the danger he was in had been a total disaster. He should have scared the boy, shown him that the monsters were real, instead of stumbling through a partial explanation, which had probably driven Xander straight into Spike's arms.

In a sudden burst of frustrated anger, Angel threw his half full mug across the room where it smashed, splattering blood across the wall. The sight sobered him and, in an effort to tear his thoughts away from his worry, he deliberately thought back to when existence was simpler, when he didn't care.

Back in the thirties he'd travelled the railroads, living off stolen sips from cattle in the trucks and rarely seeing another human, except when he hit a town and couldn't find a quick ride out. In the forties, in New York, he'd been passing for human while shunning their company, keeping his head down, not rocking any of their precious boats, and pretending to be disabled whenever he left his apartment, in case anyone wondered why he wasn't involved in the war effort. Getting his blood through occasional work sweeping floors in the meat packing district, on night shift. Yes, life had been simpler. He hadn't cared what anybody thought or wanted then. And he hadn't wanted anything, except to be left alone.

Desperately he followed those memories, avoiding the visit from the military and its consequences, shying away from the hotel in LA, concentrating on other times, like Las Vegas and the gullibility of humans who allowed themselves to be tricked at cards, Chicago where trickery of a different kind had allowed him to live both well and privately for a while, and Detroit, where, through his own carelessness, he'd almost ended up heading a crime syndicate, before he ran, again. That memory almost raised a smile. It had been good while it lasted.

Over the decades he'd developed his skills in invisibility and, though the style in which he lived had fluctuated wildly, his armour had always been in place and no one had ever touched him. Now he was plagued by fears and doubts and frustrations. And his dreams were more vivid than he could remember. It was perhaps a result of eating well for the first time since the sixties, or it might be from seeing Spike again, after so many years. Perhaps the experience of having Spike fight at his side again, for the first time in over a century, had stirred up old urges? With a shake of his head, Angel discarded that idea. He'd felt nothing but relief when he'd finally got Spike off the submarine and he'd slept better that night, before he made his own escape. Where had Dru been then? he wondered. Off on one of her periodic infidelities? Or had her visions told her to avoid obvious traps laid by Nazis in Madrid? Spike might have been her unfailing knight and protector, but she'd never wanted him like she'd wanted Angel. His Dru. His face hardened. And now she was sick, fading, Spike said. And Spike was here, to win his help. Well, Spike would have a few questions to answer when Angel found him, and they wouldn't be about Dru.

Resolve in place, Angel considered whether Willy's would be the best place to start, or whether The Fish Tank was more Spike's sort of bar.

Continued here.