Author: Nina
Rating: R, for some foul language.
Spoilers: All of it, right up through the end of seasons 6/3.
Disclaimer: They're not mine of course, but, like Joss, I only 'borrow' from the best.
Summary: Set in the near future (think Dec. 2002/Jan. 2003), a visitor from his past has a much needed chat with our hero. Hints at B/A past and future, 'cause that's kinda the point. =0) It's basically a little therapy fic for me, since I've got some anger left over from this past season...
AN: Thanks to Ky and Specks, who continue to be the bestest of betas, despite the untimely defection of my muse (for those who've wondered, Different Roads will be continued... Just as soon as I can lure back said muse...). They really helped me with this, my first BtVS/AtS first person POV, reigning me in and smacking me back to reality when it was called for and then egging me on, pushing for deeper anger when it was appropriate. *g*
Feedback: Always appreciated...
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Every night it was the same thing: he would stroll confidently through the dark streets of Los Angeles, looking for a fight, and I would shadow him from a distance, thinking about the plans I had for the future and the horrors of the past. Eventually I'd get so lost in my thoughts that I'd stop following him. Then I'd snap out of my reverie, pull my attention away from my tattered life, back into reality and head home, where I'd arrive in the early morning hours, long before the rest of the world started to wake, only to fall into bed, exhausted, but unable to sleep as visions of vengeance danced in my head.
My friends, the few I could still claim after the agony of the past few years, had no idea what I spent those hours doing. They just knew that I left each night in a state of angry despair and returned a few hours later, miserable and morose. So they worried. They worried and, of course, they felt it their duty to tell me--which they did, loudly, every *single* day for the past few weeks. They didn't understand that it was a comforting, if admittedly masochistic, routine for me. I knew I'd never be able to explain it, to make them understand, and I couldn't make myself care enough to try.
So I let them worry, never saying a word about what I was doing, as I watched from the shadows.
Through the brightly lit window I could see them-the two people in this world that I'd come to love and hate beyond reason. Hatred for one twisted a painful knot in my stomach while irrational, all encompassing, and ultimately unreciprocated love for the other swelled like an icy wave, breaking in my chest, momentarily drowning out all other emotion before it ebbed and left me conflicted again.
They were talking, eating dinner. She was across the table from him, leaning closer each time she opened her mouth to speak, laughing with him as he imparted some story. It all looked so cozy, I realized bitterly. If the world was a better place, or there was any justice whatsoever, their paths would never have crossed. But there they sat, these two who were supposed to be strangers, making a life together.
Together.
Jealousy, dark and dangerous, surged to the surface at the mere thought and I could feel the rage that so often accompanied it building up inside me again, threatening to push me over the edge once more. I couldn't lose control. Not now. Not again. Not when I'd already lost so much, too much... too much time, too many people.
Looking through that window I realized that there was still so much more I could lose. So I closed my eyes and willed myself back from the edge that I'd been pounding towards; taking a deep breath, I drew on years of training and tried to center myself, trying to achieve some measure of calm.
When I finally opened my eyes again, I noticed that their cozy dinner was over.
She was in the kitchen, fussing over dishes, trying hard to be domestic while he stood by the entryway, putting on his dark coat. They exchanged a few words I was too far away to hear; so I focused on their expressions. She smiled wistfully and looked him over, nodding at something he said and giving a little wave as he turned and made his way out the door.
As he stepped into the night, I edged back, hugging the wall behind me and tamping down the raging fury her look had re-ignited.
I knew a confrontation was coming-- I was hungry for it and had been for weeks. Imagining what I'd finally say, envisioning the look on his face when he saw me again, it fueled me, drove me onward. But it wouldn't do for him to see me yet. Not just yet. I knew I'd only get one shot at it and the confrontation, when it came, would have to be perfect. So I did my best to blend into the darkness, remaining invisible for another night.
Like the other sixty-three nights this scenario had played out, he walked off into the night, unaware of my presence as I waged an internal debate: follow him or stay and watch her?
In the end, I did the same thing I'd done sixty-three times before: I cast one dark, lingering look at her and turned to follow him into the gloom.
As usual, he wandered the city, following no discernable path. Even in the seediest of neighborhoods, surrounded by the dredges of the human race, he was seldom bothered. Oh, thugs would approach him, all blustery threats and cocky swaggers, but they tended to back down very quickly. Because of the distance between us, I could never ascertain why...
His body was lean and, even at six feet tall, not particularly intimidating; there were a lot of people in this city that were far bigger than he was. Maybe it was the sheer confidence he possessed, that tangible, reckless self-assurance that discouraged them or the manner of his speech, calm and detached even when he had to scream to be heard. Most likely, though, it was those eyes. I remember how cold and deadly they could be. One look into those turbulent orbs would send chills down the very devil's spine, and it sent nine tenths of the people who approached him scurrying away.
Every so often, he'd stumble upon a vampire or other ill-fated demon and a battle would ensue.
This was another of those nights. After years of throwing myself into the fray without hesitation or second thought, it was hard to stand in the shadows and watch but his actions mesmerized me, rooting me to the spot. I remembered him as a passionate fighter, fueled by a deep rage, but I saw none of that in him now. Contradicting my precious memories, he fought almost mechanically, placidly, every move calculated and deadly. I saw in him none of the anger that had once sparked from him, none of the fervor that was so much an element of his essence. In combat now, he was a spectacle, deadly grace personified, dispatching demons with careless aplomb and I wondered what had become of the man I knew. Had I ever really known him?
Even as I wondered, he hurriedly executed the last of the vampires he'd been fighting and dusted himself off. For an instant he stopped and looked directly at the shadows that cloaked me. My breath caught as I wondered if he'd felt me, spotted me, but he turned and walked off without glancing back. Relaxing slightly, I waited for him to round the nearest bend before emerging from the dark and following him. Reaching the corner, I paused, waiting a beat. I wasn't ready for that confrontation yet, so I hesitated, giving him plenty of room.
After lingering for a minute that seemed like an eternity, I cautiously rounded the corner and cursed softly as I collided with another body. Looking ahead, I tried to determine if he'd heard, but he strode onward unconcerned. Relieved, I looked down, ready to apologize, but froze when my gaze locked on those annoyingly familiar hazel eyes.
"Didn't anybody ever tell you that the whole stalker thing's not a particularly attractive quality?"
"What the hell do you want?"
"Geez, is that any way to greet the man who saved your life?"
"I'm asking you one more time: What the hell do you want?"
"What do I want? Peace on earth, good will towards men, dinner and a nice piece of ass!"
"Dammit, Whistler," I growled, reaching out and grabbing him by the lapels of his garish orange suit jacket. Pulling him closer, I hoisted him up until he was forced to stand on his toes, my demon howling when the maddening emissary displayed no fear, "Tell me what the fuck you're doing here. Why can't you just leave me the hell alone?"
"Whoa, buddy, calm down," he urged, pushing against my hands until I released him. Taking a step back, he straightened his clothes and looked at me appraisingly before shooting me that infuriating grin. "I'm just here to help. Things are happening. Big things," he paused, catching me as I glanced ahead at the now empty street, "You shouldn't be chasing after him."
"Things are always happening," I sighed, turning my attention to him again, "and how I deal with my errant child is none of your damn business." With that declaration, I brushed past him and began my journey home. To my dismay, he fell into step beside me, struggling to match his short strides to my longer ones.
"I didn't pull your butt out of a box at the bottom of the ocean for nothing, Angel. I'm telling you, things are happening. World ending things."
"The world is always ending," I nearly shouted, "do you have any idea how many apocalypses I've averted? Isn't it time I catch a break? Do you have any idea how messed up my life is right now? I already lost a friend because he betrayed me, then I lost my seer, and my son. Connor thinks death is too good for me, Whistler. My only son hates me too much to even kill me!"
"I think you're forgetting something, Angel. This *isn't* a job," he sneered, his eyes darkening until they were a stormy gray, "even if you do have a nifty little detective agency and some lackeys to show for it. You don't get breaks. Evil has its own timetable and they aren't going to stop trying to destroy this world just because *you've* made a mess of your life. And, as a matter of fact, yes, I do know. I know *exactly* how many apocalypses you've averted. I know about them all, even the ones that others have stopped when you weren't there." He looked at me coldly, "I also know how many you've nearly caused and how much good you still need to accomplish in order to."
Furious, I stopped walking and whirled on him, "One apocalypse! One freaking apocalypse and that wasn't even me! The demon isn't me!" Reigning in my wrath, I lowered my voice, "For years now, I've been told that. 'You aren't Angelus.' You know what? After a hundred years, I finally realized it's true. I'm *not* Angelus. Why should I have to atone for his sins?"
"It's not about atoning, Angel," Whistler sighed jadedly, "It's never been about atoning."
Gesturing towards an empty bench at a bus stop a few feet ahead, he ordered me to sit. Suddenly exhausted, I warily obliged and he plopped down next to me. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and stared into the darkness for a few minutes. Finally he looked back at me and, for once, he wasn't grinning.
"Your journey, this big hero's quest that you've been on for the past few years. It's never been about punishment or penance. The Powers knew that you weren't Angelus. They weren't trying to make you pay for his crimes. It was never about that. No, they needed a champion, someone to fight alongside the Chosen during the End of Days; out of all the creatures that exist in this dimension, they chose *you* and sent me to put you on your path. I offered you a chance to do some good, to be somebody, Angel." Taking off his battered fedora, he ran a hand through his sparse red hair and searched my eyes for understanding.
"And I did. I *am* somebody and when the End of Days comes, I'll be there, fighting the good fight," I assured him bitterly.
"Gee, Angel, that's swell," he snarked. "I just hope three's not a crowd."
Losing patience, I snapped, "Now what are you talking about? What three?"
"Well, you, the Chosen, and the Champion, all fighting side by side," he got up and began pacing in front of me as my brain tried to grasp what he'd just said.
"Whistler, what three? You just told me I was the champion," I interrupted, more confused now than annoyed.
"Were, Angel. You *were* the Champion. Now they've tapped someone else, pulled him off the bench."
"That can't be right. I've seen the prophecies. They all talk about the vampire with a soul, fighting beside the Slayer. I'm the vampire with a soul," I insisted.
"Again with the 'were'," he noticed my face pale as the implications hit me and sat down beside me again. "Relax prima-donna, you're not gonna lose your soul. You're not the vampire with a soul anymore, now you're just a vampire with a soul."
"There's a difference?"
"Yeah, a big difference. Now there's two of you."
Choking, I gasped out the only word I could form, "WHAT?"
"I said there's two of you now," he calmly replied, slapping me on the back.
As quickly as the questions crossed my mind, they escaped my lips, "Two of us? How? When? But, the prophecies!"
The questions hung unanswered in the silence as Whistler stood and resumed his pacing. With my head already reeling, I closed my eyes, trying to block the dizzying affect his garish orange suit had on me. Rubbing my temples, I tried desperately to make sense of everything this crass little messenger of the Powers had just told me.
"Prophecies are funny things," he mused. Opening my eyes, I saw that he was still pacing, hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his velvet suit. He wasn't looking at me or acknowledging any of the questions that plagued me. It wasn't even clear if he was speaking to me or just musing out loud, but he continued, "Not 'haha funny', well, maybe if we're talking Stephen Lynch funny." There was a long pause, as if he was waiting for some reaction. A laugh, a groan, I didn't know which. All I knew was that my entire life was changing; well, based on what he was telling me, it had already changed without me even knowing. Everything I thought I knew, everything that I'd believed to be true, it was all gone. In one fell swoop, he'd stolen my identity, my entire sense of self, and all I could do was sit in stunned silence. When it dawned on him that no reaction was coming, he stopped pacing and faced me, "The point is this: even when you think you know, when it all seems pretty straightforward, things can change. A million different little changes or one big change, doesn't matter. What matters is that the prophecy ends up being fulfilled, so that the right side wins the fight.
"The prophecies all say there'll be a vampire with a soul fighting beside the Chosen during the End of Days. For a long time, everybody thought you were that vampire, but then you made some choices. The Powers weren't sure about you anymore, Angel. They knew the time was coming and they needed to know that their champion was still on their side, ready to satisfy those prophecies. So they started paying attention, really keeping an eye on you, and you. You kept making bad decisions, veering further and further off the path, and they kept waiting for you to turn it back around," he sighed heavily, "When you didn't, they figured they'd lost a warrior."
"So, that's it? They saw me hit a rough patch and just decided to replace me?"
"Actually, they were pretty content to just let things play out. You know how they are about not interfering directly with the 'lower beings.' But, then they caught wind of something that would rob them of their other 'great warrior' and they decided to intervene, to restore the balance."
It took a few moments for his last remark to permeate the unbridled chaos in my mind, but the moment it did, dread washed over me, chilling me. Buffy! My mind raced, trying to remember if I'd heard anything from her, about her. Oh God! How long had it been since I'd seen her? A year? No, a little longer even, since not long after Willow brought her back.
Our meeting then had been different. Stilted. I was ecstatic, barely able to contain myself as I waited for her. But, as soon as I laid eyes upon her, my resurrected miracle, I knew... I could see it. She was different. Her hair, her eyes, her whole demeanor had been darker. She was still so beautiful. No longer the sunny school girl I'd once adored, now she was a tragically lovely woman, a woman obviously in pain. I'd tried to get her to open up, to talk about her feelings. After all, who better to talk to about your stint in Hell than someone else who's been there? I knew I was uniquely qualified to be her shoulder, but she wouldn't open up. She remained aloof, detached in a way I hadn't experienced before. She seemed indifferent. It was a million times worse than her anger, worse than that fiery passion she'd wounded me with before. At least when she was raging at me, I knew she still felt *something* for me. Then, in spite of everything, I still had hope. Hope that, despite my urging, she hadn't moved on, hadn't stopped loving me. But, that night when she bade me goodbye, I knew: It was finally over. She wasn't my Buffy anymore. Watching her drive out of my life, I'd pushed away my heartbreak, resolved to stay out of her life and keep her out of my mind. Gods, I hadn't even thought of her in… Well, not since shortly after Connor's birth... Still, after all this time, after all the denial, the idea that she could be gone from this earth again staggered me.
"Buffy? She's… Is she?" My voice cracking, I couldn't even voice the thought. I turned to Whistler, my eyes pleading. Please, please, don't tell me what I can't bear to hear.
"Ah, so you do remember," he remarked coolly. "I was starting to wonder about that. Your blonde is still alive," he assured me, "When's the last time you talked to her? Right after the witch yanked her out of Heaven? Have you even bothered?"
Whistler prattled on, pacing once again, but his words were lost on me. Heaven? She'd been in Heaven? Of course she'd been in Heaven! All those years of fighting for the Powers, saving the world time and again, all the misery and pain she'd been through already, where else would she go? At that moment, conveniently forgetting my own selfish joy at her return, I could have happily killed Willow and the rest of the Scoobies. Willow may have been the oomph, the catalyst for the spell, but I knew they'd all been involved. Even if Buffy hadn't told me as much, it was the way things were in Sunnydale. All for one and all that.
Heaven. It explained so much. No wonder she wouldn't open up. What would I have told her? Could I have said *anything* to make her feel better? No wonder she'd been so distant, so lost. And me, Gods, I'd been so upset that she hadn't reacted the way I expected her to. The way I wanted her to. I'd cut her out of my life when she probably needed me the most. How could I have left her alone to face all that? Had I really become such a self-obsessed asshole since I'd moved to LA?
"Spike behind her, that idiot Warren shoots her!"
The mention of that name immediately grabbed my attention. "Wait, what about Spike? Did you say she got shot?"
"Jesus, calm down, Angel, this all happened months ago. It's a little late for you to be playing the concerned lover no!"
Too much. He'd pushed me too much for one night, I decided, grabbing the diminutive demon and shoving him up against the sign in front of the bus stop. I ignored eerie popping sounds as his bones protested the rough treatment, cruelly applying pressure as I got in his face.
"Don't you dare, Whistler! Don't you dare question my feelings for her! Everything about her concerns me. It has since the day you showed her to me and it always will. She's… she's everything," I finished, my anger deflating as I released him and stepped back.
"Whatever you say, Angel," he remarked, his voice oozing disbelief. "Clearly she means 'everything' to you, this girl you haven't talked to or checked up on in a year. Where were you while she was losing herself, having sex with that soulless demon Spike, trying to wean her best friend off a magic addiction, and raising that whining klepto sister of hers? Where were you when she was shot, bleeding to death in Xander's arms while her friend died inside her house?" He paused for a moment and I thought it was over, that his rage had passed. I was getting ready to jump in and defend myself when it became apparent that he'd just been gathering up steam and laid into me again, "Where were you when your 'everything' was trying to save the world while her best friend tried to end it? Oh, that's right. You were busy unleashing Sahjan, a demon who's every bit as deadly as any of your Christian Horsemen. You gave him a corporeal form, unleashed him on the world, and then trapped him in a jar. And where is this jar? Right, in an underground cavern in the middle of southern California. That's a brilliant place to leave it, unattended. It's a good thing there's never any earthquakes in southern California, right? Cause if there were even *one* *little* tremor that urn could fall over and break and he'd be loose again, right? So, it's a damn good thing you made sure that couldn't happen. And let's not forget you making mooneyes over your seer. Jesus, Angel!" he trailed off, clearly disgusted with me.
As he turned away, playing with his fedora again, it hit me: I couldn't remember ever seeing Whistler emotional. He'd always been flippant, glib, unconcerned. That much emotion from him, it disturbed me. Even as that thought formed, words from his diatribe came rushing back to me, racing through my mind so quickly I could barely process them all: Sahjan. Shit. He's right. That was a mistake. I should have taken that jar with me, buried it, locked it away somewhere. Shit! I can fix it though. I'll go back for the urn, put it someplace safe. It'll all be fine. Yeah, just as soon as I build a time machine and keep myself from turning into an idiot of epic proportions.
Running my hands through my hair, I went over the rest of what he'd revealed. Willow ending the world? Sweet, shy Willow? How was that possible? Shot? Gods, Buffy! Spike? Sex with Spike? NO. That can't be right, she'd never! Even Whistler was bound to get some things wrong.
"She wouldn't have slept with Spike," I muttered.
"Nobody said anything about sleeping, Angel. I said she had sex with him. Did the nasty. And, believe me, never has that phrase been more apt," he shuddered. "She did break it off with him, though, and finally, after a few different break ups, she… had some resolve. Turned him away every time he propositioned her. Fought him off when he tried to rape her!"
"He… he tried to… rape her?" White-hot anger surged through my body as I struggled to repeat that detestable phrase. Even as Angelus I'd never felt that kind of raw fury. The only time I'd ever been this angry was when I'd realized Wesley took Connor and didn't intended to bring him back. The memory of his betrayal, clear as night even after so many months, couple with this latest bombshell had my demon stirring restlessly, howling his disapproval and clamoring for action.
That kind of rage had one benefit: It brought clarity. It was clear that I'd let Spike live far longer than he should have. He had to pay. I was going to make him pay. I could be in Sunnydale turning him to a pile of ashes before the next sunrise.
Standing up, I faced Whistler, laying out my intentions clearly, "I'm going. To Sunnydale. To kill him."
"I don't think so," he countered, blocking my path.
"Get out of my way, Whistler. His death is long overdue. I should have staked him years ago."
"Maybe so… Maybe you should have taken him out back in the day. Maybe you should never have sired him. Either way, it's too late now. You can't kill him, not if you wanna have any shot at your precious Shansu."
"What the fuck?! What the fuck does Spike have to do with my Shansu," I growled.
Looking into my eyes, his statement changed. Softened. A look like pity crossed his face, and my stomach dropped to the pavement below me.
"Maybe you better sit down for this," he suggested.
"I'll stand," I countered belligerently.
"Trust me and sit."
Reluctantly I resumed my seat on the hard metal bench and looked at him expectantly, "Why can't I kill Spike?"
"Actually, you *could* still kill him," he hedged, moving away from me. "Although you'd be kissing any hope of regaining your humanity good-bye."
"And how is that," I growled impatiently.
"Well, the Powers are the ones in charge of that Shansu you're so keen on and, if you kill their Champion right before the End of Days, I can't imagine them."
"I'm not going to kill their Champion, I'm going to kill Sp… No. Oh, no. That's… It can't!"
As the puzzle came together, my head dropped into my hands, my fingers fisting in my hair, pulling, some part of me hoping the pain would wake me from this nightmare. But the pain didn't pull me out of my twisted new reality and I debated whether or not the satisfaction I'd get from killing Spike was worth risking my future humanity.
Still deliberating, I looked up at Whistler again, "Spike. Spike has a soul now? He's the Champion? The Powers just gave him a soul? They picked *him* to replace me?"
"Well, picked is kind of stretching it, but yeah," he answered. "Spike was… on a quest. He was determined to get rid of that chip in his head and kill the Slayer. The Powers saw it. They saw that he was going to pull it off. Without anyone there to watch her back, Spike would have killed your precious Buffy before anyone in Sunnyhell knew what hit them and the Powers'd be left with no one. Despite their 'hands-off' policy, they had to intervene. They couldn't leave this dimension without a warrior and they saw an opening. While Spike was completing his 'tests' they disposed of the demon he'd gone to. Replaced him. The new guy, instead of removing the chip, he gave Spike his soul. It was still a risk. Just because he had a soul didn't mean he'd be what they needed him to be, you know that. But, they remembered your Acathla escapade, how he helped the Slayer because he didn't want the world to end and they took a chance. And they were right," he shook his head, as if trying to grasp the concept himself. "He's fighting for them. He hates it, the having a soul, but he fights."
I wasn't sure what was worse, being replaced by Spike in Buffy's bed or being replaced by Spike as a warrior. Both were devastating blows to my ego. I swallowed hard, almost afraid to ask my next question.
"Why? Why would he fight if he hates it?"
"To be honest, I can't figure out his motivation. He definitely doesn't want to become human, that's for sure. I think partly it's just that he loves a good fight. Between that chip and his soul, fighting demons for the Powers is about the only chance he gets to indulge. Beyond that," he shrugged, "it could be that he's still in love with her. I know he loves her kid sister."
Jesus! Just when I'd thought Whistler couldn't possibly give me worse news, he outdid himself. Spike, in love with Buffy? That was a shock to the system. Not one as surprising as Buffy sleeping with Spike, of course, but…
"That's one of the signs of your big apocalypse, right? Buffy and Spike in love?" Buffy. Spike. In love. Until that moment, I'd never really understood why people used that statement about the earth opening up and swallowing them, but that's exactly what I wished for. I even studied the ground hopefully, looking for welcome signs of weakness in the terrain.
"Oh, no, they're not in love. He might still love her but," he paused again, catching my eye, "she's never let herself love him."
I nearly sagged with the relief those six words brought me.
"Nope," he rambled on, "she's never let herself love anyone but you. Not Spike, not that commando boy. Just you."
And that quickly, in the span of five whole seconds, relief had turned to gut wrenching guilt. At least guilt was an emotion I could deal with. I'd been doing that for so long it almost felt good to be back on familiar ground.
"I had to go. You know I did." I was whining. To Whistler. A new low for me. Heaving a big sigh, I forged ahead, "She deserved sunlight, children, normal. And the curse… I would have just ended up hurting her."
"Yeah, it's a good thing you left and avoided that. Wouldn't want you to have to live with knowing you broke her heart, right?" He snorted derisively. "She gave you the Gem, man. You could have given her the sunlit picnics you fantasized about. And hey, look who has a kid! Oddly enough, not the Slayer. She's never going to have normal, you fucking moron."
"There's still the curse," I muttered.
"Yeah, there is that," he agreed. "The curse that you never even tried to circumvent. That was stupid! Especially with the kid around. Even you can't be stupid enough to think perfect happiness only comes after an orgasm! You could have lost your soul at any moment. All these wizards, witches, and potion-creating demon madams running around and you never gave your soul a second thought."
"But…" I interrupted, trying again to edge in a word of self-defense.
"But what? You were trying to be noble? Waiting for a spell to come to you, in a pretty box with a fucking ribbon?"
I'd had enough. Again.
"If that's what I was supposed to do, why not just tell me? Why *not* show me a spell? Or send a vision?"
"You really are something, man," he fumed. "I'm not your fairie-fucking-goddemon. The Powers have all of Creation to worry about. That's more dimensions than you can wrap your tiny, egotistical brain around. And, somehow, creatures in all those dimensions are making decisions, big ones, small ones, everyday! All without the helpful guidance of visions from the Powers! Meanwhile you, champ, you can't even take a stab at helping yourself? Still wondering why you're not their warrior anymore?"
"I thought…"
I honestly wasn't sure *what* I thought, but I had to say something. I couldn't just let him paint me as some self-involved whiner, even if that was exactly what I'd started to feel like.
"When I left Sunnydale, I thought this, the loneliness, the guilt, it was all part of it. Part of the amends I had to make. By the time I decided I really wasn't responsible for all them for what Angelus did, it was too late. She'd moved on with the boy and I couldn't go back. I couldn't stand to be near her again and not have her, curse or no curse. Then he left her, but her mom died so soon after. I meant to change things, but Cordy ended up in Pylea and by the time we made it back, it really was too late. She was already gone."
"And now? Now that you know better, what's stopping you from going to Sunnydale tonight, Angel?"
"Why are you torturing me, Whistler? The Powers have already replaced me, right? Shouldn't you be pestering Spike? What possible reason could they have for sending you to me now?"
"I've got news for you, Angel. They didn't. They're done with you. They sent your seer to another dimension, to help a warrior they know is still in the fight. They didn't tell me to haul your little box out of the ocean and they *didn't* send me tonight. They. Are. Through. With. You."
"Then why are you here?"
"Cause I just can't get enough of your sparkling wit and personality, Angel-boy."
I groaned, but that insufferable grin of his was firmly back in place when he continued, "Look, kid, you've got a shot here, champion or not, to fix things. Make it right and get that happy ending with Blondie and your Boy Wonder.
But you're gonna have to make some changes. First, you need to pull your head outta your ass. Stop stalking the kid! You think Connor hates you now, wait 'til he finds out you've turned into his nightly shadow. You'll be lucky if he just sends you back to the bottom of the sea."
"What am I supposed to do? He's my boy; he's important. Not just to me. To the world. The prophecies, he could go either way."
"He's not your boy, Angel, he's a man. He's been a man for more years than you remember him being alive. What he is, what he becomes, where he'll fight, you've gotta accept that it's his decision now. Holtz was twisted, sick with grief and a need for revenge, but he wasn't evil. He raised the boy to fight against evil. You stalking him isn't gonna do any good. Leave Connor alone; let him figure things out on his own. Start fighting again. Just do it for the right reasons. Don't do it to make money or because you're chasing that Shansu. Do it because it's just the right thing to do. And hey, who knows," he shrugged, "Like I told you before, things change. A million little changes, a coupla big ones. It's all up to you."
Long after his words faded into silence, I stayed on that uncomfortable bench, reflecting on everything he'd told me, all the choices I'd made over the past few years... In hindsight I could see that I'd wandered off the path, gotten lost somehow. I'd abandoned Buffy, ultimately turned my back on the fight I'd been recruited for in the first place.
Another threat was looming. Battle lines were being drawn and both sides were preparing for the End.
It was time for me to get back on the path, get back in the game and fix what I could while there was still time...
It was time for me to go back to Sunnydale.
"Angel?"
Pulled from my reverie, I gazed intently at the little demon that had once again changed the course of my life. He motioned towards the sky, drawing my attention upwards. Already night was receding; the starry canopy brightening and giving way to the approaching dawn.
"You better get inside before you fry," he advised as he turned away from me, walking slowly into the lingering gloom. "Besides, you got a lotta packing to do before you head to Sunnydale."
"Hey, Whistler?" I called to his retreating back, "Are you sure you're not my 'fairie-fucking-goddemon'?"
Glancing back over his shoulder, he grinned broadly, "What can I say, kid? Either I like ya or I'm just getting soft in my old age."
I watched him as he walked away, keeping my eyes trained on that hideous orange suite until it faded from my sight. Then I turned and wordlessly made my way back to the Hyperion, already deciding what I'd need to pack for my return to where it all began and where it all would end: Sunnydale.
***
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