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Reclamation

by spikeNdru, 11-21-05

Timeline:  Takes place post-series, after Not Fade Away.

Rating: PG-13, contains battle violence

Length: 4375 words

Summary:  Sometime it takes being dead to discover what you really want to do with your life.

 

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Chapter One

Angel threw his arm over his eyes to protect them from the light. He frantically searched his memories. Oh, yeah. Wolfram and Hart. The Black Thorn. Demon hordes. He must have been injured, although nothing hurt. Funny. He'd thought for sure he'd die in battle. Being burned to a crisp by the sun after the battle was over was sort of . . . anti-climatic. And why was it taking so long? He should have gone up in flames at the first touch of the sun.

He moved his forearm an inch and peeked through his eyelashes. Okay. Not the sun. Just sort of a generic bright light. A really bright white light. A really bright white light that apparently wasn't going to dust him—at least not this second. Okay. He could deal. He'd figure it all out. Only, he was just so tired. Since he didn't appear to be in any immediate danger, he'd just rest for a moment. He closed his eyes.

~*~

Sometime later, consciousness slowly returned and Angel opened his eyes. He was still surrounded by the glowy white light, but it was no longer painfully bright. Maybe he was acclimating. He rolled over on his side and then used his hands to push himself to a sitting position. Okay. He could sit up, so there was at least an 'up' and a 'down' factor to the disorienting light. Good to know.

He waited a few seconds to get his bearings. If he could sit up, he could stand up, and wherever he was, he preferred to stand. He pushed himself to his feet and looked around. There wasn't anything to see, but light. It was like being in the center of one of the famous London pea soup fogs of the 19^th century—only brighter.

He thrust his hands out in front of him to feel for potential obstacles and slid his feet along in a sort of gliding shuffle. It felt like cross-country skiing on the bright white snow. Or, what he imagined cross-country skiing would feel like, as he'd never actually skied, and certainly never seen the dazzle of sun on new snow. Except on TV. He'd watched the Winter Olympics at Innsbruck and it was sort of like this, he guessed.

There was no change in his surroundings, just the encompassing bright light, but Angel continued to move forward. At least he hoped he was moving forward. He could be on some kind of treadmill thingy and not actually moving at all. But he couldn't just stand here and wait around for whatever was going to happen—oh please, let there be something gonna happen, please don't let this be all there is, 'cause that would definitely be hell—he needed to be doing something. To take charge of his fate . . .

Oh fuck! What if he was dead? What if he was dead and in hell? What if the real hell wasn't fire and brimstone and eternal physical torture? What if it was just this bright, white . . . nothingness, and he was doomed to wander here alone for eternity? He'd made a habit of doing things on his own—cutting himself off from his friends, not letting anyone in — what if this was his punishment? No sensory input . . . he'd be battier than Drusilla in no time at all!

“Angel?”

Angel froze and searched the nothingness. Had he heard something? His eyes darted back and forth as he tried to see through the whiteness. He strained his ears.

“Angel?”

“Here!” he yelled. “I'm here!”

A sense of relief washed through him. He wasn't all alone in the nothingness. There was someone else here. Someone who knew him. And right now, he didn't give a fig if it was friend or foe. He wasn't alone!

~*~

“Sorry I'm late. No one expected y' t' come 'round that fast. Thought I had plenty a' time. Guess I didn't take inta account those vampire healin' powers of yours.”

“Doyle?”

Doyle's familiar grin was just about the most beautiful thing Angel thought he'd ever seen.

“Yeah, it's me. How've'ye been?”

“Confused. Disoriented. Edging toward panic. And yourself?”

“I'm really sorry about that, Angel. I was supposed t' be there when y' woke up, but I thought I had plenty a' time. Guess I really screwed this one up.”

Doyle looked so guilty that Angel wondered exactly what Doyle had been doing to account for the delay, but he was so glad to see Doyle now that he supposed it didn't matter.

“Where are we, Doyle? What's going on? Am I dead?”

“Well . . . yeah. You're dead. In a manner a' speakin'. We're in th' Other, an' I'll explain it all t' ya, but I think we'd be a mite more comfortable talkin' over a pint.”

Doyle took Angel's hand, and they were suddenly sitting at a scarred, wooden table in a Galway pub. The dim lighting was a blessed relief from all that bright white nothingness. Angel drew the familiar smoky smell of burning peat deeply into his lungs, turned the pint of Guinness in his hands and smiled. Whatever Doyle had to tell him would be infinitely more palatable in these surroundings.

Doyle still seemed twitchy—more so than could be explained by simply being late to a rendezvous—although a fair amount of twitchiness had been a part of Doyle's make-up if Angel remembered aright. He watched Doyle fidget, waiting for him to come to the point, until even Angel started to feel twitchy. Enough was enough. It looked like Doyle needed some help to come to the point.

Angel treated Doyle to one of his patented brook-no-nonsense stares and stated, “Let's have it, Doyle. You got something to tell me, spit it out now.”

Doyle took a long draught of his Guinness, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled nervously at Angel.

“Really have t' hand it t' ya, boyo. Just when th' Powers think they've got things under control, you go an' do somethin' totally unexpected an' get their knickers all in a twist, in a manner a' speakin', because not bein' corporeal, I don't think they wear actual knickers.”

Doyle took another drink of his beer. Angel folded his arms across his chest and waited, having learned from experience that it was better to let Doyle tell things in his own way.

“Y' really threw 'em for a loop when y' asked the Oracles t' turn y' back after th' thing wi' th' Mohra demon, but that was nothin' compared t' your latest shenanigans.” Doyle shook his head and shot Angel an admiring glance. “Never a dull moment when you're involved, eh?”

“Doyle—”

Doyle chuckled and finished his beer. Another immediately appeared.

“Handy little skill you got there, Francis, but if we could please get to the point . . .”

“Here's th' thing—you've featured prominently in a number a' prophecies, yet somehow y' always manage t' do somethin' . . . unexpected. Th' Powers thought you'd be instrumental in stoppin' Acathla, an' in a way y' were—when Buffy ran y' through with a sword, it was your blood that sealed th' portal, but nobody expected you t' be th' one that called it forth in th' first place.

“Y' were supposed t' raise Connor t' be a Champion—a defender born of two vampires who had slayer powers. Some o' th' Powers originally thought you an' Buffy would raise him, but then you two went your separate ways an' then she died an' it was thought you an' Cordy would parent him instead. But then he got snatched away an' taken t' Quor'Toth an' Cordy got hijacked an' that plan was shot all t' hell an' back.”

“I know this, Doyle. Can we get to what's going on now any time in this century?”

“I'm workin' on it. Just want t' make sure y' understand th' scope o' th' problem.”

Angel sighed. Doyle was . . . Doyle. Angel took a drink of his beer and tried to look pleasant as he curbed his impatience. What did it matter anyway? Doyle said he was dead, and there were a lot less amenable places to spend one's afterlife than in a facsimile of an Irish pub with probably the best friend he'd ever had.

He'd really missed Doyle these last years. Something would happen, and his first thought would be to make a mental note to tell Doyle, and then he'd remember Doyle was gone—dead in his place—and the pain of loss would be as sharp as it had been the day Doyle sacrificed himself and died. So now that he had the chance to spend some time with Doyle, why not take advantage of it?

Angel perceptibly relaxed.

Doyle's smile lit up his whole face.

Angel took another drink of his beer and then leaned back against the high back of the oak booth.

“Go ahead, Doyle. I'll try not to interrupt again.”

Doyle grinned. “Nobody expected y' t' join up with Wolfram and Hart t' save Connor. Talk about your consternation in high places! You shoulda heard th' buzz that engendered. Th' Fang Gang smack dab in th' Belly of th' Beast. A lotta wagers were placed on how long it'd take t' corrupt you. But y' held out. Sunk further an' further into depression, but y' din't go over t' th' dark side. I should thank y' for that—I won a bundle!”

Angel felt a brief warmth inside that Doyle had bet on his incorruptibility. And then he started feeling pissed off all over again. While he was fighting blind, the Powers were making bets instead of helping him? Stupid, arrogant Powers—

Doyle nodded as if he was reading Angel's thoughts. He probably was. That was the last straw—

As if he sensed Angel's anger, Doyle rapidly continued. “Cordy gave 'em what for when her time came. She's one hell of a woman, yeah? Demanded that they let her help get y' back on your path. An' let me tell you—a royally pissed-off Cordelia Chase is somethin' t' see. Th' gods themselves did tremble.”

Doyle let out a bark of laughter, and then they both fell silent, lost in memories of Cordelia.

“Th' girl did good—got y' back on track, gave y' somethin' t' fight for. This was th' big one, Angel. There was a real chance y' could actually pull it off. Everything tied up nice an' neat. Prophecy fulfilled. An' then you go an' sign away th' Shanshu. You shoulda heard the bickerin' over that. Fisticuffs may have been involved. Never seen nothin' like it. The Powers din't know what t' do with you. Which brings me t' why we're here . . .”

Angel held up his hand. “Wait! The battle . . . what happened?”

“That was somethin' t' see. Four of you against th' Armies o' Hell. You were magnificent, Angel. But did no one ever tell y' that a vampire is prob'ly not th' best choice t' go up against a fire-breathin' dragon? Y' shoulda left the dragon t' Illyria.”

“What happened?”

“Willow an' Dawn happened. Willow'd learned a thing or two on th' astral plane, an' you bought enough time for 'em t' teleport in. Willow made with th' hocus-pocus, Illyria tapped inta Dawn's power, opened a gate an' sent the whole bloody demon army t' Shrimp World. Willow patched up Gunn enough t' get 'im t' hospital an' they're all fine. The Circle of the Black Thorn is history an' it'll be some time before th' Senior Partners regroup. Y' did it, Angel. Y' averted 'the' apocalypse an' y' should be enjoyin' a human existence about now. But you signed away th' bloody Shanshu, so now y' got a decision t' make . . . soon. First, y' get some well-deserved R&R.”

“What?”

“Take a bit o' time t' process everything I've said. We'll hang out together, I'll show y' around. Relax, take it easy, an' then we'll talk again.”

Angel wondered if he'd fallen down a rabbit hole. This made no sense. His future hung in the balance and he was supposed to take a vacation? But there must be a reason . . .

Angel shrugged. The battle was over; his remaining friends were okay. And he did trust Doyle more than anyone he could think of right now. He'd discover what was going on in good time. A few days with no worries or responsibilities sounded great.

It was the unlikeliness of that last thought that convinced him. Yep. He was definitely in Bizarro-World.

 

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Continued in   Chapter Two

 

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