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Look! Chapter 2 of 'Only a Girl'!
Instead of moaning about the weather etc, I am going to post this since it's *finally* finished. The first chapter wrote itself, but this was a fight all the way. *sigh* I hope it won't disappoint - I doubt I can get it any better.
In case you've completely forgotten what this was all about, here's a link to Chapter 1.
Smooches to my dearest beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kathyh - whatever would I do without you?
Spoilery etc. and probably a PG-13. Feedback would make my day! :)
Chapter 2
Even with Angel's persistent knocking, it takes a while before anyone answers. The night is still dark, but the rain has stopped and it's as quiet as it can get in a bad neighbourhood. Thankfully the baby has fallen asleep, although she still shivers occasionally, the thin blanket offering little warmth and Angel’s coat even less.
When the door finally opens, it reveals a sullen, half-asleep youth, unimpressed with Angel's bloodied face. Then he catches sight of Spike and Illyria, gingerly carrying Gunn's body, and his face twists in a worried frown.
"Hey man, don't come bringin' no trouble here!" he protests as Angel pushes past him into the shelter.
"Go get Anne - now!" The kid, automatically obeying the voice of someone accustomed to commanding, runs off, and Angel waves in the others. They carry Gunn up the stairs and put him down on the sofa there, a sofa Gunn in all likelihood helped carry in...
Angel closes his eyes and takes a calming breath.
Focus. Focus. Don't think about the past.
But yet he remembers the first time he came here. Nothing much has changed - Anne obviously spends her money where it matters most and not on interior design. He flashes back to his comfortable penthouse at Wolfram & Hart - now destroyed of course - thinking that one of his sofas could probably pay for this entire room.
Luxury equals evil. He should have known. He did know. Darla always liked a view...
The room is dark, but none of them needs light to see. Dull street light from outside haltingly filters through the windows, as though hesitant to illuminate the dead figure. The otherworldly warriors standing by his head and feet lend the scene a chilling air, like a scene out of a Greek tragedy. Any moment now their faces will become actual masks and the baby will turn into a prop...
Then Spike shifts uncomfortably.
“Do you know if there’s a bathroom somewhere? I think I got a fang or something stuck in my leg.”
“Down there I think,” Angel replies, and Spike limps off. There is the faint sound of hushed voices from upstairs, and then footsteps.
Moments later, Anne comes into the room - a dressing gown hastily thrown over pyjamas. The ordinariness of her appearance brings everything back in focus in Angel’s head, like his inner eye has been adjusted. She automatically flicks on the light and then stops abruptly when she catches sight of the figure on the sofa. Her hand flies to her mouth as she blinks back tears.
“Oh my God.” she whispers. Then turns accusing eyes on Angel. “This is your fault, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” he answers simply. “I’m sorry to intrude, but we had nowhere else to go. And it’s probably not safe for you to have us here, so we’ll go as soon as we can. I was just hoping you could... help us.”
“Help you?” she asks, voice ascending, incredulous. “What with? Funeral expenses?”
Her outburst obviously gets through to the baby, who suddenly starts crying. Anne’s eyes go wide.
“I don’t have time to explain all the details, but we’re in need of some baby things - and you were the only one I could think of. We’ll have to skip town as soon as we can, but it’s not easy with a screaming infant.”
She’s thinking hard he can tell, as he tries to rock the baby back to sleep. But instead of any of the questions he was expecting, all she says is, “You’re taking the baby with you?”
Before he can answer the baby starts wailing again, her little hands and feet struggling against the blanket.
Anne looks uncertain, then makes up her mind. “I think we had some baby stuff donated last week. I’ll see if I can find it.” She glances at Illyria and frowns. “Why don’t you go in the kitchen, it’s more comfortable there.”
The kitchen is cluttered and slightly worn-down, but clean and tidy. The walls are painted a warm terracotta and the feel is overwhelmingly one of homeliness. Against this backdrop Illyria stands out like an extra from ‘Alien’, but after a swift scornful glance around, she sits down silently as Anne brings in what she has found for the baby. Everything contrasts so sharply with the start of the night, that Angel has a feeling of having been removed to a different dimension.
But life is never that easy, as he has learned time and again. The eye of the storm can be surprisingly volatile.
Angel notices Anne’s amazement as she watches him adeptly wash and dress the baby, and to distract her he briefly explains what they know about their charge. Hearing that the shelter might be in danger, Anne calmly gets out an impressive array of weapons from a cupboard. As she tries to find some holy water, she instead discovers several baby bottles and some not-quite-out-of-date formula milk. Angel seizes these and soon the baby is drinking happily, Illyria watching in silent fascination from across the table.
Angel is grateful for Anne’s silence and the fact that she has not asked how he came by his baby-handling skills. As it is, he is fighting a losing battle against his memories. They crowd around him, the past overlapping the present again and again, so he isn’t quite sure what he’s seeing.
Tiny hands waving. Little legs kicking. The whole giant enormity of caring for such a tiny person... all the hopes and dreams and wonders that he has spent the last few years so carefully purging, are all back in force. Not that this little girl is his of course, but he has a terrible feeling that this is another ploy by The Powers. Yet another baby to care for and protect. For the briefest of moments he wonders if it might be an apology - a chance to witness a child grow up, a substitute for the years he missed out on with Connor. But even as the thought surfaces, he throws it away. Because this is also a baby with an unknown destiny... a baby who might change the fate of the world. Who is she? He can tell that she is all human, and that is as much as he allows himself to dwell on her for now. Wolfram and Hart will want her back - but how can he protect her? And where Wolfram and Hart lead, others will follow. He does a quick run-through of possible enemies, even as he worries that they have nowhere to go.
He glances down. The baby must have been utterly starved. She is drinking with great vigour, her eyes half-closed in pleasure.
Angel has spent a hundred years in hell, but no pain was ever as acute as this - a physical reminder of what he lost. And tonight was to have been the end - the end of making choices, the end of that daily struggle to somehow do the right thing in a world of grey.
Spike comes into the kitchen and interrupts Angel’s introspection. His limp is less pronounced and he’s looking a lot cleaner - he’s even got most of the blood off his duster. He smiles at Anne, who’s making herself a cup of coffee.
“You must be Anne. Hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed some of your first-aid stuff - had half a knife-blade stuck in my leg...”
His voice suddenly trails off and Angel looks up. Anne has grabbed a crossbow and is aiming it squarely at Spike’s chest. Her face is as pale as a sheet of paper, but her voice is even and suffused with anger as she speaks: “Get the hell out of my shelter... Spike!”
tbc...
In case you've completely forgotten what this was all about, here's a link to Chapter 1.
Smooches to my dearest beta
kathyh - whatever would I do without you?Spoilery etc. and probably a PG-13. Feedback would make my day! :)
Even with Angel's persistent knocking, it takes a while before anyone answers. The night is still dark, but the rain has stopped and it's as quiet as it can get in a bad neighbourhood. Thankfully the baby has fallen asleep, although she still shivers occasionally, the thin blanket offering little warmth and Angel’s coat even less.
When the door finally opens, it reveals a sullen, half-asleep youth, unimpressed with Angel's bloodied face. Then he catches sight of Spike and Illyria, gingerly carrying Gunn's body, and his face twists in a worried frown.
"Hey man, don't come bringin' no trouble here!" he protests as Angel pushes past him into the shelter.
"Go get Anne - now!" The kid, automatically obeying the voice of someone accustomed to commanding, runs off, and Angel waves in the others. They carry Gunn up the stairs and put him down on the sofa there, a sofa Gunn in all likelihood helped carry in...
Angel closes his eyes and takes a calming breath.
Focus. Focus. Don't think about the past.
But yet he remembers the first time he came here. Nothing much has changed - Anne obviously spends her money where it matters most and not on interior design. He flashes back to his comfortable penthouse at Wolfram & Hart - now destroyed of course - thinking that one of his sofas could probably pay for this entire room.
Luxury equals evil. He should have known. He did know. Darla always liked a view...
The room is dark, but none of them needs light to see. Dull street light from outside haltingly filters through the windows, as though hesitant to illuminate the dead figure. The otherworldly warriors standing by his head and feet lend the scene a chilling air, like a scene out of a Greek tragedy. Any moment now their faces will become actual masks and the baby will turn into a prop...
Then Spike shifts uncomfortably.
“Do you know if there’s a bathroom somewhere? I think I got a fang or something stuck in my leg.”
“Down there I think,” Angel replies, and Spike limps off. There is the faint sound of hushed voices from upstairs, and then footsteps.
Moments later, Anne comes into the room - a dressing gown hastily thrown over pyjamas. The ordinariness of her appearance brings everything back in focus in Angel’s head, like his inner eye has been adjusted. She automatically flicks on the light and then stops abruptly when she catches sight of the figure on the sofa. Her hand flies to her mouth as she blinks back tears.
“Oh my God.” she whispers. Then turns accusing eyes on Angel. “This is your fault, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” he answers simply. “I’m sorry to intrude, but we had nowhere else to go. And it’s probably not safe for you to have us here, so we’ll go as soon as we can. I was just hoping you could... help us.”
“Help you?” she asks, voice ascending, incredulous. “What with? Funeral expenses?”
Her outburst obviously gets through to the baby, who suddenly starts crying. Anne’s eyes go wide.
“I don’t have time to explain all the details, but we’re in need of some baby things - and you were the only one I could think of. We’ll have to skip town as soon as we can, but it’s not easy with a screaming infant.”
She’s thinking hard he can tell, as he tries to rock the baby back to sleep. But instead of any of the questions he was expecting, all she says is, “You’re taking the baby with you?”
Before he can answer the baby starts wailing again, her little hands and feet struggling against the blanket.
Anne looks uncertain, then makes up her mind. “I think we had some baby stuff donated last week. I’ll see if I can find it.” She glances at Illyria and frowns. “Why don’t you go in the kitchen, it’s more comfortable there.”
The kitchen is cluttered and slightly worn-down, but clean and tidy. The walls are painted a warm terracotta and the feel is overwhelmingly one of homeliness. Against this backdrop Illyria stands out like an extra from ‘Alien’, but after a swift scornful glance around, she sits down silently as Anne brings in what she has found for the baby. Everything contrasts so sharply with the start of the night, that Angel has a feeling of having been removed to a different dimension.
But life is never that easy, as he has learned time and again. The eye of the storm can be surprisingly volatile.
Angel notices Anne’s amazement as she watches him adeptly wash and dress the baby, and to distract her he briefly explains what they know about their charge. Hearing that the shelter might be in danger, Anne calmly gets out an impressive array of weapons from a cupboard. As she tries to find some holy water, she instead discovers several baby bottles and some not-quite-out-of-date formula milk. Angel seizes these and soon the baby is drinking happily, Illyria watching in silent fascination from across the table.
Angel is grateful for Anne’s silence and the fact that she has not asked how he came by his baby-handling skills. As it is, he is fighting a losing battle against his memories. They crowd around him, the past overlapping the present again and again, so he isn’t quite sure what he’s seeing.
Tiny hands waving. Little legs kicking. The whole giant enormity of caring for such a tiny person... all the hopes and dreams and wonders that he has spent the last few years so carefully purging, are all back in force. Not that this little girl is his of course, but he has a terrible feeling that this is another ploy by The Powers. Yet another baby to care for and protect. For the briefest of moments he wonders if it might be an apology - a chance to witness a child grow up, a substitute for the years he missed out on with Connor. But even as the thought surfaces, he throws it away. Because this is also a baby with an unknown destiny... a baby who might change the fate of the world. Who is she? He can tell that she is all human, and that is as much as he allows himself to dwell on her for now. Wolfram and Hart will want her back - but how can he protect her? And where Wolfram and Hart lead, others will follow. He does a quick run-through of possible enemies, even as he worries that they have nowhere to go.
He glances down. The baby must have been utterly starved. She is drinking with great vigour, her eyes half-closed in pleasure.
Angel has spent a hundred years in hell, but no pain was ever as acute as this - a physical reminder of what he lost. And tonight was to have been the end - the end of making choices, the end of that daily struggle to somehow do the right thing in a world of grey.
Spike comes into the kitchen and interrupts Angel’s introspection. His limp is less pronounced and he’s looking a lot cleaner - he’s even got most of the blood off his duster. He smiles at Anne, who’s making herself a cup of coffee.
“You must be Anne. Hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed some of your first-aid stuff - had half a knife-blade stuck in my leg...”
His voice suddenly trails off and Angel looks up. Anne has grabbed a crossbow and is aiming it squarely at Spike’s chest. Her face is as pale as a sheet of paper, but her voice is even and suffused with anger as she speaks: “Get the hell out of my shelter... Spike!”
tbc...
no subject
Angel has spent a hundred years in hell, but no pain was ever as acute as this - a physical reminder of what he lost. And tonight was to have been the end - the end of making choices, the end of that daily struggle to somehow do the right thing in a world of grey Very good description of Angel's thoughts about Connor.
Good job.
no subject
Sometimes fic writing is pure indulgence... *g*
Very good description of Angel's thoughts about Connor.
Thank you - I really love the Connor arc. Yes it was sometimes slow and/or annoying, but the concept is wonderful! And it was interesting to try to get inside Angel's head. Maybe I should have put a 'brooding' warning at the top! ;)
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no subject
And I have seen some truly excellent brooding!Angel icons recently, but now I can't remember where!