Pilot

The young woman slipped out of the house rather early—one might even say suspiciously early. If not for the emptiness of her hands, she'd have been taken as a street hooligan out to make some mischief (that is, if anyone had been awake to see her). But no, the wary blonde was more careful than she cared to admit. She was dressed for war, donned in dark wash jeans, combat boots, and a soft red hooded sweater that kept the wind from slapping her cheeks. Fishing keys out of her pocket, she cursed the shakiness of her fingers as the engine revved and she softly closed the car door. Squeezing her eyes and hoping Willow wasn't doing some early morning yoga, she turned out of her driveway.

She told herself it was a good thing that she was doing. It couldn't be that bad, right? With a slight grimace at her own enthusiasm (or rather, lack thereof), she merged onto the vacant highway, only pausing briefly in her inner pep talk to watch for anyone who had the right of way. Returning to her thoughts, she found a bit of warmth as she thought of Dawn, peacefully dreaming, blissfully unaware of the ceaseless dangers threatening to run over their front door. Buffy blocked the pang of guilt she felt, reminding herself that Faith and Willow would take care of her Dawn. And besides, Dawn was strong too. Tearing away from her thoughts, she stared at the darkened street up ahead, watching the first trickling of sunlight paint the sky dark blue, a welcome change from the starless black that had been in its place just an hour before.

It had been awhile since she'd driven so much, she mused. Usually it was from home to work and back, then out fighting demons wherever they were stirring up trouble. Cleveland was no Sunnydale, but then again there practically was no Sunnydale anymore, so they really couldn't compare. It wasn't that she missed living near a Hellmouth (far from it, actually), but it was more like she was the peaceful dreaming Dawn was enduring now: she wanted people to be blissfully unaware. Think of the panic it would ensue, she told herself, if they knew of every ill-wishing demon and crazed nutcase she came across. She thought of herself as a more bizarre version of the CIA, and left it at that. Pretty soon she'd close two Hellmouths as opposed to just the one, though she admitted that there was a significant amount of help that went into play at the last one. She winced, not wanting to take herself back to that day. They were lucky that the town had evacuated: it was the first time she actually thanked the people of Sunnydale for their common sense. No one who wasn't involved got hurt—she blanched, forcing herself to stop thinking of those who were involved and who did get hurt.

"No," she said quietly, hoarse voice barely above a whisper. That had been years ago, and everything was fine. Everything was fine. They had all moved on and no one was dwelling on the past anymore. It was 2007, and everything was fine.

Sucking in the cold Seneca, Pennsylvania air, Buffy sorted out her emotions, checking her reflection in her rear view mirror to make sure the worry lines had melded back into her face. Parking in front of the warehouse, she took a few deep breaths before stepping into the fray.

"Hello?" she called out, the word cracking as it came out. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "I'm here."

She frowned, getting a little worried. She surveyed her surroundings, but there were no other buildings for miles. She glanced behind her only to find that Spike's Desoto (graciously left to her before he went gallivanting into the heat of danger only to be left behind) was nowhere to be seen. She stretched her arm out in front of her in case she could still feel it. No such luck. Sighing, Buffy trudged across the seemingly endless gravel and knocked on the warehouse door. She waited a full fifteen seconds before barging in, but she'd barely taken a step when she caught the pungent odor of formaldehyde.

Her face a portrait of queasy unease, Buffy's teeth clenched in distaste. The warehouse was filled with rows and rows of jarred specimens. Cautiously entering, Buffy had made it past the third aisle of "recreational use" jars (she refused to consider the implications of that) when she finally heard the silvery voice that made her blood freeze in her veins and the hair on her arms bristle.

"Slayer! So glad you could make it." There was a sinister smile somewhere in his words, and as much as she hated anything that had to do with the demon's perfect set of teeth, Buffy forced herself to turn around.

"Because I had so much of a choice," she shot back, taking in his gruesome appearance. Which, by the way, (and she'd never admit this,) made her heart beat just a little faster. It had taken some time at first to remember that he was not, in fact, Angel, and that Angel was, in fact, still in California.

"My dear," he replied, lips curling into an abhorrent expression she'd never seen Angel wear, "there is always a choice. You've just made the right one." He was in black slacks and a dark shirt and his finger sported a bastardized version of Angel's Claddagh ring. Dark amusement rose in the back of Buffy's mind. If anything, she could at least count on the ring to remind herself that he wasn't the real deal.

"I don't think you get to decide what's right and wrong, given your history with the two," she said softly, though she knew from the way his face darkened that he'd heard her.

"Slayer, you wound me. Do you think I cannot see when the right decision has been made? It's not as though I take the darker path for my benefit—well, it is for my benefit, and so I see where you come from there— but do not think that I don't wish you the best. It's not my fault I was made to accompany the Slayer in all her affairs—"

"No, it's just your fault that you try to grab her attention by harvesting human remains as well as live people," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and letting her sleeve rest over her nose to guard herself from the smell.

He continued as if she hadn't said a word. "And furthermore, you're quite lucky to actually be meeting me. I was a bit of a celebrity back in my day." Cue the exaggerated sigh.

"Oh, I'm sure I'm very lucky," she mumbled under her breath.

"Besides, what you're about to do will effectively close the Cleveland Hellmouth, which I'm sure you've noticed has been increasingly more active now that the Sunnydale debacle messed with the balance of things."

Buffy heaved a resigned sigh, nodding slightly. There were many unintended consequences of what was now being called "The Sunnydale Downfall," consequences that she now had to accept responsibility for. It wasn't entirely her fault, but the world had been at odds with itself for some time anyway, and it was time to balance the chaos with, ironically, more chaos.

His eyes softened for a moment and he simply looked at her. She stared back, fighting the constant urge to wrap her arms around him. It was so hard to see Angel but not have him there, so difficult to forget all that they went through when faced with this demon.

"You have a question," he said flatly. It wasn't accusing or surmising. It was a statement and it was true.

"Many," she replied, searching his face—or rather, Angel's face— for any sign of obvious deceit.

"Go on," he encouraged, a savage glint in his eye that felt eerily familiar.

"Why?" she asked. It wasn't obvious what she meant, but she knew he'd answer anyway.

He looked momentarily amused. "Why do I look like Angelus?"

"Angel," she corrected weakly, not really feeling up to the banter anymore. Her stomach was churning unpleasantly from the smells.

"Angel," he amended. He seemed to think for a moment before answering. "Thus far I've only told you that I am attached to the Slayer of each generation. Thanks to you," he shot her a glare that showed just how venomously thankful he was, "there are now thousands of Slayers around the world. Your witch friend managed to unleash the power, but in doing so she also unleashed me. I am unnamed, Slayer. There is no classification for me. I reside in your darkest fears, in your deepest regrets. There is no banishing me now. I know not why I take so much joy in watching you squirm, but I suppose that Angel makes you uncomfortable to the point that a small, minuscule part of your mind wishes to never see him again."

If Buffy could gape, she would have gaped. The stench of the room forbade that action, but her disbelief was all the same.

"That's not possible. I love—loved Angel." She caught herself in time, well aware that it had been too long for her to still cling to his memory as a safety blanket. It was 2007 and everything was fine.

"How interesting. Perhaps, Slayer, your Angel is not as fond a memory as you might think. Memories are warped by our perception, after all. Perhaps you may still love him—" he said as he held up a hand to silence her protest (quite literally, as not a sound could come from her throat despite her attempts to voice her disagreement), "but only in the way that every human loves their first love. Your first love, Slayer, is not something to be taken lightly. You will never forget him. However, you want to; at least, a very small part of you does. That is what makes me take his form. Your unwillingness to admit that you wish he were gone does not change the fact that you do wish he would disappear. I hypothesize that the reason you wish he were not of this world anymore is related to your inane innate belief that Angel going away would mean the pain of being the Slayer going away too. He is the strongest reminder of your burden, so you have condemned him in your heart for that reason. Of course, such a belief, logically, is not the case, but human emotions are rather illogical, are they not?" He chuckled to himself.

"Now," he continued, waving away his explanation as if he were waving off an offer to join a church rather than having just finished analyzing Buffy's unrealized thirst for Angel's demise, "on to more pressing matters. As promised, your world will be safe while you are away… elsewhere," he finished unsubtly. "Any questions?" He looked to her for prompting.

She pointed to her mouth, raising a brow at him. She still couldn't speak.

"No questions? Perfect!" He clapped his hands as she scowled at him and he groaned, rolling his eyes. "Oh, fine. Far be it from me to take the words out of your mouth, Slayer." He pointed at her and she tried her voice.

"Where am I going?" she asked.

"Far," he answered simply.

"When am I going?"

"Now."

"Why am I going?"

"Reasons," he replied dismissively. "I'm not so sure myself, but then again I've never questioned the natural order of things unlike some people." He shot her a pointed look and she shrugged.

"When you find a better way to stop the apocalypse, tweet me."

Sighing in light frustration, the demon pursed his lips and the ground shook beneath them. Looking around in near panic, Buffy realized after a second that it was his doing. Glaring at him blatantly, she watched as he began to chant. His words grew louder and louder and she watched as they left his mouth in the form of red runes in the air that circled her slowly at first, speeding up as his volume increased.

"If I die, I'll haunt him," she promised in a low voice, hoping that a certain amount of resolve was enough to bring her beyond the grave and cast her back into the real world as an apparition.

No sooner had she said the words her body fell through the floor and then she was falling, falling, and all she could see was the black chasm around her as the ground swallowed her whole and the demon wearing Angel's face waved cheerfully from above.

Hello! My name is Sharkbait Anna. I hope you'll enjoy this story. Let me know of any mistakes you catch.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Buffy the Vampire Slayer franchise, anything relating to the Buffyverse, or any recognizable plot or characters from movies, series, books, or comics.

Thanks for reading,

lifeisurdream