Interlude with a Vampire
AUTHOR: Lindsay Ince [chicago_heat@hotmail.com]
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, but then I wouldn't care if you said I couldn't
use them, so :P
ARCHIVE: http://www.stas.net/blurred
DISTRIBUTION: Ask and ye shall receive, after the swapping of the
required e-mails.
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: N/A
SUMMARY: Just how and why did Angel get that tattoo?
AUTHORS NOTES: Dedicated to Kat, for waiting so patiently for this
response to Challenge #49 at You Got the Stones?
FEEDBACK: Any and all...
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Angel knocked back another whisky and let his body relax against the
steadying influence of the bar. He ran his hand over the smooth surface and
stared at the walnut patterned wood, focusing on the dark brown, the sienna,
the tan all wrapped up in a swirling pattern. He liked the fact that even cheap
art deco looked quite stylish. It took a lot of alcohol to get a vampire drunk,
but Angel was well beyond that. The same amount would have killed a human hours
ago. Or at least done some pretty serious damage to their liver. He had reached
saturation point, and could have sworn that he felt the liquid sloshing around
inside him as he stood up. He was definitely drunk. The disadvantages of a
liquid lunch, nothing to soak up the alcohol. He staggered up from the stool,
using the bar as a lever, he spun slightly as he stood and turned around, the
effects of the alcohol flashing before his eyes and blinding him for a moment.
He felt himself come up against a hard surface, which possibly might have been
the floor, had not his vision returned to him and he realized as he staggered
back to try and focus on it that a huge vampire twice his size was staring
menacingly at him.
'Sorry, old pal,' he slurred, managing to change his direction and attempt to
avoid him.
'Not good enough,' the vampire
answered with a growl. 'Who are you?'
'Angelu...Angel,'he corrected
himself quickly. He kicked himself internally. If he said he was Angel, he was
Angel. If he continued to go by Angelus, then he would slip back into old ways,
as you slipped into a pair of worn in shoes, he would become Angelus. It was
his method against reverting back to the horror that as Angelus. A new name, a
new man.
While he was considering this, arms
lifted him and dragged him outside the bar with his legs kicking against the
floor as he desperately tried to regain some balance. He got none as as soon as
they had got him outside, their leader, him of the bad breath and sweaty white
string vest, began laying into him with vicious efficiency. He was obviously
the minion of a very powerful vampire. That in itself was a status symbol. He
obviously fancied himself as high up in the minion stakes. More minion than
other minions, a leader among minions perhaps. All these ponderings took his
brain away from the pain of receiving kick after kick to his stomach. As they
left he lay inert, regaining a sense of where he was and why he was in so much
pain. A severe beating, like alka seltzer, inevitably brings with it a sobering
of the mind, and as he realized he could not simply lie in the middle of the
street all night, he negotiated his way to his feet and staggered to the
nearest wall for support. Disappearing quietly into the shadows of the nearest
alley he limped away before he was caught and interrogated by the police, who
carried out regular patrols in the area.
As he wandered through the streets,
the diversity of the place struck him. Not only was it a hideaway for demons of
every variety, but it contained a far greater 'underworld.' Criminals, drunks,
prostitutes selling their wares on the street, they were not the only ones that
were outcasts. Yet he felt as detached from them as he did his own kind. Not
quite them, but not quite something else. He passed shop after shop, shutters
closed, locks and bolts securing them from the gaggle of juvenile delinquents
that roamed the streets at night. He passed one shop with the neon sign
flashing at the door slightly ajar. Stepping inside he had a wonderful idea.
Slurring out his name 'Angel' he sat down at the man grasped him and held him
in place. Pain ripped through him as the needle penetrated his skin again and
again. The tattooist was obviously used to his jerky movements, but for him the
pain was worsened by the burning that accompanied the needle jabbing his skin.
Who would have thought it would have burned? As it was, concentrating on the
pain helped, helped him remember who he really was now. It would act as a kind
of monument to his change.
As he reached the dark, dank apartment he paid a pittance for in a bad neighborhood,
he switched on the light and made his way into the dirt laden bathroom. He
turned automatically to look at the tattooist's handiwork in the cracked shards
of mirror, but of course saw nothing. Laughing at the irony, that he would
never see his reminder, he gripped a piece of the broken mirror that had fallen
to the floor and squeezed it in his fist until a glimpse of the pain returned
and he saw blood drip to the floor. He might not be able to see it, but as long
as he felt the pain, he felt the difference. Felt what his victims did, felt
the guilt, and hid away the feelings he was never to feel again. The tattoo was
not the only reminder; the closest to him was the pain.
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