Phantasmagoria - Witch - short story
Here's a really short story (just under 1000 words) for episode 3, Witch.
Author : Jo
Feedback : Pretty please. At LJ or to thelibrarian2003@yahoo.com
Rating : General
Summary : Why isn’t Angel around when Buffy faces the witchcraft of Amy’s mother?
WITCH
He doesn’t know that he’s falling in love with the Slayer. Not yet, he doesn’t. He knows she’s interested. He can tell when a girl is interested in him. After all, it may have been a long time, but it’s not like he hasn’t been there before, and it always made for easy hunting. He’s not thinking of that now. He just knows that he wants to protect her. He couldn’t bear to see her lifeless body fall to the ground. He needs to stop her from becoming cold and dead. Like him.
That’s the Grand Plan. At this moment though, there’s another Plan, one that’s smaller and more intimate. More immediate. He needs to do something about his wardrobe.
If someone had told him that he wanted to present himself to her at best advantage, to outshine any other rivals for her attentions, he would have laughed in their faces. He’s here to help her, no more than that. It’s just that he doesn’t want to look dated.
‘Carbon dated.’
He doesn’t want to look like a two hundred and forty something vampire.
‘Trust me, only someone living underground for ten years would think that was still the look.’
He doesn’t want to look like a vampire at all. He wants to look like a human. He wants to look like an ordinary guy, because inside he feels about eighteen, and if he feels like that, and looks like that, perhaps he can be accepted into her set of friends, instead of remaining in the shadows. Well, maybe not eighteen, but definitely something a lot less than someone nearing their quarter of a millennium.
He runs his hands over the garments hanging in his wardrobe. There aren’t many. These are all that have survived the years of dereliction.
Silk, running like liquid through his fingers. Satin, stiffer, but smooth against his palms, like the touch of skin on skin. Cotton lawn, different from the linen that he remembers from his youth, but crisp and cool. Velvet, richly textured, tactile, moving under the tips of his fingers as he strokes them across the cloth.
They’ve all served him well since he came to Sunnydale. They’ve been the seal of normality, protective coloration hiding him and his wretched soul behind the veneer of vampire expectations. Even before she came, he’s gone about the Slayer’s business, eavesdropping, lurking, moving through the shadows of the night, leading other vampires that don’t know him to think he’s just another of their kind, living in another time frame, clinging to fashions that he remembers from life, as they do. And he’s been haunting demon hangouts looking for information, he’s become a regular at Willy’s bar, all under the guise of being another outdated vampire.
Now, though, the Harvest has been averted, and it’s time for a rethink.
Most Slayers wouldn’t think twice about old-fashioned clothes. Most Slayers are pretty fashionless themselves, young girls brought up away from those things that influence their generation, kept sequestered away from the humanity they’re born to protect.
Not this one. She’s been a leader of her set, a Queen Bee of style and of high school mores.
He runs a hand once more over the sleeve of a silk shirt.
‘Carbon dated.’
He’d heard what she’d said to her Watcher that first night in the Bronze, as he’d lurked in the far reaches of the club, and her condemnation had been aimed at a vampire whose fashion sense was a decade or two ahead of Angel’s wardrobe. Yes, it’s time for a change.
Trouble is, he’s got no money, or not enough to buy what he needs. That means stealing, or visiting Whistler for a loan. Even after all those years of dereliction, he prefers not to use the word ‘handout’. He doesn’t want to start stealing clothes in Sunnydale, not on his own back doorstep. Whistler, then. He’ll leave the stealing for the last resort. Besides, he guesses that Whistler might want an update on the Harvest.
Decisive, he shrugs into his jacket. Might as well go now. It’s as good a time as any to leave Sunnydale for a few days. There are demons here, true, but they’re mostly harmless. Very few vampires remain, after that night of slaughter. The Master is still stuck in his prison, Darla will need time to recover, and the two or three youngsters who escaped the wrath of the Slayer can be no match for the vampire’s nemesis. There’s nothing here that the Slayer can’t handle. In any event, he’s as sure as he can be that Darla will come to see him before she goes to see the Slayer again. If the Master is to be freed, somehow, it won’t be done with a handful of fledglings. He’s the only other old vampire in town, and she knows he’s here.
No, he needn’t worry about Darla and Buffy crossing stakes just yet.
He frowns in recollection. He’d felt some witchcraft in town from time to time, and he’s fairly sure it’s from a powerful witch, yet he’d sensed no threat in it for Buffy. The frown lifts as he smiles to himself. Perhaps he’s just felt the enchantment that the small blonde schoolgirl seems to have cast over him. Perhaps she’s the witch, with her own sort of magic.
Having satisfied himself that there’s no reason at all why he shouldn’t leave town for a few days, he lets himself out, secure in the knowledge that he’ll be back soon and everything will be exactly as he left it. Buffy can deal with anything that’s here. There’s no time like the present. He sets off into the night, thinking of t-shirts and jeans and leather jackets.
The End
July 2008
Hope you enjoyed that little revisit to the sartorial side of Angel... :~))
Jo
Author : Jo
Feedback : Pretty please. At LJ or to thelibrarian2003@yahoo.com
Rating : General
Summary : Why isn’t Angel around when Buffy faces the witchcraft of Amy’s mother?
WITCH
He doesn’t know that he’s falling in love with the Slayer. Not yet, he doesn’t. He knows she’s interested. He can tell when a girl is interested in him. After all, it may have been a long time, but it’s not like he hasn’t been there before, and it always made for easy hunting. He’s not thinking of that now. He just knows that he wants to protect her. He couldn’t bear to see her lifeless body fall to the ground. He needs to stop her from becoming cold and dead. Like him.
That’s the Grand Plan. At this moment though, there’s another Plan, one that’s smaller and more intimate. More immediate. He needs to do something about his wardrobe.
If someone had told him that he wanted to present himself to her at best advantage, to outshine any other rivals for her attentions, he would have laughed in their faces. He’s here to help her, no more than that. It’s just that he doesn’t want to look dated.
‘Carbon dated.’
He doesn’t want to look like a two hundred and forty something vampire.
‘Trust me, only someone living underground for ten years would think that was still the look.’
He doesn’t want to look like a vampire at all. He wants to look like a human. He wants to look like an ordinary guy, because inside he feels about eighteen, and if he feels like that, and looks like that, perhaps he can be accepted into her set of friends, instead of remaining in the shadows. Well, maybe not eighteen, but definitely something a lot less than someone nearing their quarter of a millennium.
He runs his hands over the garments hanging in his wardrobe. There aren’t many. These are all that have survived the years of dereliction.
Silk, running like liquid through his fingers. Satin, stiffer, but smooth against his palms, like the touch of skin on skin. Cotton lawn, different from the linen that he remembers from his youth, but crisp and cool. Velvet, richly textured, tactile, moving under the tips of his fingers as he strokes them across the cloth.
They’ve all served him well since he came to Sunnydale. They’ve been the seal of normality, protective coloration hiding him and his wretched soul behind the veneer of vampire expectations. Even before she came, he’s gone about the Slayer’s business, eavesdropping, lurking, moving through the shadows of the night, leading other vampires that don’t know him to think he’s just another of their kind, living in another time frame, clinging to fashions that he remembers from life, as they do. And he’s been haunting demon hangouts looking for information, he’s become a regular at Willy’s bar, all under the guise of being another outdated vampire.
Now, though, the Harvest has been averted, and it’s time for a rethink.
Most Slayers wouldn’t think twice about old-fashioned clothes. Most Slayers are pretty fashionless themselves, young girls brought up away from those things that influence their generation, kept sequestered away from the humanity they’re born to protect.
Not this one. She’s been a leader of her set, a Queen Bee of style and of high school mores.
He runs a hand once more over the sleeve of a silk shirt.
‘Carbon dated.’
He’d heard what she’d said to her Watcher that first night in the Bronze, as he’d lurked in the far reaches of the club, and her condemnation had been aimed at a vampire whose fashion sense was a decade or two ahead of Angel’s wardrobe. Yes, it’s time for a change.
Trouble is, he’s got no money, or not enough to buy what he needs. That means stealing, or visiting Whistler for a loan. Even after all those years of dereliction, he prefers not to use the word ‘handout’. He doesn’t want to start stealing clothes in Sunnydale, not on his own back doorstep. Whistler, then. He’ll leave the stealing for the last resort. Besides, he guesses that Whistler might want an update on the Harvest.
Decisive, he shrugs into his jacket. Might as well go now. It’s as good a time as any to leave Sunnydale for a few days. There are demons here, true, but they’re mostly harmless. Very few vampires remain, after that night of slaughter. The Master is still stuck in his prison, Darla will need time to recover, and the two or three youngsters who escaped the wrath of the Slayer can be no match for the vampire’s nemesis. There’s nothing here that the Slayer can’t handle. In any event, he’s as sure as he can be that Darla will come to see him before she goes to see the Slayer again. If the Master is to be freed, somehow, it won’t be done with a handful of fledglings. He’s the only other old vampire in town, and she knows he’s here.
No, he needn’t worry about Darla and Buffy crossing stakes just yet.
He frowns in recollection. He’d felt some witchcraft in town from time to time, and he’s fairly sure it’s from a powerful witch, yet he’d sensed no threat in it for Buffy. The frown lifts as he smiles to himself. Perhaps he’s just felt the enchantment that the small blonde schoolgirl seems to have cast over him. Perhaps she’s the witch, with her own sort of magic.
Having satisfied himself that there’s no reason at all why he shouldn’t leave town for a few days, he lets himself out, secure in the knowledge that he’ll be back soon and everything will be exactly as he left it. Buffy can deal with anything that’s here. There’s no time like the present. He sets off into the night, thinking of t-shirts and jeans and leather jackets.
The End
July 2008
Hope you enjoyed that little revisit to the sartorial side of Angel... :~))
Jo