✟ the shadows kept me hidden from the light that calls my name;

[todoright]

“…Shanshu has roots in so many different languages. The most ancient source is the Proto-Bantu and they consider life and death the same thing, part of a cycle, only a thing that's not alive never dies. It's- it's saying - that you get to live until you die. It's saying - it's saying you become human

Comments

[chose]

Experience - and, Buffy is beginning to suspect, some ancient law of the universe - dictates that if something seems too good to be true, that's because it is. This is no different. This is not real.This can't be real

[todoright]

"Buffy." he nods to her, wondering if this is some sort of delusion. It's almost as if the Powers or some other force was taunting him, mocking him - reminding him of that one perfect day that he gave back. The day that only he holds in his memory. The sight of her in the sun, with her hair shining around her like some sort of halo - it was a sight he'd seen before, cherished and then abandoned for the greater good.

Angel doesn't belong to himself, after all. And neither does Buffy.

Not to mention the fact that Buffy is different. Older. There are creases around her face that hadn't been there before, as if the past few years had not been kind on her at all. As an unchanging vampire, Angel was quite skilled at seeing the passage of time on the faces of others.

He can't be dreaming.

"Where are we?"

[chose]

His clothes are soaked through, dripping down into the sand to mix with the red of spilled blood, then washing out to sea with the pull of each wave. Buffy steps closer, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him, if only to be sure that he is solid. But Buffy knows what it means for Angel to be here -- he's standing in the sun, after all, just like he did in all those dreams. If she reaches through to thin air, she'll be devastated, and if she reaches out and feels him, Buffy doesn't think she could control herself. Impulse management hasn't been her best feat as of late.

"You're... you're here." Oh, sure, state the obvious, why not? But Buffy can't bring herself to care. As far as she's concerned, it's enough that she somehow managed to form words. "I can't believe you're really here."

[todoright]

As it turns out, Buffy didn't need to control her impulses, because Angel was thinking the exact same thing. That she was some sort of mirage, or that he was dreaming. So when she steps forward so does he, almost completely in sync with her movements - and Angel reaches for something that's hopefully not too awkward. Her hand.

The glint of silver around one finger catches his attention, and he gently turns her wrist to be able to see what it is, selfishly hoping that it wasn't a wedding ring.

It was his claddagh ring, and it was pointed towards her. Angel knows the old customs, he knows what that means, but knowing and understanding are two different things. Buffy doesn't belong to him - not anymore. She'd made that quite clear the last time they'd met, and while Angel didn't approve of Riley, he knew that the boy could give her everything that he couldn't. A normal life. And on that principal, Angel hated him - as irrational as it was.

He lets her hand go, shuffling awkwardly.

"I'm here, but I need you to tell me where here is."

[get_over_here]

[todoright]

If Angel had known of Scorpion's intentions, he would have empathized. Doyle was always telling him to make connections - that it was dangerous for him to carry such a burden alone. Although he'd disagreed at first, his mind had long since been changed. And while Angel will never be social or even outgoing, he makes an effort.

The sun was beautiful, and the sky, and the feeling of it all on his skin. Even if this turned out to be a temporary thing, Angel was going to savor this feeling for as long as he could.

Distracted from his reverie, he glanced up to see someone greeting him, and went for the default and the apparently socially acceptable nod as a greeting. "Hi."

[get_over_here]

[todoright]

There was something about this guy that Angel couldn't quite pin down. Maybe it was the stilted, formal language he used. Buffy had warned him about the island's residents being a little bit on the unique side. "A little. I used to live in Alaska." which was technically true and yet not at the same time. He hadn't stayed too long in Alaska - the lack of sun couldn't make up for the truly miserable weather, even for someone who couldn't feel the cold.

[chasinghumanity]

Mitchell had started to feel the ache, the want, the urge. The meeting earlier had helped, but it hadn't just stopped what felt like was an addiction hardwired into his brain. So he'd gone for a walk, a long walk, enjoying the change in scenery, when he saw some bloke in black go shooting like a bat outta hell into the ocean.

George and Mitchell's favorite show back home had been "The Real Hustle". It made you look at details. So Mitchell looked from the cartoon, the familiar red spill to the man, dressed in black and oddly familiar looking, looking panicked himself, and it just clicked.

"Whoa, whoa, hey mate," he called, jogging over. They could have been the perfectly matched odd couple, in shades of black and gray on a tropical island. "You alright?"

[todoright]

The lilt in Mitchell's accent is not lost on Angel, and it reminds him of days long past - his life in Ireland. Of course, he'd spent most of it drinking and making merry with the local girls, but Angel remembers green pastures and the lively melodies of the songs that they danced to.

Two hundred or so years had largely washed his own accent away except for the smallest traces, but now was no time to be getting nostalgic.

"I'm fine." and he is, once he reminds himself to breathe regularly - and then his body takes over from there. The sand is stained with blood and he's sorry for that, but he supposes the water will wash it away. If his suspicions are true, he won't be needing it anymore.

The other man is wearing black too. And from the way he hadn't looked twice at the carton, Angel could make his own guesses. "You're human now, too. How's that workin' out for you?"

[chasinghumanity]

The quick jump to the proper conclusion, leaps of logic made Mitchell smile broadly. He saw it, too, what they were. Had been. Despite all the terrible things they did, all the times Mitchell had tried desperately to separate himself from the vampires in Bristol, there was still that kinship, that sense of brotherhood. He missed that. He cherished that. And helping out someone like him was the least he could do, something he was happy to do.

"Uh, kind of fucking brilliant and terrifying at the same time," he laughed. "Just remember to breathe, deeply. Don't let the adrenaline or the racing heart get to ya. Nearly passed out the first minute I got here but it's easier from then on."

[todoright]

Angel, on the other hand, didn't have much of a brotherhood with his fellow vampires - his contact with them normally ended up with him shoving a stake through their hearts. They didn't have souls, so their decisions to do the evil that they did wasn't exactly a choice - but that also meant that he didn't have a choice when it came to killing them

[scoobys_heart]

Xander was in between jobs at the moment. He'd just returned his tools to the hut and had a shower up at the Compound after a day on the building crew. Now, he was walking down the beach, taking the long route to The Catscratch to help Helen set up for the night. He was still in the middle of the avoiding people stage of depression, still feeling lonely after Spike's disappearance.

He really didn't know what was it that made him look up, but he stopped in his tracks when he did. Sure, he knew there had been a clone on the island, Booth or something who Spike had always complained about when they'd had patrols together for the IPD. At first, that's who Xander hoped it was but as seconds went by and he stared at that hair...this was no Booth.

It was Deadboy.

Xander groaned. "This is SO not fair..."

[todoright]

"Xander. Good to see you, too." Angel replied, pointedly ignoring the groan, his face unreadable. Buffy's best friend would probably never like him, although Angel's feelings towards Xander were slightly less antagonistic - actually, that was probably because he had more important things to worry about, relatively.

The Sunnydale days were over. Too bad neither of them could remember that.

[scoobys_heart]

Never like Deadboy was an understatement, especially right now when ex-vamps were not his favorite people in the world. And Xander really wasn't in the mood to be polite.

"So. You just get here?" He asked bluntly.

[todoright]

"Try to contain your excitement." his dry tone would normally be used to mask slight amusement, if Angel wasn't sure that Xander knew better. As it was, he'd already had his daily dose of awkward, and wasn't looking to heap more on that.

[wormholed]

The man at the end of the hall wasn't Booth. John was sure of that - he was too young, for one, and his clothing was all wrong for Temperance's ex partner, but John felt a healthy flare of jealousy looking at the guy all the same.

When he'd had his fill of staring, John approached, taking in the guy's hair with rapidly raising brows. "Dude," he said when he reached him. "Great hair."

It was. John had been in atmospheres absent of gravity and he'd still never seen hair grow straight up.

[todoright]

Why was everyone always ragging on the hair? It couldn't be that bad, but then again, Angel wouldn't know - the whole 'not having a reflection' thing wasn't exactly conducive to vanity. But the way this guy was staring at him was a lot more than just for the sole purpose of making cracks at his hair.

There was something else here. "...Thanks." Angel said, just a little bit awkwardly with one hand still stuffed inside his pocket. "Have we met?" he doubted it. Despite being alive for so long, he never forgot a face - something that was a little problematic when he'd killed as many people as he had.

But alternate dimensions could mean alternate versions of him. You never wanted to mess around when it came to universes.

[wormholed]

"Don't think so," said John, but he honestly had to think about it. He'd been on the island so long, had seen so many people come and go, more than one of them with this face if he recalled correctly.

"John Crichton." He held out a hand, and if there'd been any mockery in his statement before, John was all friendly, Southern welcome now. "You new?"

[todoright]

It felt weird to be talking to someone without having some sort of objective in mind - even with Cordelia and Wesley, there had still been the mission, initially. Angel doesn't do social very well, and when he reaches his hand out to shake John's, it's with some degree of awkwardness. "Angel." in the shadowy streets of Los Angeles, nobody seemed to question the name. Here on a bright tropical island, it seemed ridiculous. "More or less." is his cryptic version of the answer. "I've been here before, apparently."