Paramount own DS9; Joss Whedon created the Buffy characters.
Note: This breaks off from canon Buffyverse midway through season 2 -- a few days after Bad Eggs. In other words, Angel never became Angelus.
That's when the Star Trek canon takes over. This story takes place early season 7 of Deep Space Nine.
Also: This may be something between a rare treat and an exercise in frustration for you. The "rare treat" aspect: I wrote this story nine years ago and this is the first time it's eevr been published.
The exercise in frustration: It's unfinished and will likely stay that way. But even this malformed child deserves a place in the sun.
So to speak.
X X X X X
January 17, 2076
Somewhere in California.
Angel quietly drifted through the streets. The area had once been called
Sunnydale, but the town of that name had long since disappeared in the
Food Riots, the "job" internment camps, and the Eugenics Wars of the
Only one building remained from the time Angel had first entered Sunnydale,
eighty years ago. It had somehow resisted all attempts to tear it down
for progress, every effort by rioters to burn it, and other assorted means
No somehow about it, Angel reflected, and no mystery, either. It was the
man inside who had preserved it, kept it pristine as possible, right down
to the funishings and the paint on the walls.
Or so he'd been told, never having been allowed inside.
The number on the door remained as well, even though the street was
long gone: 1630, formerly of Rubello Drive. Just as he reached out to knock
on the door, it opened and a young man with disturbingly familiar
features appeared before him. HE looked Angel up and down. "Hmph,"
he snorted. "Grandad was right. You really don't look that impressive."
Angel stood on the porch for a second while the man continued his silent
Finally, the vampire broke the silence. "You DO realize you have to invite
me in, right? I've been barred from this house ever since your grandfather
took up residence."
He smirked. "I know. Grandad just told me to make sure you had to ask
to come in. So . . . welcome to the Harris estate, and please come in. Try
not to steal anything." Angel entered, and the young man bowed and
moved aside; the movements were exaggerated for comic effect.
"I see your looks weren't the only thing you inherited from your
grandfather," Angel said. "You also got his sense of humor."
"Why, thank you," he said, even though they both knew that had been no
compliment. "My name, by the way, is Madison Harris. I know yours, but
I think I'll be like grandad and just call you deadboy."
"Your grandfather has many admirable qualities," Angel said, partially
meaning it. "That nickname was never one of them."
"Well, fun as this isn't," Madison responded, "and much as I enjoy the
chance to chitchat and trade witty quips with an enemy of my grandad's,
I think I need to get to the point." His face grew serious very quickly.
"He's dying. He wanted to see you before he passed on." A bitter
laugh emitted from his lips. "Sometimes -- hell, most of the time -- I
think that what he calls the "necessity" to see you once more has been
the only thing that's kept him alive. I'm just glad we were able to track
you down in time. He's had to go through so much in his life that it
would have been a tragedy not to have given him his last request."
Madison pointed to the stairway. "Upstairs. First door on the right."
Angel walked up the stairs, feeling the steely blue-eyed gaze of Madison
Harris on him all the way.
The hallway was well-lit with an incandescant bulb, but all the doors
were closed. Angel paused a moment.
"My ears work just fine, deadboy," a voice rasped. "I can hear you out
there. Get your pale, clammy butt in here."
Slowly, he opened the door in question. The interior of this room -- formerly
Joyce Summers' bedroom, Angel knew -- was equipped like an ultra-
modern hospital room, though the bed and walls, as far as he could tell,
were the original pieces.
Lying on the bed, alone, was the 96-year old Alexander Harris. "Well, don't
just stand there, deadboy, come in. And don't worry about being tempted
by my blood. I've got so little left by now you'd have trouble getting a good
appetizer out of me."
The voice was raspy with age, but the words were spoken with equal measure
amusement and anger. Before Angel could continue, Xander went on, "Don't
bother retorting. Just have a seat."
The vampire sat down in the only chair available. Xander looked over at him
and continued, "I suppose you know why I called you here."
Oh, most definitely. "I'm sorry, Xander . . . especially now. I still haven't
been able to find them."
"THAT I knew, deadboy. Despite our many differences, that's the one
thing we have in common: If you'd found them, you would have told me so
I could die happy." He coughed. "It looks like that's not going to happen,
"You don't know how sorry I am --" Angel began.
"Yes, I do," he said softly. "After all these years, I know. You'd give
anything for it not to have happened." Xander snorted, which turned
into another coughing fit. "So would I. Time travel was beyond even
Amy's capacity, unfortunately." Amy Madison had been Xander's second
wife, and one of the most powerful witches on the planet.
Willow had been the first. God, Willow . . . he hadn't let himself think
about her in over sixty years.
Of all of them, Xander, Willow, and Angel had been the only three to
survive the Eugenics Wars. Cordelia, Giles, and for that matter the
perpetually clueless Joyce Summers had died early on, in, of all things,
a border struggle. Jenny Calendar had given her life to save Angel's . . .
in the same incident that had cost Buffy her life.
And that was more than enough of THAT line of thought. Angel
resumed paying attention . . . only to discover Xander staring at him
patiently. "Sorry," the vampire said. "Lost in thought. Thoughts."
"I understand, deadboy," Xander said sympathetically. "Sometimes,
in my supreme Xanderlike arrogance, I do forget that they were all
your friends too." A bitter laugh. "In any event, that's why I called you
here. I want an oath from you."
Hesitantly, Angel asked, "What do you want me to swear to?"
"It's kinda multipart, actually," he answered. "First, I want you promise
me that someday you WILL find Spike and rip his goddamned head
"Second . . . when you're done . . . come back here. No matter how long it
takes. I think she'll finally be at peace then."
"Will the house still be here?"
"Madison takes after his grandmother. He's as powerful as Amy ever was.
After I die . . . his instructions are to cast some kind of spell to keep it from
harm. No matter how long it takes . . . 1630 Revello Drive will be here
when you come back. SWEAR to it."
"I vow that I will hunt down and kill Spike for what he did to Buffy . . .
and then I will return here. No matter how long it takes."
"Thank you." A pause. "Well, get to it, then. You don't have forever. Oh,
that's right, you do." He grinned and Angel allowed him the pleasure of
one last witticism as he rose to leave.
As he got to the door, he heard from behind him Xander's voice saying,
"Good luck . . . Angel."