Disclaimer: All characters belong to their rightful owners. I do not own any of them.
Buffy and Angel characters created by Joss Whedon
Dollhouse Characters created by Joss Whedon
Doctor Who characters created by Russell T. Davies
The night was hot, sticky. Beads of perspiration dimpled his brow and then ran down his face, cutting rivulets through its natural oils. His clothes clung to him like a second skin – a moist, peeling, skin he wished he could shed. He settled back on his divan and sipped at his sherbet, relishing the tangy-cold taste of the Falsa on his tongue. A soft sigh of regret winged away from him, into the surrounding darkness.
He wished he were back in Italy - Alessa on his right arm and Vittoria on his left - heading off to another gala event. The sharp cut of his tuxedo a subtle mirror to his companions’ gowns. A bittersweet smile languished on his lips as the memories played through his minds eye - the dances, soirees, the Bacchanalia. Life lived in full, not at the behest of whoever was in charge of the Watchers Council these days. Unfortunately, he was stuck in Scotland, playing host to the ignorant masses that comprised the Reformed Watchers Council; forced to run errands like a common scullion.
He closed his eyes, shutting out the light. At least he had, Dana. A brilliant ray of sunshine in his –otherwise, dingy life. She had been a tough nut to crack. Her post-traumatic stress disorder mixed with the Slayer dreams had provided her with a nice insulative bubble. That bubble had burst less than two months ago.
Where demons and hellhounds failed, Andrew succeeded. All it took was a hug and the simple words, I love you, and she had turned to clay in his hands; a pile of writhing mush that wanted nothing more than for him to hold and protect her against the wickedness of the world. He had whispered in her ear that she was a dirty, bad girl that needed punishment for her sins, and because she needed, someone to love her she had consented.
He drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face; images of chains, broken glass, and needles danced in his minds eye. He never saw the shadow detach from the darkness by the bookcase and make its way toward him.
In his dream he flew. His alabaster toga fluttered in the breeze and the first rays of the rising sun glinted off the golden laurels tied into his hair. Beneath him, a field of kaleidoscopic wildflowers stretched their petals toward his light; drawing it in and metabolizing it, as if it was the finest of nectar. Pure joy coursed through his system and he soared even higher into the azure sky. He flew up, higher than birds could fly; the earth spread out at his feet, and thin clouds - as soft as unspooled cotton - surrounded him. He reveled in his existence, reveled in his divinity.
The sound of harp music reached his ears from somewhere far below and the breeze reverberated with a song dear to his heart. With a thought, he willed himself downwards and flew to discover the source of the dulcet melody.
His smile faded as the skies turned dark around him. It began to rain, a drizzle at first – cold and soaking through his clothes. He frowned. There was not supposed to be rain in Paradise. Lightning flashed overhead, followed quickly by the deep roar of thunder. He checked his course and flew back into the heavens to discover the source of this intrusion. He gasped as he felt his divinity wrenched from him and he began to fall.
His eyes snapped open and he screamed as the ground rushed up to meet him. Thunder roared overhead drowning out his cries of terror and lightning flashed, revealing the jagged shapes of rocks littering the ground below.
Something grabbed him by his ankles and jerked hard, ending his freefall but sending him hurtling toward the castle wall. He tried to bring up his arms to shield his face but it was too late. His nose burst like a rotten tomato sending a spray of blood into the night and mixing with the rain running down his face. He tried to scream for help, but it came out as a strangled moan.
He hung that way for several minutes; suspended halfway between his rooms and the ground - the icy rain erecting miniscule goose bumps on the surface of his flesh. Everything hurt, but thanks to the rain, the pain was beginning to recede; replaced by curious warmth that spread over his entire body. He jerked his body in a halfhearted attempt to free himself and then fell still, all the strength gone from his body. Tears formed in his eyes and he began to cry.
Small sobs quivered through his petite frame. He did not want to die like this. He was too young, too pretty. He was eighty-two percent more manly than he was before. No, he wanted to live. More than anything else, he wanted to live.
“We need to talk!”
The harsh voice snapped him out of his reverie. He craned his neck forward and tried to see, but the rain mixed with his blood and tears, making everything appear cloudy -out of focus.
“Who are you?” he screamed. “What the hell is going on!”
Lightning flashed nearby and for a moment, he saw a huge dark shape with pointy ears perched on his windowsill and staring at him.
“Hurting little girls Andrew,” the dark figure growled. “It stops here!”
“I don’t know what…,” he began, and then he started to fall.
The wind rushed past him at a terrifying speed causing his eyes to bulge; stretching his skin back and plastering his hair against his scalp giving him a skull like mien. He opened his mouth to scream, but the wind instantly stole his breath away, leaving him gasping for air. He closed his eyes and prepared for the worst.
He stopped. One moment he was hurtling toward certain death and the next no motion whatsoever. A second’s respite and then the pain hit. It felt like fire coursing through his veins, burning him from the inside out: a purifying flame consuming the dross that was his life.
His eyes snapped open and he saw the side of the castle rushing at him. He flung his arms up in a desperate attempt to shield his head from impact. It worked, mostly. His head was safe, but he felt his arm snap, adding more pain to the mix. He groaned and cradled his arm to his chest and tried not to move. A few moments later, he felt the stones of the castle wall sliding past him as he ascended.
“It stops here!” the dark figure barked. “No more!”
“Okay!” Andrew said, crying. “Anything, just don’t kill me!”
“Pathetic!” the voice snarled, jerking Andrew in through the window and dumping him onto the cold stone floor.
“Ow!” Andrew whimpered, curling into a fetal position and shivering.
He heard something rush through the air above him, and something warm settled over his slender frame. He took in a deep breath of air and gasped as his shattered nose exploded into fiery pain. A coughing fit hit him and he spent the next several minutes coughing up blood, phlegm, and rainwater. Then the mixture of cold and pain finally overcame him and he passed out.