500-word Angel ficlet

[shinodabear.livejournal.com]

Sampling Residue
Fandom: Angel
Summary: Love will never die, encapsulated in the echoes of the past. Only Illyria stops to notice.
Rating: PG
Pairing: implied Angelus/William through Illyria
Disclaimer: The Hellmouth is to Sunnydale High, as I am to Joss Whedon--- beneath.


She can feel it, the echoes of the past, long tendrils of blue smoke wrapping around the particles of air, begging to be heard, remembered, not cast aside like she had been. They are memories older than most inhabitants of the building, whispers of words, flashes of images, that exist only in the minds of two individuals. She can feel them all around her. There, in the office of their leader, concentrated around the large desk and the chair, at the conference table, in front of the elevators. There are in her Wesley’s office, in the doorway where the two congregate to settled disputes, and in the training facility the white-haired one insists on being beaten. They are everywhere she has gone, before they changed her, and after she could no longer control time’s flow. These memories are the only connection she has left.

If she stands still enough, tilts her head just so and listens there is the quiet, subdued tone of a newborn half-breed, the harsh brogue powerful leader, and the rise and fall of their voices blended with each other. So far past, and so far weakened, Illyria cannot discern the words, but the emotions she still feels well. They are foreign, stirring the particles of what was left of the human who inhabited the shell. It feels warm, like when she communicates with the red spores in the lab. It tingles, like the poison of a snakebite. It is comforting, like the shell’s memories of a small stuffed creature.

When the building is still, and she is left alone, Illyria will stand in one area, still as a statue, and feel. They are easily recognizable to humans, these emotions, these sensations, and yet the echoes belong to these half-breeds. They were different then, more pure than the form she sneers at now. When they pass her in the morning, the white-haired one’s coat swishing loudly, the leader’s frown casting a shadow of gloom, her silence is interrupted. She feels the jolt of their power, the excitation of the molecules of memory. Illyria sees the past, in those brief moments when the two half-breeds walk through the timeless space. She sees them embraced as if they were part of those soaps the blonde phone-keeper speaks of.

If a vampire is so long diluted with a human host, do they themselves become nothing more than a faster, stronger human? Why else would such weak, loving whispers attach themselves to the surroundings?

When Angel turns, Spike stopping a fraction of an inch behind him, glare seeking answers as to the disruption of their morning routine, Illyria completes the picture without the help of the shell’s influence. There is nothing older than time, but companionship, the need for something to hold onto, whisper across fireplaces, touch beneath sheets, cling to in times of need. Noone is ever alone. Memories don’t fade. That is why Illyria stays. The forgotten past is all she has left to tie her to this world.