Title: "Stranger Things"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Spoilers: "Hero." *sniffle*
Rating/Classification: PG-13, angst, character death.
Disclaimer: Grr aargh Summary: Stranger things have happened.

He stared at the black and white photograph, captivated by her smile and the way her hair fell. . .and her eyes. He couldn't tell what color they were. After seeing her in the flesh, he still didn't know. Brown? Hazel? Green? He'd only seen her for a split second before Cordelia had yanked him out of the office, but that second had been enough. He supposed it wasn't fair to the Princess, his first object of adoration, but he couldn't help it. . .Buffy Summers had him. She had him by the balls and nothing could change it. When her image had been inside his screaming head, whispering danger, it had burned permanently into his skull. He wanted her with a violent intensity that ripped at him worse than the cheapest rotgut at the local pub.

And now here he was. . .reduced to glimpses of her picture when Angel wasn't glimpsing at it himself. It was a wonder that the old brood hadn't caught on 'cause he kept slipping it into different pages of L'Etrange every time. The Stranger. He'd read it in college. Slept through it, actually. Luckily, Harry had summarized it for him before the test. But it was the title that hit him with bucket loads of irony now, not the stuff inside it or the memory of his ever-lovin' ex-wife. He was head over ass in lust with a stranger. With someone he didn't know, but desperately wanted to.

He closed his eyes, tracing over the curve of her lips with his thumb, smudging older smudges on the glossy surface. "She's somethin'. . .she's really somethin'," he murmured softly.

And then the door jingled. He grabbed the dog-eared book and put her in the drawer. Out of sight. . .but never out of mind.


Buffy woke up, gasping as the Angel dream faded. She'd been dreaming about him every night. Dreaming about making love. About his hands. About his skin. Visions that made her hug her pillow and snuggle up in the fantasy. Visions that made her cry when she woke up--but softly so she wouldn't wake Will. It was something she cherished and dreaded at the same time. . .even more since she'd been to L.A.

But there was one thing that just made her shiver. One thing that she couldn't explain. It gave her the wiggiest senses of rightness and wrongness at the same time. In every single dream, Angel's voice had been Irish. Like the shared visions from last Christmas, except. . .somehow thicker. Realer. And even stranger were his eyes. Bright blue. He didn't have blue eyes. Practically no one she knew or had ever met had eyes that color. Except one person. . . that short little guy Cordy had pulled out of Angel's office. Doyle.

She rubbed her eyes and then slid back down into her mountain of sheets. Doyle. Some guy she didn't even know. Some blue-eyed Irish guy. She shivered again. . .and let the dreams take her.

Before long, she was smiling.


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