Disclaimer – I don’t own them; Joss and Mutant Enemy and all the various other Powers That Be do. If I owned them, I think they’d have been much, much happier.

Comments and feedback to Ralkana47@yahoo.com would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

Author's Note – Just in case you don’t know (it took me a while to figure it out), a drabble is a story of exactly 100 words, not counting the title. They’re fun, but they can be challenging!

Author's Note II – Newest drabbles are at the bottom.

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Better Late Than Never
Written for Maquis Leader
(11/11/03)

Buffy drowsed against Angel's chest, and he pulled her closer, smiling into her hair.

"Happy birthday, beloved," he whispered.

She listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, and she smiled. "Yeah. It was. Finally. Only took ten years."

"I’m – "

She put a finger to his lips, and he kissed it softly. "No sorry," she told him.

"’Kay. I’ll try, promise. More cake?"

She laughed. "You asking me, or asking permission?"

He grinned. "Both."

"You're gonna be way huge, Angel."

"Mmm… well, then, we'll just have to figure out a way to work it all off..."

Word of the Day for 08/23/02: Numinous - spiritual; holy
(02/01/04)

He couldn't touch crosses. Bibles scorched him, holy water burned like acid, and consecrated ground made him twitch. It had been that way for so long. An annoyance and a challenge to his demon for a century and a half – a torment and a reminder of his horrific nature for a century after.

But only now, as he hid in the shadows of Whistler's jalopy, cowering from the sun and watching that deadly light cast a numinous glow around her, did he learn the true meaning of the word sacred.

Holy objects burned his body; she seared his very soul.

Word of the Day for 08/23/01: Vertiginous - causing dizziness
(02/01/04)

"Yeah, Buffy. What are we gonna do now?"

They gathered around her, awaiting her answer, but she was silent.

She stared out over the smoking, heaving landscape, and she was dizzy. Her world, her life was sunken into the earth before her, but it wasn’t the vertiginous drop that made her head pound and her vision swim.

The future stretched away before her, vaster than the crater that held her now former life. And for the first time, she could see herself as a part of it. Not the one girl in all the world. Just a girl.

She smiled.

Limitations
Post-Damage
(02/08/04)

Millions of dollars in resources, psychics who could track auras, intelligence reports that could locate anyone, anywhere. His choice of vehicles: a dozen cars, a helicopter, private jets with safe windows. Enough contacts and greased palms that crossing oceans and international boundaries was as simple as crossing city limits.

All of the advantages evil money could buy, and they didn’t negate one simple fact.

He stood in a hallway in Rome, staring across the threshold at her, the one person whose distrust could wound him, cleave him to the bone and deeper.

"I can’t come in unless you invite me."

Hunger
During Graduation Day, Part II
(02/15/04)

Her beautiful eyes were pools of anguish as she stared at him. She lashed out, and he trembled under her righteous rage. Everything in him cried out at her anger and pain, at the swiftly growing chasm between them.

He could hear the tears in her voice, smell the sadness clouding her scent. But he heard her heartbeat above everything else, and mainly, he smelled her blood. It teased him, whispering of familiarity, intimacy. Of violence and the thrill of the kill.

His heart twisted within his chest even as his newly awakened appetite clawed at him.

So. Damn. Hungry.

A New Addiction
Pre-series, late 1930s or 1940s
(03/08/04)

He moves with stealth from the abandoned areas backstage into the rows of seats. Dressed neatly, he nearly blends in, but there's something about him, something unspoken and invisible that makes other patrons shift uneasily, drawing closer to their companions.

Pointedly, he ignores their anxiety, and then all is swept away. Eyes wide, he watches in awe as life unfolds before him. Suns rise and set in technicolor glory, enveloping him in beauty he thought he'd lost forever.

It makes him forget. Who he is. What he is. Just for a while, an hour or two, but that is enough.

A Meeting
Double drabble. During Phases
(03/08/04)

She's seventeen today. Chem test tomorrow, and she should be studying, but she's Bronzing with friends instead. "What the hell," Rachel tells her, grinning. "Life's short and then you die, right?"

She's been watching him all night. Tall, lean, spiked hair, in silk and leather, and hiding in the shadows. Kinda familiar, but she doesn't know why. Last year's Spring Fling, maybe, though he's too old for SHS. College boy. Even better.

She jumps when his hooded gaze catches hers, and the chatter stops as her friends see him sauntering across the floor toward her, slipping through spaces in the crowd that seem to appear and disappear only for him. He smiles a smile that weakens her knees, and it takes several seconds before she realizes he’s asked her name.

"T-theresa," she manages, cursing the tremor she hears in her voice.

But he doesn’t seem to notice. He flashes that smile again, dark eyes sparkling, and she is lost. He asks her to dance, and she doesn’t even register the coolness of his fingers as they curl around hers. He leads her away from her friends and the brightly lit table, and she willingly moves into the darkness with him.

Preparation
Post-Home
(03/15/04)

Angel breathed deeply. Inhale. Exhale.

It was stupid – unnecessary – but it was habit. Calming. Soothing.

Steeling himself, he hit the button, and the blinds snapped open. Brilliant sunlight flooded the room.

His body flinched, muscles twitching as he fought the overwhelming impulse to flee that deadly incandescence.

For over two centuries, he’d feared sunlight – his body was trained well. Ten seconds passed as he trembled. Closing the blinds, he sighed in relief.

There would be no respect if he flinched and trembled whenever sunlight hit him. Another deep breath. Eyes screwed tightly shut, he reached for the button once more.

Father's Day I
During Origin
(06/20/04)

He stands there for another second, lips twitching in a smile that's barely there. Then he's gone.

I stare relentlessly at the elevator doors, as if the weight of my gaze will keep him near me.

He's so handsome. Charming. Funny. Smart. So easy-going, so unlike me. So unlike him. Everything I once dreamed he'd be as I rocked him to sleep in my arms.

I've wondered since that day... if he knew, would he thank me? Forgive me? Understand?

His eyes told me everything I need to know. Laurence Riley may be his dad, but me? I'm his father.

Father's Day II
The first Post-Chosen Father's Day
(06/20/04)

It was Father's Day, so I called him.

"Oh, hi, Buffy."

That's it. No, "Oh God, are you girls okay?" or "Buffy, where are you?" or even "I hear Sunnydale is a big hole in the ground now." Just, "Oh, hi, Buffy."

The saddest part? I wasn't surprised.

We talked for a few minutes, and it was boring and stiff. I hung up, stared at the phone, and then called the father life's given me to replace the obviously failed biology experiment.

"Hey, Giles, what's up?"

"Buffy! How are you, is everything all right with you and Dawn?"

I smiled.

Windows
Late season three or anytime during season 4 of Angel
(07/18/04)

My son has his mother’s eyes.

Most men would be proud of that, I think. Proud to be able to see with such ease something of the child’s mother reflected in him.

But Darla’s eyes were like diamonds – hard and glittering, never showing a spark of love, or compassion, or mercy. They shone with macabre mischief, with unholy glee. They were ice. Frozen.

Sometimes I see her cruel eyes staring out from his angry face, and I can’t hide my shudder.

Darla was a soulless monster.

He has a human soul.

And he hates me with every ounce of it.

Final Preparations
During Not Fade Away
(07/26/04)

Angel cautiously slides the ring onto his finger, testing the weight and fit, careful not to activate the spike. Though the poison it holds probably wouldn’t kill him, it would render him useless for this final fight.

He stares down at the ring. It feels strange. It’s been several years since he’s worn a ring, and this isn’t the ring he wants to wear into his last battle.

Hands, heart, and crown. That’s what he wants to wear. What he won’t allow himself to wear. Tucked away, safely hidden. It won’t make the trip to Hell with him this time.

A Different Take on the Subject
Post-Chosen
(07/26/04)

Ringtones are Buffy’s new obsession. Her phone lets her program different numbers to different rings, and she’s spent way more time and money than she should’ve on them.

Each friend has a different ring that changes weekly. Her favorite songs, their favorite songs, movie themes, whatever catches her ear.

Giles currently has the Batman theme – a musical bat signal.

One number has no special ring. No random pop tune, no happy movie theme. Just "Ring #1" – no little jingle could ever encapsulate everything between them, and the tingle in her gut whenever Angel calls is all the identification she needs.

Word Association
Sometime during S5-S7, Buffy
(07/29/04)

Spike slouched into Willy’s, glancing at the clientele. Some smirked, aware of his alliance with Buffy, but he glared, and they looked away.

He spotted Clem toward the back – he was nursing a drink, with a downcast expression, and favoring an arm. He brightened as Spike joined him.

"What happened to you?"

"Slayer."

Spike laughed incredulously.

"And Dawn – she found out about the kittens."

Spike winced. Clem raised a bandaged hand. "She broke my finger!"

He cheered up as Willy came nearer. "Appetizer?" he asked Spike, and then added, "Not an onion blossom."

"All right, then," Spike smirked. "Chicken fingers?"

Shadows
Early season six, Buffy
(08/01/04)

There wasn't much call for a fire in Sunnydale. It wasn't like when they'd visited her mother's family when she was little. There, the fire had kept them from shivering as they'd wordlessly sat and stared awkwardly at each other.

No awkwardness here. The fire crackled in the slowly growing twilight. Willow sifted gently through Tara's hair, and Tara happily closed her eyes. A single whispered word broke the silence, and candles flared at Willow's command.

Tara's eyes popped open, unease fluttering within her. She tried desperately to keep the simple joyful moment, but contentment skittered away from her grasp.

Familiar Patterns
Pre-series, sometime between, say, 1989 and 1991.
(08/02/04)

"Here."

Xander looked at the brightly colored envelope. "Is this to your party?" he asked, surprised. He looked for Willow – Cordelia was probably teasing him, and he always felt better when Willow was around.

Her eyes narrowed. "Don’t think you’re special, Xander Harris. My mother made me invite the whole class."

Xander blinked, trying to pretend his feelings weren’t hurt. "Well that’s what you have to do when nobody likes you."

Angry, she whirled around and stalked off, long brown hair flying behind her. Xander watched her go and then looked around again.

He really needed to see Willow now.

Nostalgia
Angel (the character), any time, either series.
(03/17/05)

He doesn’t wear green, or a cutesy shamrock pin. Doesn’t drink green beer or watch the parades.

He rarely thinks of the rolling green hills of his youth, but on this day each year, reminders of home are unavoidable -- every snatch of music has a familiar lilt, and clumsy tongues eagerly mangle the language of his native soil.

All day long, melancholy and regret beat down on him like the sun of his boyhood days. That same sun slowly sinks below the horizon, and he pushes aside the loneliness and despair, shoulders his sword, and steps into the night.

Wintersong
Drabble and a half. Set several years after Not Fade Away. Inspired by Sarah McLachlan's song of the same name.
(12/18/06)

It's cold where she lives -- snow, ice, wind like knives. But it doesn't matter. She's been cold since she saw him explode into a maelstrom of ash, screaming her name, fear for her in his eyes. LA had been so far, and she'd been too late.

Her sister and friends visit at Christmas. In the morning, they're giddy and laughing in the newly fallen snow. With sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, they beg her to join their fun. She sits, wrapped up by the fire, shivering.

She thinks of the first time she saw falling snow, the awe and wonder of the moment. She remembers his shining eyes, snowflakes in his eyelashes, settling gently into the spikes of his hair. And it hurts. Worse than the wind like knives. Worse than knives. But she clings to that moment, holding on with everything she has left in her. And she smiles.