Part 2
The Present…
Angel stared at his…twin. His doppelganger. And his mind seethed with confusion.
It had been so long. Was this what it was like to look in a mirror? To see a living reflection of yourself? If so, it was very…strange.
“Who are you?” the…other demanded. His shock was quickly turning to anger. “*What* are you?” and he took a threatening step forward.
Angel took a step back. Braced himself for a fight.
“Angel,” Cordelia said. She placed a hand on the other’s arm. “Wait!”
“What?” the other demanded, never taking his eyes off of Angel.
Cordelia pointed. “Look,” she said. And, reluctantly, the other complied.
There was an area that vaguely resembled the cage in the Sunnydale High School library. It was filled with weapons, various odds and ends.
On a shelf rested a bronze, egg-shaped statue.
And it was glowing.
“Dammit!” the other swore.
***
Angel glanced around the lobby of the sprawling hotel. Tried to wrap his mind around…whatever this was.
Los Angeles. He remembered the last time he had been in the city. Those were the first people he’d really tried to help. And they hung him from the rafters of this very hotel for his trouble.
It wasn’t a pleasant experience, and he couldn’t imagine what would have made him return.
Frowning, he glanced at the other. He and the Englishmen leaned against the check-in desk, studying the statue.
So far, Angel only had a sketch of what was going on. Somehow, he’d been transported into the future. And, somehow, the statue had something to do with it.
He didn’t believe it. Not yet. That this man, who looked like him in every way, was *him*. That this was *his* future.
What was he doing here? Why had he left Sunnydale?
Where was Buffy?
“This is extraordinary,” Wesley Wyndom-Pryce said, eyes bright with excitement. He was like a younger version of Rupert Giles. From the glasses perched on his nose, to his upper-class accent, to the reverent way he handled the book he held. “Fascinating!”
“I don’t know about that, Wesley,” the other said. “I just want to figure out how the hell this happened.”
Angel took note of the frustration and uneasiness in his counterpart’s voice. Since they came upstairs from the training room, the other had barely looked at him. And, when he did, his discomfort was painfully obvious.
Angel could understand. Facing yourself was hard enough when it was just thoughts and memories. But when it was embodied, took shape and form, and with their past…
((*Our* past,)) Angel thought, and very nearly smiled. ((I guess it’s not so hard to accept after all.))
Looking at him didn’t seem to be a problem for everyone in the room.
A young girl with long, dark hair sat in a chair, staring at him with open curiosity. Every time he glanced at her, she offered a wide, friendly smile.
A young black man sat on the arm of her chair, watching Angel with unconcealed suspicion. Every once in a while, he’d mutter something like, “This place is a freak show.”
“Okay,” Cordelia Chase said as she descended the stairs. “Have we solved this little puzzle?”
Angel studied her. She’d gone upstairs ten minutes ago, without explanation. Now, he could see it had been to change clothes. She now wore jeans, and a long-sleeved top.
“How is…” the other began.
“Right as rain,” Cordelia said. Then, she frowned slightly. “Thanks a lot, Fred.”
The young woman—Fred—grinned.
As the other turned back to the Englishman, Cordelia paused at the bottom of the stairs. She looked around, like she was trying to find something to do, and her eyes skittered past Angel more than once. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision. Hand in her pockets, she walked towards him.
“So,” she began as she rocked back on her heels. “How are you doing?”
Angel considered her question—and *her*—for one long second. “I’m fine.”
A rueful smile curved her lips. “Oh, I know *that* one. What it really means is ‘I’m not fine at all’.” She gave him a considering look. “This is all pretty disconcerting, huh?”
Angel shrugged. He wasn’t good at talking about his feelings. Not even with Buffy. And Cordelia Chase…
“You don’t have to say anything. I know how you feel.”
Angel’s frown was skeptical. “You do?”
“Oh, yeah. I had a similar experience.” She rolled her eyes. “Waaay too recently.”
Angel was about to ask more about her ‘experience’ when he realized the other was staring at them. Watching with narrowed, disapproving eyes.
Cordelia didn’t seem to notice. “Well, we’ll fix it. It’s what we do. And, I mean, Wesley can figure out just about anything. It’s one of the benefits of being obsessed with musty out books. Don’t worry about it.” And she laid her hand on his arm.
Startled, Angel glanced down at her hand. Except for Buffy, people rarely touched him. Voluntarily.
With a reassuring smile, Cordelia walked away. Angel stared after her, trying to reconcile this warm, compassionate woman with the spoilt, selfish child she’d once been.
His eyes connected with the other’s. The narrow-eyed, disapproving stare had transformed into a slightly hostile glare.
As the hint of a suspicion formed in his mind, Angel glanced towards Cordelia once again.
“I think I have a few answers,” Wesley said. His strong, confident voice grabbing everyone’s attention. Then, the shadow of uncertainty fell across his face. “Or, at least, speculations.”
Everyone drew closer to the desk.
“Lay it on us, English,” the young man—Gunn—said. “’Cause, you know, curiosity kills.”
“Curiosity doesn’t kill, Charles,” Fred denied. “Everyone always says that, and it’s true that being nosy can get you into trouble. And, when you’re eavesdropping, you never hear anything good about yourself. But, if curiosity really killed, nobody would ever invent or discover anything. And we’d still be livin’ in caves and running around in…”
“Yes, Fred,” Wesley gently interrupted. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat, straightened his glasses. “It’s obvious that this current situation has something to do with the bizente. And what happened a few weeks ago.” His eyes found Angel, who stood apart from the group. “We recently stumbled across this statue.”
“You got that right,” Cordelia mumbled. She leaned against the counter, next to the other. And he took half a step closer. Not a lot. Just enough so that their shoulders touched.
“Somehow,” Wesley continued, “the power of the statue was activated, and Angel and Cordelia were transported three years into the past.”
“Our minds were,” the other said. He looked toward Angel without looking directly *at* him. “I guess you could say our present minds possessed our past bodies.”
Angel frowned. He didn’t recall anything like that happening. So it either hadn’t happened *yet*, or…
“Neither one of us remembered a thing,” Cordelia said. “Not back then, anyway. And nobody mentioned it, so…”
“So,” Wesley continued, “we can assume that no one in that time period remembered the incident.”
Angel nodded. That made sense. If something like this could make sense. “You think this thing has something to do with me being here?”
“Indirectly,” Wesley said. “Since Angel and Cordelia’s return, I’ve been doing some research. The bizente was once used to help a person ‘walk the past’. They could revisit and relive certain moments, but wouldn’t have the ability to change events. Think of it as a very vivid dream in which you can’t control your own actions. A dream in which you can relive some treasured moment, all of those emotions and sensations, over and over again.”
Treasured moments.
Angel’s mind went to his night with Buffy. Their one night together. Those few brief moments, when everything between them was perfect.
“But the power of the statue was…corrupted somehow,” Fred said. When everyone turned to look at her, a blush stained her cheeks. But she smiled and forged on. “Somebody tried to use it, and a little dark magic, to really really time travel!” The concept seemed to excite her. “Instead, they damaged the bizente. And they thought it would *never* work again.”
“But they just messed it up?” Gunn asked. “Changed how it works?”
“Apparently.” Suddenly eager, Wesley turned to the other. “Do you remember what Giles said before he sent you back?”
“That the magic of the statue lingers in the bodies of those it effects.” He frowned thoughtfully. “But it fades eventually. In a few hours.”
“Well, I don’t think it *did* fade. In fact, I think *his* body”—he nodded towards Angel—“is still…infected by traces of that energy.”
“Which means mine was too,” Cordelia said. She crinkled her nose. “Ewww.”
“And these traces made him susceptible to temporal magics that would have no effect on others.” He turned to Angel. “I recognize the demon you described. It’s called a hathor. These creatures have a very small, precognitive ability.”
“They can see into the future?” Fred asked.
“Ten minutes or so, at the most. There ability is used primarily to keep them from being discovered. It tells them when someone is about to arrive in the area. It also helps them determine when their chosen prey will be alone and vulnerable.”
“So why didn’t it know I was about to arrive?” Angel asked.
“Well, their ability is at its weakest when they are feeding.” He nodded, as if confirming that fact with…himself. “To continue, I believe that, when your dagger pierced the gland that gives the hathor their precognitive ability, it released a wave of temporal energy. And the only reason it had any effect on you was that you’d been exposed to the magic of the bizente. Your body was drawn through time, and too the bizente itself.”
There was silence as everyone absorbed this new knowledge.
“That’s it, then!” the other said, sounding oddly cheerful. “We’ll just use the reversal spell Giles found to…”
“It’s not that simple,” Wesley interrupted.
The other grimaced. “Of course it’s not.”
The Englishman looked like he’d been personally insulted. “As you pointed out yourself, Angel, the bizente transported your and Cordelia’s *minds* into your bodies *in* the past. Your present bodies remained here. The fact that your past self’s entire being has been transported into his future…”
“Changes things,” Cordelia concluded. “So, no easy fix.”
“Nothing’s ever easy around here,” Charles Gunn muttered.
“There *is* a solution,” Wesley said. “I’m sure. We just have to find it.”
“Looks like it’s time to crack the books,” Cordelia said. And everyone rose with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
“Wait.”
As one, the group turned towards Angel.
“I need someone to tell me what’s happened in the last three years,” he said. How had he come to be in LA? Working with these people? Living in this hotel?
And where was Buffy?
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Wesley said. He looked the slightest remorseful. “We have no idea whether or not you’ll remember what happened here if—*when*—you return to your own time. And knowing too much about your future could have disastrous effects.”
Everyone watched him, waiting for his reaction.
Angel frowned. He could understand the logic in that.
But he didn’t have to like it.
***
The group he was counting on to get him back where he belonged got to work.
Wesley seemed to be reading four books at once. He muttered happily. Made notes. His concentration so intense, Angel doubted anything could disturb him.
Fred and Gunn sat at a table, reading from the same book. The young man seemed more interested in making the girl giggle than finding answers.
And the other…
About fifteen minutes ago, he and Cordelia had left the lobby. She’d grabbed his hand and dragged him into the office located behind the check-in desk.
The other seemed reluctant to go. But he hadn’t protested all that much, either.
The hint of a suspicion in Angel’s mind grew. But…
Suddenly, he heard a sound. A faint squall, coming from upstairs.
Angel looked around the lobby, to see if anyone else had heard. When it was plain know one had, he slipped away.
As he climbed the stairs, the cries got louder. More insistent.
He followed them to a largish suite. To a room that looked like…
“A nursery,” he realized.
For some reason, feeling of dread settled, in his chest. Slowly,he approached the crib.
There was a baby, dressed in blue. Crying and kicking its tiny legs.
It was obvious the baby had just woken up. It was crying because it needed something. To be changed. To be fed. To held.
Angel took a step back. It had been so long since he held a baby. There was his baby sister, more than two hundred years ago…who he’d betrayed in the most unforgiveable way.
And the baby in China at the beginning of the century. The child Darla wanted him to feed on to prove his loyalty.
The baby’s cries got louder. More shrill and needy. Hearing them did something strange to Angel’s cold, dead heart. Something he couldn’t explain.
“What are *you* doing in here?”
Angel turned. The other stood in the doorway. Scowling.
Pushing past Angel, he hurried to the crib.
“It’s okay, little guy,” the other said. He picked the child up with expert hands. Cradled the baby to his chest. “I got ya.”
And the baby’s cries began to fade.
Watching himself hold a baby with such ease seemed beyond to surreal to Angel. And it made him think impossible things.
“Whose baby is this?” he asked…before he even knew he was *going* to ask.
Reluctantly, the other turned to face him. His eyes were inscrutable.
“He’s mine,” he said. “He’s my son.”