No, they aren’t mine. I wish they were, but they aren’t. They belong to their creators. No money is being made. I just take them out, put them in pretty dresses, and make them fight each other. No harm, no foul. Feed the writer. Review.

:: :: Indicates thoughts

Gabriel loved his city.

::Come to me, in your absence I crave your touch. Anoint me; though I was not your first servant I will most assuredly be your last.:: Gabriel stood motionless as the seething humanity around him noticed the setting of the sun, hidden by a thick bank of muddy clouds. Faster and faster they scurried, rationalizing their hurry with mutterings of supper and spouses and the latest television addiction they'd found on the local broadcast. He knew better, knew what lurked in their subconciouses next to the petty tallies of who got the most cake last Christmas and who's turn it was to enjoy sex that night. Humanity hadn't faired overly well over the past decades, pushed into eternal despair by that ever-heady mixture of plain old evil and gilt-edged hubris that marked the birth and death of all things perfect. Those who had survived, did so because they had a healthy sense of self-preservation. It told them the truth, even after their conscious mind painted something new and shiny on top.

Don't take candy from strangers. Always double check the deadbolt before bedtime. Never leave your children unattended in the park.

Don't take the night shift, no matter the pay.

Had he been home, at the shelter, the night would've been pushed back by scavenged incandescent light and the seeping stench of the unwashed. Another night of convincing lost souls to switch one addiction for another, to hand over their faltering faith into the also-wavering arms of the black-robed armies of God's least favorite acolytes. ::Ah, but tonight I shall greet your wakening; and perhaps this shall be our new dance, waltzing through the dusk you and I. We shall see, yes.::

Darkness was no hindrance to him, not with the confetti of monsters that made up his heritage. Vampires, vampire hunters, demons... Night was nothing more than a chillier version of the daytime, where rats looked like rats and not humans and no one bothered with pretense. Daylight's braggadocio faded with the last gasp of its murky god, leaving the quiet confidence of nighttime to reign unchallenged.

Night always won these battles, and the war... The war was lost long ago, although neither side's warriors have the courage to admit it.

None of that was what brought Gabriel out onto a lonely and quickly becoming lonelier street corner in one of Montreal's less savory neighborhoods, on a damp and dank evening ripe with the promise of mischief. The people rushing past held nothing for the solitary man holding court next to a decrepit waste bin, the half-dead light of a blinking crossing sign forming a satirical crown above his dark head. Gabriel was here, now, because he had to be.

He'd seen it around midday; another vision sent to ruin his lunch and send him lurching into the lavatory, gasping for relief and a drink of potable water. Gabriel's visions, the animated sound bites that usually led to yet another of Angel's treks through the underworld, searching desperately for something he'd lost in the Laundromat of someone else's humanity.

This vision was different.

::All those times I wished for a change, for something personal to tell me that you-who-don't-give-a-shit-about-me even knew about these goddamned headaches... Maybe I was wrong, maybe I don't want visions about me--not when they're the same as all the others. Lost, broke-down drifter meets unsavory end, the Gabriel episode.::

And how could he tell Angel that tonight's victim-in-waiting was his own grandchild? The vampire would lock Gabriel up until sunrise--and for the rest of their lives, until Gabriel up and staked the asshole. Or Spike did, who committed the act was irrelevant. If Angel knew, Gabriel wouldn't stand a chance. He'd be in that church, ostensibly being protected from whatever wanted him dead tonight.

What would make the situation even worse was that Gabriel didn't think he was actually going to die. No, the vision he'd had was much more disturbing, full of images of himself and another and Gabriel handing himself over with nary a whimper.

He wouldn't do that, would he? Just walk away, away from Angel, from the shelter, from the last vestiges of this worthless civilization. The act went against everything in his blood, every word etched on his bones and burned into his soul. Gabriel couldn't leave, not when there was still a battle to be fought.

Could he?

Gabriel's musings took him well into darkness and he found himself devoid of company. Water still fell sullenly from a festering sky and now the tap-tap-rap-thump-tapping wasn't interrupted by anyone's scratchy breathing.

Alone, and that was how the city wanted them to be. ::Just you and I, pretty boy. No one is watching, so slide closer and let me touch you. We'll both enjoy it, and I promise to have you home before Daddy comes-a-calling.::

A pale moth smacked into Gabriel's face, mistaking the eerie luminescence of his skin for something warm and welcoming. It quickly realized its error and careened off towards a nearby streetlamp, clearly preferring mercury vapor to pallid skin. Gabriel left the fine, iridescent dusting of residue from its wings on his face, his eyes tracking the thing as it joined a mob of its kin. Circling, diving, never finding anything useful but they didn't seem to mind. Much, anyway; Gabriel never got visions about moths so they were either happy with their fates or there was someone out there whose sole mission in life was to rescue lost insects.

::And I thought I was the king of lost causes, carrying my crown and scepter like a saint to my martyrdom. A sip of wine, a bite of bread and down I go, strapped to an angel's back and carried to Golgotha like a sack of potatoes.::

Sometimes Gabriel resented his grandfather's humanity. He felt things, warm and cold and hot and things Gabriel himself never experienced directly. Angel received gifts from on high, sent down to grace his doorstep like silken dust. Spike, who out of nowhere arrived to bring warmth back into Angel's chilled veins. Gabriel envied those two their happiness. He wanted that, the connecting closeness that was ten fingers intertwined and two mouths reaching for the same thing.

Of course, Gabriel wouldn't know what to do with such a thing if he did have it; in his limited experience, he was better served by his own mind, his own hands, and a warm shower than by anyone else. He never minded talking after sex, but knew when to be silent, and wasn't averse to lying quietly in the early hours, waiting for the world to claw its way to awareness.

Gabriel wasn't so lost in his reverie that he missed the footsteps that echoed loudly in his ears. The steps were actually quiet soft, cat-feet creeping up on him, but compared to the rain they were sledgehammers meeting windowpanes. Tap-tap-crack-cracking, the feet strode over beer bottles and pavement with drumbeat precision.

He turned, honestly curious to see what his city had brought him this night. After all, it might just be his undoing.