Alarming How Charming I Feel

By: Myconoclast

Summary: What happens when Angel and Logan cross paths on the worst day of each of their lives?

Pairings: None for this chapter. Eventually Logan/Angel, Logan/Veronica

Warnings: None for this chapter.

Time Frame: End of Season 6 for Buffy, end of Season 3 for Angel, end of Season 1 for Veronica Mars.

Disclaimer: I do not own Angel, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Veronica Mars.

Author's Notes: This story has been kicking around in my head for a while now, and I am happy to finally start writing it. I have most of it planned out already, and I will try to update regularly. This is my first BtVS/Angel fic, and my first fic in any fandom in a long time, so I'm feeling a little rusty. Feedback of all kinds is welcome, and please point out any spelling/grammar errors you find.

Chapter One

The boy was clearly drunk. And bloody. Even before Angel had turned the curve in the bridge he had smelled the blood and booze, thick in the air. He supposed that normally he would have been intrigued, but today had been as far from normal as he ever wanted to experience and the dark, rich scents had merely settled into his subconscious, tickling his memories, so that when he did finally see the boy he was unprepared. For a brief instant he imagined simply passing him by, not playing the hero just this once, but even though it was today, this horrible, surreal, can’t-really-be-happening day, Angel couldn’t let himself do it.

The boy’s back was to him, green jacket and short brown hair tinged with blood, and he was perched oh-so-precariously on the edge of the bridge. A picture of Buffy atop a tall tower flashed in his mind, and Angel felt a surge of anger pulse through him, irrational rage that this boy could even think of jumping, and then the anger left him just as suddenly.

He pulled the black convertible over to the right as far as he could, stopping just behind the yellow monstrosity that had been haphazardly abandoned on the side of the bridge. The boy’s car, he assumed. The boy still hadn’t moved, and Angel wondered whether he had even noticed him. He closed the car door gently, and edged closer, trying not to startle him.

Soon he was almost touching the boy, who still hadn’t moved or acknowledged Angel’s presence in any way, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Was he supposed to talk him down? Yeah, he was sure that would go over well. Angel knew his strengths, and talking wasn’t one of them. Before he could think of anything else to do, a strange high-pitched giggle filled the air and the boy swung his body around to face the stranger.

Angel saw the wobble almost before the boy felt it, and he watched in slow-motion as the boy overcompensated in one direction and then the other, trying to keep his balance on the narrow ledge. The giggle of fake glee morphed seamlessly into a scream of panic, laced with an alarming amount of excitement, and the boy’s body began to fall. In an instant, Angel was right there next to him, reaching out and grasping his jacket. He felt the weight of the boy pull on his arm and he yanked upwards, hard. Too hard, it would seem- the boy flew up in the air, and then, before Angel could even consider trying to catch him, the boy slammed down hard onto the pavement.

Angel was at his side instantaneously, running rough hands over the boy’s body quickly, efficiently, feeling for injuries. The boy’s left ankle was rapidly swelling and there were superficial wounds spattering his torso, nothing that needed stitches. His face was another matter. It was smeared with blood, and Angel could see black and blue marks still in their infancy underneath the glazing of red. The puka-shell necklace around the boy’s neck had become embedded in his flesh; Angel gingerly lifted each shell up and away and watched as the indentations pooled slowly with half-coagulated blood. He could see a dark puddle forming underneath the body, and moved his hands around to the back of the boy’s head. The warm, wet stickiness was still flowing through the boy’s hair, and as he turned the boy over, Angel could see the small flap of scalp hanging limply.

Brrrrrrrrng.

The ring of his cell phone was so out of place it took Angel a moment to recognize what it was. He brought the phone to his ear.

“Willow. Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine, Angel. I just got back into Sunnydale. It’s just… Did you get the stuff?”

“Not a problem, I told you she owed me a favor.”

“Good. We… we need you here, now, Angel. I don’t think Giles can take another day of this and I’m trying to be strong for Dawn but… just get here, okay?”

“I’ll be there before the night is over, I promise, Willow.”

He put the phone back in his pocket and strode over to the car. He grabbed the bag in the front seat, full of spell ingredients from the witch in Coronado, and carefully packed it away in the trunk, taking out the first-aid kit and a bottle of water as he found them and then heading over to where the boy was still lying motionless on the ground. He rinsed off what blood and grit that he could and then wrapped gauze round and round the boy’s head until he ran out, and then he scooped the boy up, careful not to jostle his ankle, and deposited him in the backseat of the car.

**********

Logan woke up silently, his body tensing only for a split second before relaxing, then tensing again as the pain hit him. He debated feigning sleep while he figured out just what the hell had happened to him, but keeping his eyes closed seemed more dangerous somehow, and so he willed them open, deliberately ignoring the whoosh of pain he knew would come.

A car. He was in the back seat of a car. A convertible, really, so low to the ground it felt like his ass was scraping the pavement, and some dude he had never seen before was driving. Well, better some random dude in a convertible than a Mexican motorcycle gang, as his mother always said.

The dude was seriously pale, and he was totally rocking the Goth look. Logan suddenly had the strangest thought, and a shiver ran through his body at the trueness of it. I died. I’m dead, and this guy is the grim reaper or something, and he’s taking me to the land of the dead.

He could remember the bridge, the water rushing violently so far below, and the roar of the motorcycles as they rounded the corner, but then nothing. Not a damn thing, no matter how hard he tried to remember. He didn’t feel dead, though. Hurt and dizzy, sure, and there was some weird pressure around his head, but not dead. Besides, if he really were dead, where was Lilly, huh?

That settled, he focused his attention on his body once again. His mouth was stuck to itself inside and he pushed his tongue around, trying to un-stick it. Get those salivary glands working. And hell, maybe even wash some of that old-blood-and-alcohol taste away. Except it didn’t so much wash away as intensify the nastiness. He reached over and rolled down the window, groaning a bit as he pulled himself up and spat out into the wind, then sunk back into the seat and shuddered.

“It’s alarming how charming I feel,” he croaked out, then snorted once and passed out once again.

**********

The next time he woke up, they were stopped at a Shell station and the man was nowhere to be found. They were in the desert somewhere, the darkness all encompassing outside of this little oasis. He listened for the sounds of a freeway nearby, but there was no white noise of tires on pavement, nothing except for the dull clicking of the gas pump and the hum of the canopy’s fluorescent lights above him.

He should run. He should open the door and make his daring escape into the night. Yup, he should. Really. Uh-huh. Any second now.

He made himself sit up, using the door handle to keep himself steady, then undid the latch and pushed it open. He felt a sharp pain in his ribcage as he twisted his body around and brought his legs to the ground, but it was nothing compared to the white hot flash of agony that enveloped his brain the second he tried to stand up. Legs buckling and with a high-pitched gasp, he grabbed the top of the door and managed to swing himself back into the car.

He sat breathing heavily for a moment, trying not to cry, and then a sudden movement caught his eye, and he watched as the mini-mart door swung open and the man walked out, hands grasping a white plastic bag and dark coat billowing behind him. The man showed no surprise at the opened car door, but he did quicken his pace and was at the car in no time at all.

“So, are you planning on having your wicked way with me?” Logan grinned a little to hide the real question behind his words.

The man looked tired suddenly, and reached into the bag he was carrying.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said seriously, handing Logan a bottle of water. “Here, drink this. How are you feeling?”

He inspected the bottle carefully, finally decided it hadn’t been tampered with, then opened it and brought it to his lips. The glorious cold wetness of it all was heavenly, clean and sweet, and he almost lost himself in it before remembering his situation. He took one last mouthful and swished it around, the cold making one or two of his teeth ache, then spat it on the ground and looked up at the man.

“So, what’s the deal?”

Logan had been prepared for many responses, but the look of embarrassment that flitted across the man’s face was not one of them.

“You were…” the man started to say, then stopped and cleared his throat, and started again. “I found you on the bridge. You were hurt and unconscious and I didn’t want to leave you there like that.”

“Ever hear of a phone, Einstein? Maybe, I don’t know, call an ambulance or something?”

“Of course I have. But I didn’t know how long that would take and couldn’t just leave you like that.”

Logan mulled that over for a bit. While Goth-dude didn’t seem to pose any immediate danger, there was something not-quite-right about the whole thing. He was taking the pump out of the tank now, and soon he would be back in the car. A sudden thought jumped into Logan’s head.

“Whoa, whoa, wait a sec. This isn’t like one of those Misery deals is it, right? Because I’ve got to say, my legs are sledgehammer-free at the moment and I intend to keep them that way.”

The man hopped into the driver’s seat and turned to Logan with a blank look on his face. “I have no earthly idea what you just said.”

“Uh-huh, sure you don’t Kathy Bates. No carving knives either! Oh yeah, that’s right, I’ve read the book.”

“I assure you, I have no intention of . . . carving you or your legs. I won’t harm you, you have my word.”

Logan didn’t know what to say to that, so he gave a non-committal “hmmm” and put his head back against the seat. The booze in his system was starting to win out against the adrenaline, not to mention the head injury. Quickly, before he passed out again, he forced himself to bring his head back up and look at the man, who was still watching him intently.

“So, you’re Death, right?”

An indefinable look crossed the man’s face and his body jerked a bit as if he’d been shocked, but he said nothing. The air in the car was thick now, and Logan’s head felt too large and heavy. He dropped it back to the headrest and closed his eyes.

“No,” the man said finally, quietly, almost to himself.

“’cause Lilly’s not here,” Logan mumbled, already half-asleep.