Spoilers: I really hope there are new converts out there for whom spoiler warnings still matter. For you lovely people, the spoilers for this story are pretty vague, except for a very specific and spoiler-y season 3 reference. In general, I do assume you've seen all seven seasons of Buffy and all five seasons of Angel. This is not comic-canon.

Special Thanks: To my wonderful betas, Babblefest, tattoodragon, and Lake of Bliss.

Author's Notes: Just to give some background, this was originally supposed to be a short prequel to another story called The Heart of Human Interaction, which involves some original characters. I wanted to get to know these characters better before writing them, because I had a nasty feeling they would get shoved to the side and be boring if I didn't. One year and 50 pages later, and I now know them far better than I meant to. In a fantastic way.

And holy crap, look at how it grew into a whole series...

Chapter One

William Cole had run away from home, and though he'd only made it across the street and down one alley, already felt better for it.

Sniffing and wiping his nose on his jacket sleeve, which was wet from the steady rain that soaked through the crevices the dark city, he nodded with determination. He would take the next red-line tram to his best friend Calder's house across town, where he would spend the night. Calder had just turned nine, and as the older one, would have ideas about where William could find a place to live in the morning. Heck, maybe he could even convince Calder to come with him. It wasn't like Calder's parents ever pretended to love him when they actually didn't-not like William's parents had.

William choked back a sob and hopped over a small stream of water as he emerged from the alley onto the sidewalk. Rivulets of rain glided over the glass and chrome of the towering buildings around him and tiny waterfalls from overhead walkways dripped onto his head when he passed under them.

The arguments had been getting more frequent at his ex-home-and worse. His mother had once explained to him that sometimes adults said things they didn't mean when they were angry or tired, but it seemed to William that when you're angry or tired, it's much harder to come up with lies. Scared and upset to the end of his ability to cope anyway, that was why, when he heard muffled through the bedroom walls his father's deep voice say something about "if we'd never had a kid," William snapped, and, devastated and hardly able to see through his tears the wireless charging dock for his Palm as he packed it, William was gone not ten minutes later. His parents were still arguing and wouldn't notice he was gone for hours-if at all.

Water began to seep out from under his dark hair down his forehead and into his brown eyes, which were usually alight with play and laughter, but tonight were red and stinging, and not just from his usual late spring allergies. He ducked into another alley that he knew would be a shortcut to the tram stop. William never liked this ally, but he didn't like being cold and wet, either. He quickened his pace a little.

It happened so fast he barely had time to think. Something cold, hard, and slippery with rain flew out from the shadows and yanked him off the ground. William cried out, but something covered his face. He couldn't breathe. The bitter taste of panic filled his mouth, worse than the burnt broccoli he'd tried to eat for dinner, which, if the monster didn't soon let him go, just might make another appearance.

He tried to struggle, but the burning in his lungs and dancing stars across his eyes panicked him even more and his muscles felt entirely separate from his body, completely out of control. He had almost passed out when the thing finally threw him aside. The ground tore at William as he rolled away and finally crashed against a wall that felt much more solid than William ever realized walls could be.

Loud thuds and snarls and growls shot at him through the darkness as he cowered against the wall. It was just sound, but he felt like each noise was another nasty monster, closing in on him, attacking him, blasting him with their volume. Something let out a roar fit for a lion; the sound snatched William's heart and threatened to pull it straight up out of his throat. He tried to swallow to keep it down, but his mouth was too dry.

Finally, a loud crack! echoed through the ally, and then silence fell. Something moved toward him. The boy tried to push away, but his muscles refused to work—except for his heart, which felt like it might explode in his chest from the pounding (just like when he had run as fast as he could from Eli, the school bully, who had chased him around the whole playground three times before a teacher stopped him—only this was worse). The beast was close enough now that he could see the sharp teeth and yellow eyes glinting maliciously down at him. As it bent and scooped him up, the boy's last thought before he passed out from terror was that he at least hoped he tasted good.

William woke up disoriented, warm, and comfortable, save for various throbbing appendages. He was laying on something soft and cushy, and he felt the warm weight of a blanket draped over him. He opened his eyes and dazedly looked around.

The first thing he noticed was the wood. The only place he had seen more wood was in Merlin Park, by the big hospital where his mum worked. Bookshelves, cabinets, doors, trimmings, furniture—even the floor!—were all varying, yet complimentary, shades of polished, stained, real wood. He could smell it. The life of the wood seeped into the open spaces of the room; William thought that he might ask the room questions and it would answer, though he knew that rooms were not actually alive. The rich shades reflected the soft light from the lamp behind him, casting the whole space in a warm glow that wrapped around him as comfortably as the blankets.

William was lying lengthwise on a leather couch (real leather-he could smell that, too), so that to his left was a window, against which rain still pattered, and to his right was the rest of what appeared to be someone's flat.

He followed the line of the walls around the room, which was painted a soft off-white where there weren't bookshelves or (real!) weapons or art covering it. Starting directly in front of him, William scanned the room clockwise. There was a closed wooden door several feet from the end of the William's couch. There was no sign on it indicating someone's bedroom, like William had on his door.

His old door, he corrected himself, heart falling heavily as he remembered. Where he used to live.

Several feet farther on, a small room jutted out into the main room, with another closed wooden door leading into it. Still no bedroom-marking sign. Continuing his scan to the right, he saw what looked like a front door because of the hooks next to it and a black leather jacket hanging on one of them. Unable to turn his head any more, William turned his attention to the two leather armchairs flanking him and an odd solid wood table with drawers, a little taller than a normal coffee table, directly in front of him.

William tried to sit up to get a better view of the room behind him, but found his body ached too much. He groaned, sinking back down. A man appeared just, then, from that mysterious Behind area. He was carrying a tray. The tray was wood, too, and on the tray was something William had only seen in museums: a porcelain tea set.

The man was tall and pale and had dark hair, very similar to William's. His clothes were in deep colors; though which colors William had trouble identifying in the dim light. The man set the tray down on the wood drawer table, poured some tea, stirred in a bit of sugar, and offered it to William.

"Drink this," he said. "How do you feel?"

William just looked from the man to the cup and back. His mother had taught him to be careful about strangers.

"What's your name?" the man tried again, his accent more gentle in its Irish lilt most other residents of Galway. Well, except for Sanja Renato's dad, but he was from Spain.

William hesitated before saying, "William."

A flicker of something he could not identify passed over the man's face, making his dark eyes glint with something that make William relax, but it was quickly gone.

"William," the man said, "the tea will help you feel better. It's made with a special plant that will give your body strength to heal quickly."

William hesitated again. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Angel," the man replied.

Angel. William's family (ex-family) didn't really believe in angels, but the word still felt nonthreatening.

William took a last glance at the cup before, grunting with soreness, he dragged his body up, noticing as he did that his elbows were bandaged, his sprained wrist and ankle were wrapped, and his hurt knee was elevated. William took the cup in his hands and tried a sip. It was warm and sweet, but with an undertone of bitterness, like something that was charred. He supposed that was the strength-plant Angel talked about.

Now that he was sitting up, he could properly look around the room. The mysterious Behind are turned out to be pretty boring: more bookshelves and weapons and art and an open doorway that probably led to a kitchen.

"Why do you have so many paper books?" William asked, the bookshelf behind him being the last thing he saw before turning around to drink more strength plant tea.

Angel looked at the shelves against the walls. Though he didn't speak right away, he finally replied, "These are just the ones I use often. That room," he pointed to the room that jutted out, "has a lot more."

"You use them? My great-aunt Jenny has a whole shelf full of paper books for decoration because she likes really old things, but she never reads them. She reads the regular books instead because they're lighter and all of them are in one book and she can make the letters bigger or have it read to her."

Angel made a guttural noise of acknowledgement, but did not reply. William sipped some more tea, now far more interested in the weapons on the walls.

"What's that?" William pointed to one of them displayed above the mystery door in front of him.

Angel glanced up at it. "It's an ancient battle axe. A long time ago people used to use it in wars."

"Did you use it to kill the thing that attacked me?"

Angel's face darkened. "It's just a decoration, William."

"What was that thing that attacked me?"

Angel was silent.

"I think it was a monster." William continued, not noticing the frown on Angel's face. "I mean, what else could it be? It wasn't a dog because it had hands and its hands were huge like, like the size of that tray and they smelled like fish, so it wasn't a person, and nothing else can growl or roar like that, so it had to be a monster!"

Still, Angel was silent.

"How did you rescue me from the other one?"

Angel blinked. "The other one?"

William elaborated, "The one with the yellow eyes that won the fight. How did I get here when it was going to take me back to its cave and eat me?"

For some reason, Angel seemed slightly amused. Instead of answering, however, he said, "Finish your tea, William, and then I'll take you home. Where do you live?"

William looked sadly, and somewhat melodramatically, into his tea, heart sinking again. "Nowhere. No one wants me."

"I bet that's not true," Angel said.

"Yup," William sighed matter-of-factly, "it is."

Angel looked at William a minute. "How old are you?" he asked.

"Eight-and-three-quarters," William replied.

"Mm. Well, it's been a long time since I was eight and three quarters, but don't people usually have parents at that age?" Angel paused. "I bet they're worried about you."

William shifted and said quietly, "Well, my parents were fighting and my dad said everything would have been different if I'd never been born. So I did them a favor and left."

"Oh, right," Angel nodded like he understood completely. "So where are you going to go?"

"My best friend Calder's," William answered.

"Uh-huh. Don't you think your parents will find you there?"

William shook his head. "It's just temporary. I'll move on from there."

"Of course," Angel said, and then asked conversationally, "Where?"

William's shoulders sank. "I don't know yet," he mumbled into his teacup.

"Well, you've got time to figure it out," Angel shrugged, like it didn't really matter. "How are you going to get food?"

"I have my mum's card on my Palm, in case of emergencies."

"She can track that," Angel pointed out.

William's face fell as he realized Angel was right.

"And you know, rent deposits aren't cheap, either," Angel went on. "And you have to have references and a job… 'Course, you could find a shipping box or something and set up in an alley somewhere...but now you know the kinds of other things that live in allies. You should probably learn to defend yourself first."

Darn, darn, darn. William screwed up his face in frustration. "So what do I do?"

"Aside from go home?"

"I don't have a home! I ran away!"

Something twitched at the corner of Angel's mouth, and he said, "You know, I've run away before, too. I've found that family waits for you to come back."

William looked up at Angel in fascination. "You've run away, too?"

Angel was quiet for a minute, but then he said, "Most of us have, at some point or another. Why don't you tell me where your parents live, and I'll take you there?"

William looked down into his tea, which was almost gone. He didn't really want to go home to where all the yelling was, but it would be nice to have his room back, and to have his meals cooked for him. And he liked the way his mum hugged him, wrapping around him like the world's safest blanket, and how his dad liked to take him fun places like the aquarium and show him how to make the World's Best Pancakes.

William took a deep breath. "Sparrow Flats. On the corner of Monivea and Castlepark."

Angel nodded. "I'll get an umbrella."

William looked outside. The sky was a dark royal blue. Though it was still raining, day was coming. Angel returned a moment later, turning off the lights on the way back to the couch. The light from the approaching dawn and streetlamps outside were just enough to see by. Angel peeled the blankets back, gently picked him up, and carried him out of the flat.

The walk to Monivea and Castlepark was a dangerous one. Not for the boy, of course, but for the vampire, who was feeling uncomfortably prickly, even though the clouds would cover the deadly ray of the approaching morning sun when it surfaced. The rain dripped steadily, and there was no sign of a break in the weather, though Angel had not lived for over four and a half centuries without learning that weather can change in an instant—particularly on the coast of Ireland, where he now lived. The thump of the umbrella against his leg in his jacket pocket gave him some comfort.

Time had changed Angel's birthtown as much as it had changed Angel himself. Some of Galway still existed as Angel had known it, like the core of his own self, unchanging in its foundations. The port town of Galway where Angel's family had done business was now "Old Galway," and the most popular of local tourist sites. To the east, industry, technology, and medicine had spread, and sometime in the last century, an economic boom had grown high rise office buildings and residences; and now Angel lived in one of them.

He had once tried to find where he'd been born to the west of town, but that area was now a tightly-packed residential sprawl and he'd quickly given up.

The city was busy, now, with commuters streaming out of electric public trams at stops on almost every corner. Relatively few people drove cars anymore, but those who did still beeped at other distracted drivers as usual. Angel wove through the crowds, slipping through gaps that most people would never have noticed.

The boy in Angel's arms watched their progress quietly, seemingly too fascinated by their quick and fluid pace to notice this his mouth was hanging open just a bit. They covered the distance to William's flat in less than ten minutes, although it would have taken anyone else at least that long.

They took the lift up three stories to the boy's floor, and William knocked on his own door, since Angel's hands were full. His parents answered quickly, both with dark, sleepless circles under their eyes. With cries and sighs of relief, it was a bit of a challenge transferring William to his father-the resemblance to whom was uncanny. They both had the same dark, almost black hair cut similarly short, and their noses were the same long, straight shape. They also both had the same look of earnestness to their eyes, though the father's was far more guarded.

The mother-who was the one making the transfer a challenge under her smothering hugs and kisses-Angel noticed, had her lighter brown hair pulled back in a bun that was almost unnervingly tidy for that early in the morning, even if she hadn't slept on it. Her posture was elegantly curved even as she bent over, and her hands fluttered over her son's injuries, asking questions and demanding answers even while she exclaimed how very relieved she was that he was safe. It was through this uncomfortable physical proximity to so many humans that Angel finally managed to get the boy into his father's arms and promptly disappear, before he would be the one the questions were directed at.

The kid had run away. He could deal with his own problems, and Angel was not about to get in the middle of them.

For his part, William told the truth to his parents. His mother in particular had taught him to hold truth in high regard, and he explained about how angry and hurt he'd been, and how he'd snuck out, and where exactly it was that the monster had attacked him and that Angel had saved him. He explained about the magic strength plant that Angel had given him, and that he would be fine in no time, ready to play with his friends at the park in a matter of days. His parents had shared significant looks, told him to sleep, and gone off to talk to themselves for a long time.

William allowed himself to be coddled by his mother for the week-and-a-half until his ankle and knee healed enough that he could walk long distances again, unbothered by the childishness of having your mother bring you chicken soup and kiss your injuries to make them feel better (he was almost 9, after all).

William's thoughts were much too distracted by the strange man named Angel who fought monsters by night.