Something went wrong. There were dozens of possibilities, a number of ways this could've gone — and while he envisioned himself back at the start in some of them, it wasn't back at the literal start. Not there in the hotel, standing with his hand on the hilt of his favorite sword, as if about to pull it from it's resting place inside the weapons cabinet in the lobby. And it took him a moment to adjust to the setting, to see the hotel as it was in it's prime, and not crumbling beneath the weight of the damage that had been done to it since Los Angeles was cast out of the mortal plane into one that was much darker, and truly governed by those opposite the Powers That Be.
Had Wolfram & Hart sent him back here as some sort of punishment for his defiance, for his constant faith in the people who dared to stand up with him against them? Was this their way of pushing him towards that grim, bleak, supposed definite future of his? Or was this something else entirely, something he was being given because he kept trying and defying, a gift from those who opposed the Senior Partners? It was both sad and practical of him to doubt that possibility, to not think that a reset meant a even more of a rewind than he intended, for he'd been taken back to happier times, just before it all started to go wrong instead of before LA fell.
Wes and Gunn breeze by him without so much as a word or a second glance towards him and his statue-like position before the weapons display. Wes isn't a ghost, and Gunn's not a vampire; they're getting along, talking shop, and heading out to take care of business he's unable to tag along on.
Or so he thinks.
And because he's a doubter, because he has to challenge and defy everything, Angel waits a few minutes, then follows suit. The sword is left behind, and the door to the bright, sunlit outside is drawn open. Angel steps out, expecting to fry—
But it doesn't happen. His skin doesn't tingle, isn't set ablaze. Instead, he only feels the warmth of the sun on his somehow still human skin.
cordelia!
Something went wrong. There were dozens of possibilities, a number of ways this could've gone — and while he envisioned himself back at the start in some of them, it wasn't back at the literal start. Not there in the hotel, standing with his hand on the hilt of his favorite sword, as if about to pull it from it's resting place inside the weapons cabinet in the lobby. And it took him a moment to adjust to the setting, to see the hotel as it was in it's prime, and not crumbling beneath the weight of the damage that had been done to it since Los Angeles was cast out of the mortal plane into one that was much darker, and truly governed by those opposite the Powers That Be.
Had Wolfram & Hart sent him back here as some sort of punishment for his defiance, for his constant faith in the people who dared to stand up with him against them? Was this their way of pushing him towards that grim, bleak, supposed definite future of his? Or was this something else entirely, something he was being given because he kept trying and defying, a gift from those who opposed the Senior Partners? It was both sad and practical of him to doubt that possibility, to not think that a reset meant a even more of a rewind than he intended, for he'd been taken back to happier times, just before it all started to go wrong instead of before LA fell.
Wes and Gunn breeze by him without so much as a word or a second glance towards him and his statue-like position before the weapons display. Wes isn't a ghost, and Gunn's not a vampire; they're getting along, talking shop, and heading out to take care of business he's unable to tag along on.
Or so he thinks.
And because he's a doubter, because he has to challenge and defy everything, Angel waits a few minutes, then follows suit. The sword is left behind, and the door to the bright, sunlit outside is drawn open. Angel steps out, expecting to fry—
But it doesn't happen. His skin doesn't tingle, isn't set ablaze. Instead, he only feels the warmth of the sun on his somehow still human skin.