Drabble - Angel/Wes of a kind...
May. 8th, 2005 01:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lonelybritA late entry for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
slashthedrabble, I guess a kind of sequel to Playing The Game, though this can honestly be read as a standalone.
It’s the memories that haunt him in these late hours. When the moon is poised to rise into the skies, the stars starting to prick their place into the dark canopy. The hours when you’re between states.
Life being the way it is, it’s always the nasty memories that hit you first. The ones that hit you in the gut and cause fire to flame into your lungs. Like the one of Connor meeting you on the beach. Or the time you awoke to find that gypsy coldly waiting for you. Or the time you realised that gypsy father let you off far more mercifully than you would have let off any creature who dared lay a finger on someone you loved so dearly.
Recently Angel has discovered another memory that slides in as the sun sinks. A moment that starts with the eyes opening and seeing the grey plaster overhead and the edge of the bars.
“Did it work?”
He remembers the confusion, the increasing panic as the soft sheets and pillows that surrounded him when he fell asleep continue to be absent. Instead there’s only cold concrete, and a small congregation watching him with tired and wary eyes.
“Angel?”
Connor, of course, Connor, is the first one he recognises. Even before he sees the face, the voice alone hooks into his heart and pulls him back. His son. The miracle and curse all in one. Connor looking at him, his face somehow older and harder even though physically nothing has changed.
Then there is Spike, standing with one hand on Connor’s shoulder. Behind him, a green demon he now remembers is called Lorne. Beyond them, Fred, Gunn, Cordelia. All the names returning in a flood that makes him gasp. Because there is one missing.
There’s an ache, a terrible pain deep inside. But he can’t remember why. He just looks over the watching faces, Connor the only one he can really take in.
“What do you think they’ll make of you now, Watcher?”
There are blue eyes, again. But these are older, full of reproach, of betrayal. The gaze they fix on him should hurt except it’s not him that’s being accused. He’s on the outside, looking in. He can see how the other fought, the way Angelus laughed as years of training crumbled and ended with a vampire delivering a kiss that cost a man his soul.
Angel always wakes up at this point. Though he’ll never say why. Maybe it’s the way the man shuddered against him even as his life was stolen. Maybe it’s the dreadful flickering of pride he still feels for the creature he created. Or maybe, possibly, it’s because when he does wake, it’s because the curiosity and urge to reclaim simply won’t let him sleep any longer.
Except, this time, when Angel opens his eyes, the blue deadly gaze is still fixed on him. A smile that cuts him to the core as the soft voice once again purrs, ‘Hello, Angel.’
slashthedrabble, I guess a kind of sequel to Playing The Game, though this can honestly be read as a standalone.It’s the memories that haunt him in these late hours. When the moon is poised to rise into the skies, the stars starting to prick their place into the dark canopy. The hours when you’re between states.
Life being the way it is, it’s always the nasty memories that hit you first. The ones that hit you in the gut and cause fire to flame into your lungs. Like the one of Connor meeting you on the beach. Or the time you awoke to find that gypsy coldly waiting for you. Or the time you realised that gypsy father let you off far more mercifully than you would have let off any creature who dared lay a finger on someone you loved so dearly.
Recently Angel has discovered another memory that slides in as the sun sinks. A moment that starts with the eyes opening and seeing the grey plaster overhead and the edge of the bars.
“Did it work?”
He remembers the confusion, the increasing panic as the soft sheets and pillows that surrounded him when he fell asleep continue to be absent. Instead there’s only cold concrete, and a small congregation watching him with tired and wary eyes.
“Angel?”
Connor, of course, Connor, is the first one he recognises. Even before he sees the face, the voice alone hooks into his heart and pulls him back. His son. The miracle and curse all in one. Connor looking at him, his face somehow older and harder even though physically nothing has changed.
Then there is Spike, standing with one hand on Connor’s shoulder. Behind him, a green demon he now remembers is called Lorne. Beyond them, Fred, Gunn, Cordelia. All the names returning in a flood that makes him gasp. Because there is one missing.
There’s an ache, a terrible pain deep inside. But he can’t remember why. He just looks over the watching faces, Connor the only one he can really take in.
“What do you think they’ll make of you now, Watcher?”
There are blue eyes, again. But these are older, full of reproach, of betrayal. The gaze they fix on him should hurt except it’s not him that’s being accused. He’s on the outside, looking in. He can see how the other fought, the way Angelus laughed as years of training crumbled and ended with a vampire delivering a kiss that cost a man his soul.
Angel always wakes up at this point. Though he’ll never say why. Maybe it’s the way the man shuddered against him even as his life was stolen. Maybe it’s the dreadful flickering of pride he still feels for the creature he created. Or maybe, possibly, it’s because when he does wake, it’s because the curiosity and urge to reclaim simply won’t let him sleep any longer.
Except, this time, when Angel opens his eyes, the blue deadly gaze is still fixed on him. A smile that cuts him to the core as the soft voice once again purrs, ‘Hello, Angel.’
