TITLE: Dream A Little Dream
AUTHOR: Kita
RATING: Hard R
PAIRING: Angel/Darla, Angel/others


Dream A Little Dream
 

He used to dream of her. Hair and eyes the color of sun and sky, and things he would never see. Used to dream of beaches and innocence. Used to dream of grapes. And he would wake up in the morning, and the sweet sticky sadness was his familiar. It shared space with the soul, and the demon, and the Wish-Be`s, and the Cannot-Have`s.

It`s changed now.

Now he wakes up in the late afternoon, if he bothers to wake up at all. And when he climbs out of bed, he cannot remember what he has dreamed, or if he has dreamed at all. He can catch glimpses, sometimes...in the shower the steam will part like mist on a Loch and ..there!...But....nothing. Remembers something his mother taught him, and how odd, when was the last time he thought of her? Look at the stars at an angle, Liam, from the corner of your eye. Look at them that way, and they shine brighter. And she was right. But when he tries to catch the dream from the corner of his eye, all he sees are rusted chains and little, dead birds.

Makes his teeth grind together with agitation. Dresses quickly, moves quickly, faster, faster, rushing toward or away. Doesn't know why, just knows that he is annoyed, and tired. And hungry. He can't seem to sate that now, even with the friendly help of the neighborhood bloodbank. Too many trips there lately, and you'd think someone would notice or care, but hey, this is LA, baby. You got the cash, we got your disease. Keeps his disease in small plastic bags in his refrigerator. Downs them now in whiskey glasses.

*They* notice the change in him, of course. They would be fools not to pay attention to any changes in him, lest he become... *him.* Watch him carefully and surreptitiously with weapons, try not to bleed terribly much. Remark with a blush that he seems, ''off his feed.''

Just tired, he says. Just so fucking tired. And there's the insatiably horny part, but oh, let's not mention that around them. Let's not send Cordelia flying for the goddamn crossbow just yet. So he just dips his head, and smiles half-way, thrusts his hands into his pockets, and shrugs. And she wants to believe in him, and so she does. Lets him go back to bed.

To the darkness where he is whole.

***

''Do you remember birds, Angelus?'' she whispers. Trapped between the hitch in his spine at hearing his name whispered in darkness, and the absurdity of the question. Of course he remembers...oh. Oh. Drusilla. Birds.

''Yes, Yes, I remember. They never lived for very long.''

''What makes you think you can make things turn out differently?''

Looks down into his palm, at the speck of pale life fluttering against his fingers. Wings beating in the furious rhythm of a tiny heart. Not resting, not comfortable, not *safe*. Smart little thing. Don't trust me. Never trust me.

But surely he can accomplish such a small task. Surely a hand as large as his own can offer it protection. How hard can this be? Thumb over the breastbone, feel it there.. thumpthump..thumpthump...ooh, that sound. Not enough blood in this wee body to make the effort worthwhile. So just listen to the sound. Thumpthump... thumpthump... Oh, he knows that rhythm. It is desperation, it is fear, it is the swaying of snakes and the beating of drums. Beating of wings against flesh. Pierce of beak through bone. Toss it to the floor, watch it's head snap when it hits and

Sits up in the bed. Fast. Opens his eyes. Open open open. No one is here. She isn't here. Alone. He is always alone. It's better that way.

He shouldn't be with anyone now, shouldn't see anyone, shouldn't let himself be seen. Not by living souls. Not by *them*. He's still lucid enough to realize that. Because this isn't *their* Angel, is it..no, this is someone else's Angel..someone smaller and faster and well, dead-er. This is the Angel who squares his shoulders with something akin to pride, the Angel who smiles without dipping his head, and occasionally even laughs out loud. The Angel who doesn't have furrows between his brows, and guilt between his ears and nothing between his legs. This isn't Saint Angel. This Angel is a man, and a demon, and a *man* again, and this Angel can't quite bring himself to care about souls and saviors, goddamnit, this Angel wants something earthy and visceral and real and *now*.

This is the Angel who never sees the office of Angel Investigations, because he never leaves this bed.

By tomorrow afternoon, this Angel will be gone. So go ahead, just rest in that knowledge, just sleep.

****

''I didn't mean to kill it,'' he tells her the next night.

''Of course not, you never do. Drusilla never meant to either. We can't help what we are. Why can't *they* see that? Why can't they forgive you, when I have forgiven you everything? ''

And she has, forgiven him everything. The ultimate betrayal and still she is here, in his bed, making love with him, purring like a kitten and running long, red fingernails across the backs of his thighs.

''Let me loosen these a little for you, '' she whispers. Small, cold hands tug at the restraints keeping him bound to the bedposts.

''No,'' he gasps, ''no, you really shouldn't take those off of me.'' Recognizes the bird's desperate fear in his own chest, where there is no tell tale thumping to give it voice.

''Oh don't be silly, darling. I trust you. Completely.''

Lets her loosen his chains. Doesn't try to hide his arousal when the memories come. Of William chained to ceilings, of Druscilla bound to bedposts, of Giles tied to chairs. Of all the things that were *his*, of all the things he lost. All these things that bring nothing but shame when the sunshine scars the world. But he forgets sometimes, in his bed, in the dark. When she kisses him. When she calls him by name. He forgets how to feel ashamed. He forgets why he should.

He forgets what it is he is supposed to regret. Knows it has something to do with the killing. With the nameless dead on his hands. But he has shed blood tears on the Ghost Roads for them, and he has given up his love and his life, and he took it up the ass for five hundred years in the demon dimension, and for pity's sakes how much more can there possibly be? So maybe he has it wrong. Maybe it was it letting her Turn him in the first place that he is still suffering for now. Maybe he just should have gone ahead and died of Syphilis or gotten stabbed to death by some jealous husband. Of course, if he was dead now, then who would be running fools' errands for the Powers? Some other vampire with a soul? And if he was meant to be, if he was pre-ordained, then why the hell has he been condemned to feel so guilty about his entire goddamned existence?

Even with yellow, unblinking eyes, it is all gray here in the dark, and lovers confuse easily with victims, and he is so brutally weary of arbitrary lines drawn in ever shifting sands.

He has sinned in thought and in deed, and the dreams spill into the wakeful hours; they seep into his path, and he can feel them squish like wine grapes between his toes. And he can hide it, and he can struggle, but he feels the burden of the futility. The lure of Wholeness. Of just once, wanting to be loved for his shadow.

But no one save her could love this Angel.

This Angel has fantasies that would make them all leap over his desk in horror and disgust. If they knew he sleeps on satin sheets, and holds his cock in his hand and thinks of the single instance Angelus unsouled met up with Oz in full wolf clothing. Thinks of not backing down this time, of not giving up the kill to the snarling beast who by morning would be less than half his size and body weight. No disappearing into shadows, no submission, no regret.

No, this time the scene ends with a bloody, well-fucked and quite dead wolfboy. This Angel never fails to get off on the thought.

So this Angel never looks Cordelia in the eye come daylight.

But this is the Angel who Xander secretly lusted, and who Wesley still probably secretly fears. The one who finds both thoughts equally delicious. They are both just silly little boys who wanted him dead to cover their own insecurities, insufficiencies, inadequacies. Don't they realize how easy it is for him to differentiate between the scent of mortal fear and lust? Aren't they aware that he can smell hate and desire, that souled or unsouled, it matters not? And Xander reeked with all of it, in hospital rooms and graveyards; false bravado and foolish, teenage charm. ''You're gonna die and I'm gonna be there,'' he'd said.

But hey, pretty boy, wouldn't you rather be somewhere else? Somewhere alone in the dark with the monster at your neck? Don't you wanna know what an immortal fuck is like? Sure you do, everyone does, but especially you, right Xander? Especially pitiful, useless, zero self-esteem, homophobic you. A few years older, a few classes wiser, and hey! you can be a Watcher. You can be Wesley. And you can pretend to fear me instead of hate me, but it's all the same. This Angel has that diatribe carved onto the backs of his eyelids.

This Angel wants to find that tall, muscled Superstud with all the personality of freshly laid linoleum that Buffy is currently doing. Wants to see how the hunk would look strapped to a St. Andrew's cross with a ball gag in his mouth and a purple dil- and oh, finally hello to the inner Angelus....But no. No, that would be just a convenient excuse. 'Cause it's *Angel* who wants to do this, it just so happens that it's Angelus who wouldn't have to deal with that nagging guilt issue afterward.

Cause the last time Angel and Buffy were together she wasn't wearing the simple white cotton underwear he remembered from her seventeenth birthday, and he didn't even think to wonder why. Wonder *who* she was practicing those black satin G-string things on.

So hell yes, this is the Angel who would find no sympathy in his unbeating heart for lost love; who wants to tear those damnable panties down around her ankles and fuck her til they both died bleeding. Who wouldn't notice the scent of vanilla and innocence on her lips or the taste of shed tears and memories on her skin. You see, he wants to say, you see, there's more than one way to lose my soul in you.

And he has always wanted to be an innocent, but he could never quite manage it, you know? He has always wanted to be good, and loved and sheltered, and just...good. But Liam fucked that up, and Angelus didn't give a damn, and Angel is aware that even in this incarnation he is just skating by on the thinnest of frozen waters. And gods, it is so heavy sometimes. That damned bird is pecking at his hand and his palms are tired of bleeding.

*****

''Do you want some, darling?'' Red dress, red lips, red wine. Wine?

''What is it?'' he asks, pressing closer. Inhale that scent. Magnolias, southern and sticky sweet. She used to smell like lye soap and crushed rose petals. But of course, that was before she was dead.

She shrugs those delicate, bare shoulders at him, and her hair tumbles forward to frame her upturned chin. ''Wine, blood, baby's breath, dust. Does it matter? It's all the same.''

He knows she means him,  and he thinks about drinking from her glass.

Thinks about tossing it up in the air and not cringing when the pieces fall, cause when was the last time he was ever in control of anything anyway? When was his life really last *his*? It was his Father's, it was Darla's, it was Buffy's, it was fates' and the Powers', and he can't even recall the last decision he made. Gee, Angel, do you want to wear a black shirt or a black shirt today?

Wants to just fucking do something that would make them all take three steps away in a hurry. Wonders what it would take.

Wonders what Gunn would do, what he would look like, if Angel pressed in just a little closer. Put one hand around his windpipe, and squeezed. He knows by instinct where to put the pressure, just a bit, just enough (tell me when it hurts). Oh, those big doe eyes would just *fly* open, wouldn't they, and that full and kissable mouth would part slightly in alarm, and those long lashes would blink, once twice, again. Angel's illusory breath on his cheek, and Gunn would not pull away, would not flinch, no no, he would be too startled, too fucking *astounded*, man. And yes. He should be. Cause there has been no subtext here, none in the slightest, and damn, there's only the merest beginnings of respect earned. And in an instant lost.

And look, even he let himself slip, even the WarriorGunn forgets the demon. Silly, silly child. The element of surprise indeed, and so Gunn will just..stand there. Against the wall while Angel presses forward, closes his eyes half way and leans in. Or maybe Gunn just likes it this way..likes to fuck death as much as he likes to chase it. Angel doesn't know. Angel is so bad at subtext, hell, Angel has trouble with the damned *text*, so fuck the lack of it. Fuck it all. Just do it, just kiss the man right on the mouth, just push lips to lips, just punish and take and smother and own and forget. Just squeeze the neck, just inhale the scent of male and human and breath and your own blood.  Oh yes, he would bite back, wouldn't he? Drop of blood in the kiss so cool and slippery and ..dangerous. Is that a stake in your pocket or are you glad to see me? Gods bless silly children that are too proud to die.

Wesley would never bite back. Wesley would fall to his knees in abject worship, Wesley would suck and swallow. Hell, Wesley lives that as metaphor every stinking day, and it takes all the fun out of it, doesn't it? Cause what is a predator without the thrill of chase? Why he's just a caged animal, isn't he, a caged and pitiful beast whose keepers feed him cold pig's blood and try to make him happy by letting him carve up a couple of demons every night. And it's not enough, goddamnit, it's not enough, some nights, some days it's just not fucking *enough*.

Wakes with a start, and realizes that oh, it's not the love he's afraid of, not the stinking 'perfect happiness'. No, it's the anger, it's the abject rage and humiliation. It's being nothing, it's being neutered, it's being alone and *that* is what is going to drive him mad finally.

Mad enough to carve slices in his skin, mad enough to smash glass and bone, mad enough to fantasize about killing everyone he would kill for...mad enough to welcome his dead sire's ghost like a long lost wife.

And they will all try to say she drove him to this, with the visions, the hauntings, the dreams; all this made their poor Angel slightly crazed. And when it's over he will agree with them. Because that's what he does. He is such an agreeable fellow. He will stake his Sire and he will mourn for Slayerlove lost, and he will tread lightly around humans and he will be gentle with kittens. But he will know, he will always *know*. Even she could never *make* the horse drink.

And he can't go to them now, can't let himself be seen. Tattooed and scarred and *real*. Mask misplaced, and goddamnit, he can't *find* it... where is it and what was he supposed to be...? It was something about birds, and maybe cages, and he thinks there were blood tears.

But his hands hurt, and his gums itch, and his fridge is empty. And he needs something else. To take the edge off, just a little. Just enough.

Drives his car past the well manicured lawns and vulgar shine and keeps going. Deeper into dirt and darkness, into the parts of town that a ''middle class suburban white boy'' wouldn't trespass unless he were already dead. Where it is impossible to believe that there is safety and warmth and sweet smelling ocean just a few miles away. Where the boys on the corner don't bother to dress as girls to attract a customer.

No pretense. Just walk up to the stranger in the big black car and don't even blink at the alien coldness of his hand he presses a bill into an upturned palm. Just climb in beside him, and lay that soft, warm head in his lap.

And he thinks suddenly of something Darla told him once, in those whispering yesterdays when he never did pretend anything. That with your eyes closed, it's all the same. Hears the startling rip of zipper, feels that familiar heat envelop his cock, lays his head back against the leather seat. And just closes his eyes.

-End

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