Facade by Criss Moody

Date: December 7th, 2001
Disclaimer: The Great Numfar and his wayward M-inions.
Distribution: Lar, of course. If my SEP-er's or CG folk would like to forward to any list (except BBETA), please do so. Otherwise, ask.
Summary: What you see isn't always what you get.
Pairing/Character: Angel
Spoilers: Huge spoilers through Lullaby.
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Yes, please.
Notes: This is the fourth in a series of AtS character studies I'm writing. You don't need to read those to read this. I don't like AtS much right now, keep that in mind. This may be a bit disturbing for the maternally inclined. Consider yourself warned.

He had to want these things:

hearth;

family;

love;

security;

life.

No longer 'the thing' to thirst for the desires of flesh, the pleasure in death. No, really. He was a father. Against the odds of nature, a tiny squalling scrap of nothing called him father. Or would as soon as he could. Angel wasn't too sure about the mechanics of this. He spent every millisecond of his waking existence worrying. Would this baby live? Would Holtz succeed in destroying them both?

Was Angel willing to love another human?

See, now that's the clincher. The tie-breaker. Sure, this was the right thing. Baby No-Name was an innocent in need of a savior. Angel was a savior of the innocent. Pretty elementary. But did Angel want this? Did he really truly for sure want to raise this baby boy into a man and watch him mature, age, and die?

Didn't have a good track record for loving. Angel worried every day he'd screw up and Cordelia and Wesley and the others would leave him. They'd figure out that he didn't love them and they'd leave. He feared that The Powers would rip Buffy from life once again. At this point, if Spike and Drusilla fell to dust, he would mourn. He would mourn, he would beat his manly breast, and he would walk on. Untouched by the normal human ravages. The average affects of life on a soul. This didn't apply to Angel. First, he thought that Cordelia had been right. He'd mourned Buffy and then tucked her memory inside his soul, never to be forgotten. It seemed nicer to let them all keep believing that. When he saw her again, that reminded him. Nice to see her, heaven to kiss her, but five minutes away from her body and she was as much a faded memory as the deaths of his family.

He'd been forgetting things lately. Like how Buffy smelled when they made love. Things Spike used to say that irritated the shit out of him. The manner in which he tore his father's body apart. Significant things. Did he care? Not so much. Had he ever? He wondered, sometimes. Wondered if all of his concern and worry and brooding simply existed as a really excellent built-in self-defense. Let the humans believe he cared. Maybe Angel had finally bought the party line.

Would he forget he loved this child? Hell, did he love this child?

Did it matter?

Angel didn't doubt that he could fall in love with the baby. He was very good at falling in love. But he was two hundred and sixty some years old. He had problems remembering whether Cordelia was just his friend, if he'd ever slept with Wesley, and who was that dark-haired shy girl hanging around the hotel?

Would it be so bad to end this? Screw fucking prophecy and fate. The Powers always had their own ideas about what should happen in Angel's life. He wasn't so sure it was worth falling in love now just to let this child die three years or five years or thirty years down the line, whenever The Powers decided this unlikely changeling needed to serve its purpose. It would be very very easy to place his hand over that tiny face, wait a moment, then cry out. Let them all try their best to save it. Battle Holtz and his new friends with his own grieving-for-poor-Angel-once-more friends at his side.

Angel knew how to be that creature. The well-meaning, valiant vampire with a soul. Oh, how he did suffer. Oh, the horrors he has dealt and been dealt. Oh, oh, oh.

Cradled up against his chest, squirming and wet, warm as hellfire, the baby looked up at him. Nearly translucent eyelids covering eyes of indistinguishable color. A pale, small creature who resembled neither Angel nor Darla. Angel's large hand passed over the soft little face, rested at the nose and mouth.

"Angel? Angel, we gotta go, man, like //now//."

His hand fell away, delicate feminine hands grabbed the child from Angel's grasp, and other hands urged Angel into the car.

He didn't have to want those things.

He didn't have to be that creature.

Not always.

~the end~