BtVS Fic: Healing
Title: Healing
Fandom: BtVS
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Angel, Buffy.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1439
Spoilers: Homecoming.
Summary: Angel is gradually recovering from his time in the hell dimension, thanks to Buffy’s regular deliveries, but he can’t bring himself to drink in front of her.
Written For: Challenge 216: Drinking Alone at fan_flashworks.
Disclaimer: I don’t own BTVS, or the characters.
Angel’s slowly getting better, healing, he thinks, from being in… the other place. It hurts less anyway, so that seems like a good sign. His memory is improving too, he remembers this place, the old mansion where he and Spike and Dru made their home, and he remembers Buffy. Of course he does. How could he ever have forgotten her? She’s the best thing in what passes for his life, the only truly good thing, which is kind of a problem really, seeing as she makes him happy. Being happy was what caused him to go evil again and…
He remembers all that; the people he killed, the pain and anguish he caused, and he remembers how much the demon inside him revelled in it. The memories disgust him, fill him with shame and self-loathing, but he can’t allow himself to push them aside, ignore them, because they’re an important reminder of what he must never allow to happen again, what he never wants to become again. Although they cause him pain, he holds tight to them to safeguard his battered excuse for a soul.
Although he’s healing, he feels chilled all the time. Vampires are naturally cold, usually taking on the temperature of their surroundings. Their hearts don’t beat, they have no blood circulation, and so their skin, except for immediately after feeding, remains cool to the touch. It doesn’t bother them, they don’t feel the cold, and yet he does. Everything feels cold to him these days. Where he was before was so much hotter, hot enough to burn, and while he has no desire to return there, he could wish not to feel the lower temperatures so badly. This is California, not the arctic; he shouldn’t feel like this, frozen to the core all the time, but even the fire blazing in the grate can’t chase away the chill that seems to have taken root deep in his bones.
Part of it, he feels sure, is that throughout his time in the other place, he was starved. When necessary, vampires can exist for a very long time without feeding, but it weakens them, and it takes time to recover from prolonged starvation. An ordinary vampire, one without a soul, would be out every night, from sunset to dawn, slaughtering and feeding in an endless, ravenous frenzy, but that isn’t something Angel can do. His soul holds him back, that and the fact that no one must know he’s returned.
Seeing him would just be a painful reminder of all the terrible things he did after he lost his soul and reverted to the monster he used to be, and while Angel knows he deserves to suffer for all he did, he wouldn’t want to reawaken the grief Buffy’s friends are surely still feeling. He can’t bear the thought of hurting them more than he already has.
He wishes he could take it all back, all the cruel and sadistic torments he inflicted on them, but such things can’t be undone. Everyone involved must learn to live with what he did, including Angel himself. Still, if there were some means by which he could even begin to make amends, then he would, without hesitation. He betrayed the people who’d grown to trust him, people he’d come to consider his friends. Worst of all, he betrayed Buffy, and everything they felt for each other.
Why she still cares for him, he’ll never understand, but she’s doing all she can to help him. It’s as if she’s trying to atone for something that wasn’t even her fault. Neither of them had known what would happen, they’d acted out of love for one another, and they’d meant no harm. If anyone’s to blame, it’s him; he’s older, so much older than Buffy, more experienced, more worldly, and he should have behaved more responsibly, resisted temptation. But he didn’t. He’s always been weak. Buffy has nothing to make up for, least of all to him, and yet…
She visits him, almost every night, and she usually brings him food, in the form of animal blood from the butchers. It’s cold and lifeless, but it helps nonetheless, and he’s grateful for it, grateful to her for providing it. Still, even knowing she’ll probably stop by her arrival always manages to startle him. Used to be, no one could sneak up on him; he’d hear and smell their approach long before they got close enough to become aware of him. These days, he’s too distracted, wallowing in guilt, swamped by memories, and his awareness of his surroundings is drastically reduced. Buffy’s inside the mansion before he registers the presence of an intruder. They startle each other, each wary of the other in a way they never were before. It hurts, almost more than the constant ache in his bones.
She’s bought a plastic container of blood, and he wants it, needs it, can almost taste it, poor though the flavour is compared to the richness of blood from a living and terrified human. He’s so desperate for it that he removes the lid, raises the container, breathing in the coppery aroma and iron-richness. Hunger knots his insides, cramping painfully, but Buffy is standing there, watching him, and he can’t, he won’t, drink; not in front of her. She shouldn’t have to see that, and his shame for needing blood is too great anyway. He replaces the lid and sets the container aside; he can drink it after she leaves. Ravenous though he is, he can wait.
To his relief, Buffy doesn’t stay long; Angel doesn’t blame her. She should be out there somewhere in the company of her friends, living her life, while he’s better off alone. Still, he waits after she’s gone, just in case she’s forgotten something and comes back. The minutes drag slowly past, each one feeling like an hour, but only when he’s absolutely sure she won’t return tonight does he pick up the container of blood once more and carry it into his inner sanctum. There he settles himself by the fire, removes the container’s lid once more, and allows himself a sip.
The craving is so strong that he could gulp down every last drop in less than a minute, but then it would be gone and there’d be no more until the following night, so he sips slowly, making it last as long as possible. It kills some time, gives him something to do besides his endless pacing, remembering, and self-recrimination. How far has he fallen that drinking cold, lifeless pig’s blood alone in a darkened room each night is the highlight of his sorry existence, the one thing he has to look forward to?
He can’t afford to look forward to Buffy’s visits, he knows he doesn’t deserve to, and besides, they’re a peculiar kind of torment. Just a glimpse of her used to make him happier than he ever imagined he could be, she filled his dead, unbeating heart with joy, but now it hurts to even look at her, knowing she can never be his.
He was a fool, and worse, to ever believe they could make a relationship between them work, and all of her loved ones had to pay the price for his self-deception. Buffy deserves so much better than him, a full, rich life, marriage, maybe even children; things he could never give her. Perhaps she’ll find those things with her new boyfriend, Scott. He wants to be happy for her, but that’s so much more difficult than it should be. He has no right to feel pangs of jealousy, but the human soul is more apt to pettiness than to nobility and self-sacrifice.
So he’ll sit here, making the meal Buffy brought him last as long as he can while he drums into himself over and over exactly why he needs to stay away from her, even though he knows how badly he needs her help. If only the blood were strong liquor, and he could drown his sorrows as easily as he used to back in Ireland. Might as well wish he were human again, or that he could turn back the centuries and be the son his father had hoped for rather than the wastrel he’d been. That way he would never meet Darla, never be turned. Wishing is pointless though; it will change nothing. The past cannot be undone, but those wise enough to heed the lessons it teaches can sometimes learn from it. That knowledge gives Angel a small measure of hope; it isn’t much, but maybe in time it will prove to be enough.
The End
Fandom: BtVS
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Angel, Buffy.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1439
Spoilers: Homecoming.
Summary: Angel is gradually recovering from his time in the hell dimension, thanks to Buffy’s regular deliveries, but he can’t bring himself to drink in front of her.
Written For: Challenge 216: Drinking Alone at fan_flashworks.
Disclaimer: I don’t own BTVS, or the characters.
Angel’s slowly getting better, healing, he thinks, from being in… the other place. It hurts less anyway, so that seems like a good sign. His memory is improving too, he remembers this place, the old mansion where he and Spike and Dru made their home, and he remembers Buffy. Of course he does. How could he ever have forgotten her? She’s the best thing in what passes for his life, the only truly good thing, which is kind of a problem really, seeing as she makes him happy. Being happy was what caused him to go evil again and…
He remembers all that; the people he killed, the pain and anguish he caused, and he remembers how much the demon inside him revelled in it. The memories disgust him, fill him with shame and self-loathing, but he can’t allow himself to push them aside, ignore them, because they’re an important reminder of what he must never allow to happen again, what he never wants to become again. Although they cause him pain, he holds tight to them to safeguard his battered excuse for a soul.
Although he’s healing, he feels chilled all the time. Vampires are naturally cold, usually taking on the temperature of their surroundings. Their hearts don’t beat, they have no blood circulation, and so their skin, except for immediately after feeding, remains cool to the touch. It doesn’t bother them, they don’t feel the cold, and yet he does. Everything feels cold to him these days. Where he was before was so much hotter, hot enough to burn, and while he has no desire to return there, he could wish not to feel the lower temperatures so badly. This is California, not the arctic; he shouldn’t feel like this, frozen to the core all the time, but even the fire blazing in the grate can’t chase away the chill that seems to have taken root deep in his bones.
Part of it, he feels sure, is that throughout his time in the other place, he was starved. When necessary, vampires can exist for a very long time without feeding, but it weakens them, and it takes time to recover from prolonged starvation. An ordinary vampire, one without a soul, would be out every night, from sunset to dawn, slaughtering and feeding in an endless, ravenous frenzy, but that isn’t something Angel can do. His soul holds him back, that and the fact that no one must know he’s returned.
Seeing him would just be a painful reminder of all the terrible things he did after he lost his soul and reverted to the monster he used to be, and while Angel knows he deserves to suffer for all he did, he wouldn’t want to reawaken the grief Buffy’s friends are surely still feeling. He can’t bear the thought of hurting them more than he already has.
He wishes he could take it all back, all the cruel and sadistic torments he inflicted on them, but such things can’t be undone. Everyone involved must learn to live with what he did, including Angel himself. Still, if there were some means by which he could even begin to make amends, then he would, without hesitation. He betrayed the people who’d grown to trust him, people he’d come to consider his friends. Worst of all, he betrayed Buffy, and everything they felt for each other.
Why she still cares for him, he’ll never understand, but she’s doing all she can to help him. It’s as if she’s trying to atone for something that wasn’t even her fault. Neither of them had known what would happen, they’d acted out of love for one another, and they’d meant no harm. If anyone’s to blame, it’s him; he’s older, so much older than Buffy, more experienced, more worldly, and he should have behaved more responsibly, resisted temptation. But he didn’t. He’s always been weak. Buffy has nothing to make up for, least of all to him, and yet…
She visits him, almost every night, and she usually brings him food, in the form of animal blood from the butchers. It’s cold and lifeless, but it helps nonetheless, and he’s grateful for it, grateful to her for providing it. Still, even knowing she’ll probably stop by her arrival always manages to startle him. Used to be, no one could sneak up on him; he’d hear and smell their approach long before they got close enough to become aware of him. These days, he’s too distracted, wallowing in guilt, swamped by memories, and his awareness of his surroundings is drastically reduced. Buffy’s inside the mansion before he registers the presence of an intruder. They startle each other, each wary of the other in a way they never were before. It hurts, almost more than the constant ache in his bones.
She’s bought a plastic container of blood, and he wants it, needs it, can almost taste it, poor though the flavour is compared to the richness of blood from a living and terrified human. He’s so desperate for it that he removes the lid, raises the container, breathing in the coppery aroma and iron-richness. Hunger knots his insides, cramping painfully, but Buffy is standing there, watching him, and he can’t, he won’t, drink; not in front of her. She shouldn’t have to see that, and his shame for needing blood is too great anyway. He replaces the lid and sets the container aside; he can drink it after she leaves. Ravenous though he is, he can wait.
To his relief, Buffy doesn’t stay long; Angel doesn’t blame her. She should be out there somewhere in the company of her friends, living her life, while he’s better off alone. Still, he waits after she’s gone, just in case she’s forgotten something and comes back. The minutes drag slowly past, each one feeling like an hour, but only when he’s absolutely sure she won’t return tonight does he pick up the container of blood once more and carry it into his inner sanctum. There he settles himself by the fire, removes the container’s lid once more, and allows himself a sip.
The craving is so strong that he could gulp down every last drop in less than a minute, but then it would be gone and there’d be no more until the following night, so he sips slowly, making it last as long as possible. It kills some time, gives him something to do besides his endless pacing, remembering, and self-recrimination. How far has he fallen that drinking cold, lifeless pig’s blood alone in a darkened room each night is the highlight of his sorry existence, the one thing he has to look forward to?
He can’t afford to look forward to Buffy’s visits, he knows he doesn’t deserve to, and besides, they’re a peculiar kind of torment. Just a glimpse of her used to make him happier than he ever imagined he could be, she filled his dead, unbeating heart with joy, but now it hurts to even look at her, knowing she can never be his.
He was a fool, and worse, to ever believe they could make a relationship between them work, and all of her loved ones had to pay the price for his self-deception. Buffy deserves so much better than him, a full, rich life, marriage, maybe even children; things he could never give her. Perhaps she’ll find those things with her new boyfriend, Scott. He wants to be happy for her, but that’s so much more difficult than it should be. He has no right to feel pangs of jealousy, but the human soul is more apt to pettiness than to nobility and self-sacrifice.
So he’ll sit here, making the meal Buffy brought him last as long as he can while he drums into himself over and over exactly why he needs to stay away from her, even though he knows how badly he needs her help. If only the blood were strong liquor, and he could drown his sorrows as easily as he used to back in Ireland. Might as well wish he were human again, or that he could turn back the centuries and be the son his father had hoped for rather than the wastrel he’d been. That way he would never meet Darla, never be turned. Wishing is pointless though; it will change nothing. The past cannot be undone, but those wise enough to heed the lessons it teaches can sometimes learn from it. That knowledge gives Angel a small measure of hope; it isn’t much, but maybe in time it will prove to be enough.
The End