Cliche Bingo Fic: Privation (AtS, Angel, Rated G)
Title: Privaton
Author: Sandy
Fandom: Angel the Series
Character: Angel
Rated: G
Spoilers: 4.1 Deep Down
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. I'm just using them for a bit.
Word Count: ~570
Author's Note: Written for cliche_bingo prompt: Sensory Deprivation
My cliché bingo card.
Summary: He's dying, as much as a vampire can die without being dusted.
It's not really like sensory deprivation, even though he's totally isolated, cut off from the rest of the world, his entire universe limited to a box just barely big enough to hold him resting on the bottom of the ocean. He can still hear and smell and feel. God, can he feel. The pain in his body from being chained down, locked in, incapable of movement. And the unending burning of hunger. He can feel his muscles shrinking, his organs drying up. His fangs ache with the need to bite, to rend. He swallows rich warm blood that isn't there, and weeps when he realizes what he's doing. There are no tears, though. He doesn't have enough moisture left in his body to manufacture tears.
Sometimes he can see the brush of a fin against the glass lid of his coffin as a fish passes by, or the white underbelly of a shark swimming around his container, trying to find a way into the box. Angel wishes it could get to him. He'd take a shark bite or two if it meant freedom from his prison.
And perhaps worse than the pain and hunger are the dreams - hallucinations - whatever they are. Happy family, loving friends, dutiful son. No betrayal, no perfidy. When he awakens from the dreams, the pain of Connor's treachery burns hotter than his hunger.
He's dying, as much as a vampire can die without being dusted. He wonders how long it will take until he becomes nothing more than skin and bones. Will he still be aware? Will he know where he is, what has happened to him a year from now? Ten years? A century?
He wishes that Connor had just driven a stake into his heart, but that would have been too easy, not punishment enough to satisfy his deranged son, twisted into a monster by Angel's worst enemy. He craved revenge for the murder that Angel hadn't committed, and he's gotten it. Angel's suffering is unending. Even in his dreams, he feels the gnawing hunger that eats at his belly.
Angel wonders if Connor ever thinks of him lying here, slowly drying out. An eternity in hell with no escape. Will he someday decide it's enough? Will he come back? And if he does, will Angel be able to recover? He thinks probably not. Perhaps Connor will find mercy in his heart then and stake him. Angel longs for that day.
When rescue finally comes, he thinks it's another dream. He's not aware enough to realize that it really is Wesley standing by his side. But then he tastes blood, and he swallows greedily. But it's pig's blood; not enough, and he drifts into more dreams.
When blood is once again offered to him, it's rich and fresh and warm and human, and he drinks greedily, suckling at the arm pressed to his mouth, and he whimpers when it's taken away. But it's enough. He feels his body responding, filling out, gaining strength.
He awakens fully then, and watches Wes wrap a bandage around his bloody arm. Angel breathes in deeply, drawing the scent of ocean and gasoline and human odors. He touches the table he's lying on. He listens to the sound of voices as Wesley talks to someone - Justine? - and he's almost overwhelmed as his senses fill.
It wasn't really like sensory deprivation lying there on the bottom of the ocean. But it was near enough.
Author: Sandy
Fandom: Angel the Series
Character: Angel
Rated: G
Spoilers: 4.1 Deep Down
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. I'm just using them for a bit.
Word Count: ~570
Author's Note: Written for cliche_bingo prompt: Sensory Deprivation
My cliché bingo card.
Summary: He's dying, as much as a vampire can die without being dusted.
It's not really like sensory deprivation, even though he's totally isolated, cut off from the rest of the world, his entire universe limited to a box just barely big enough to hold him resting on the bottom of the ocean. He can still hear and smell and feel. God, can he feel. The pain in his body from being chained down, locked in, incapable of movement. And the unending burning of hunger. He can feel his muscles shrinking, his organs drying up. His fangs ache with the need to bite, to rend. He swallows rich warm blood that isn't there, and weeps when he realizes what he's doing. There are no tears, though. He doesn't have enough moisture left in his body to manufacture tears.
Sometimes he can see the brush of a fin against the glass lid of his coffin as a fish passes by, or the white underbelly of a shark swimming around his container, trying to find a way into the box. Angel wishes it could get to him. He'd take a shark bite or two if it meant freedom from his prison.
And perhaps worse than the pain and hunger are the dreams - hallucinations - whatever they are. Happy family, loving friends, dutiful son. No betrayal, no perfidy. When he awakens from the dreams, the pain of Connor's treachery burns hotter than his hunger.
He's dying, as much as a vampire can die without being dusted. He wonders how long it will take until he becomes nothing more than skin and bones. Will he still be aware? Will he know where he is, what has happened to him a year from now? Ten years? A century?
He wishes that Connor had just driven a stake into his heart, but that would have been too easy, not punishment enough to satisfy his deranged son, twisted into a monster by Angel's worst enemy. He craved revenge for the murder that Angel hadn't committed, and he's gotten it. Angel's suffering is unending. Even in his dreams, he feels the gnawing hunger that eats at his belly.
Angel wonders if Connor ever thinks of him lying here, slowly drying out. An eternity in hell with no escape. Will he someday decide it's enough? Will he come back? And if he does, will Angel be able to recover? He thinks probably not. Perhaps Connor will find mercy in his heart then and stake him. Angel longs for that day.
When rescue finally comes, he thinks it's another dream. He's not aware enough to realize that it really is Wesley standing by his side. But then he tastes blood, and he swallows greedily. But it's pig's blood; not enough, and he drifts into more dreams.
When blood is once again offered to him, it's rich and fresh and warm and human, and he drinks greedily, suckling at the arm pressed to his mouth, and he whimpers when it's taken away. But it's enough. He feels his body responding, filling out, gaining strength.
He awakens fully then, and watches Wes wrap a bandage around his bloody arm. Angel breathes in deeply, drawing the scent of ocean and gasoline and human odors. He touches the table he's lying on. He listens to the sound of voices as Wesley talks to someone - Justine? - and he's almost overwhelmed as his senses fill.
It wasn't really like sensory deprivation lying there on the bottom of the ocean. But it was near enough.