Lar ||| Buffy & Angel

And Heaven Burns
by Lar

EMAIL: HERE
DISTRIBUTION: list archives, eterniata, biblioteque diabolique. Please ask if you would like to archive.
RATING: PG-13
WARNING: character death
PAIRING: implied A/gu, A/C, A/F
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never was, never will be.
IMPROV: #8 rain -- crave -- glow -- bound
SUMMARY: How bright can the future be for Angel?
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is set sometime in the future, an undisclosed amount of time simply so that the reader can fill in their own thoughts.
DEDICATIONS: Always to my own North Stars: ethrosdemon, Donna, Sam.

.. .. .. .. ..

There were some things that he will never fully admit, even to himself.

That some nights he still dreams of the sharp snapping sound of breaking knuckles mingled with Giles' bitten back moans. That sometimes the sight of a church will bring back the taste of the convent sisters that made him dizzy like wine. The way he will linger around Cordelia's desk three days out of the month when the smell of her blood is heavy and rich, and it calls to him like a siren's song. The way all of these make him sickly aroused, heavy pull of desire in the bottom of his belly that he has no choice but to surrender to wrapped in sweat soaked sheets in the dark.

The knowledge that his promised reward is a lie, woven by the Fates as some kind of degenerate bait to keep him fighting long past the time his heart ceased to be in it.

He thinks often of Wesley's face in his final moments, the way his brow had creased in concentration as he struggled to get the words out. He wouldn't let Angel stop him despite the pain it cost to choke out the confession. The lies he had helped perpetuate and now wanted to wipe away. He remembers the way Wesley had looked so relieved, so peaceful, when Angel had grasped his hand and bent down low to whisper "I know, Wes. I always knew."

Wesley's skin was already cooling when Angel kissed his forehead and closed his lifeless eyes with a shaking hand. Gunn had to pull Angel to his feet that night, had to force him into the car and away from the body. Angel remembers how small Wesley looked, how frail the shell was when the spirit was gone.

He still has an old pair of Wes's glasses. They sit in a cedar box on the bedside table, keeping close company with a small silver ring that he'd gotten in an envelope postmarked Sunnydale with no return address. When it tumbled out into his hand from the torn paper, he knew that she was dead and no one had had the words to tell him. He holds the ring in his hand now and then, and remembers the slim finger it graced for a fraction of time. Washes it with tears shed at the thought of the eternity that looms before him without the one thing he has ever really cherished and lost with complete regret.

He has a heavy silver cross in the bottom of the box. Cordelia wrapped it in a ragged blue bandana for him so he can touch it now and then, remember the dark skin that cradled it. When he holds the bundle to his face, and tries to pick up the traces of Gunn's scent still on the cloth, it burns him anyway with the weight of the loss.

All these things are meted out in small measure: reward or punishment. He's never sure which they represent, perhaps both. He can only stand the tiny increments of exposure; they burn away at him, more painful than any demon's claws. They reach too far inside.

He finds some small comfort where he can. Sharing stolen warmth with Cordelia, each drawing something essential from the other that has less to do with release than with closeness; reminders of family and belonging. Sanctuary in the arms of familiarity and affection. They often reminisce afterwards, and on occasion during, each thinking of what had been and how it will always be missed. She will kiss tears shed for Charles from his cheek; he will brush thumbs over the rain of salty droplets that mark her ache for Wesley. There are so few others left, so very little solace in his world to cling to.

Faith appears now and then, as if she's developed a finely tuned sense of his limits, and when he needs a bolstering. She's still lush, but she carries it with grace instead of bravado. Her smile is a gentle benediction, given easily and with generous spirit. There's a calm about her that soothes Angel. She slips in beside him, moves her warmth around him until it's a cocoon when he can rest and fill the emptiness with hope. Her redemption marks the horizon, North Star.

He sees the world moving on, knows he's being pulled along with it. He yearns to be anchored, to be silent and still. There are nights he spends writing letters to Faith and Cordelia, simple words of gratitude for the gift of their presence, sparse apologies for his weakness. He seals the envelopes, places them on the desk, and opens the curtains in the penthouse suite. He stands there, watches the sky turn pink at the edges, and tries to convince himself that the light will bring him to the place he wants to be.

In the end he always closes the drapes, picks up the letters on his way to the basement and burns them in the furnace. The sliver of doubt keeps him from making his leap, shatters the perfect faith needed to let go and believe that there's nothing but silence beyond here. He sometimes craves a lapse in judgment during a battle: a slip on a blood-slick floor, a slowed parry in the heat of combat. Thinks if he goes out in the service of his duty, then he'll earn his rest, he'll earn his peace.

Angel doesn't wish for heaven anymore. Once he had, he dreamed of total absolution, told himself he believed that the end of days would see him granted the right to live and die. Now he thinks instead that he's caught, and fears that they'll never let him go. Their prophecy is drawn to entice and beguile, trick and tie him to a duty that will never be done. In his sleep he hears them laugh at his fervent prayers for grace while it dangles out of reach.

On nights like this one, he allows himself the luxury of the box. He holds it on his lap, relaxes back on the bed as the scent of the cedar oil stirs in the room. The lid comes off and is placed beside him with the same tender care afforded to the contents. The box itself was a gift from another too-soon-lost, dark-eyed man. A parting gift, he called it. He'd gone on not long after that, taken by an evil within, something Angel couldn't battle. He resented his helplessness in the face of saving a soul who had fought the same war. and succumbed to sickness in the end. What made Xander's death acceptable to the Powers, and the life of some nameless stranger so precious that Angel was denied the succor of companionship, called upon to save the others instead?

Now he pulls out the glasses, holds them up to the light and watches it glimmer there on the gold trim. Slips them on his own face and squints as the room goes blurry. Holds out his hand, tries to see through Wesley's eyes, and has to stop when he can no longer distinguish between the distortion of the lenses and his own tears.

He can't bear to handle the ring tonight. That's a burden too heavy for his heart. But he holds up the cloth bound cross and lets the cotton rasp across his cheek. He's glad for the preternatural sense that lets him find the tiny wisps of Gunn's smell still caught in the weave. It's getting harder to find each time as the cedar takes over, but he will always have the scent in his memory.

That's all he'll have left in the end, and that is the worst of it. Forced to go on while the few things that hold him on this side of sanity are taken from him by demons and sickness and age. He finds himself staring at the abyss of loneliness that is his true destiny, and wonders how much longer Cordelia's warmth and Faith's benevolence can sustain him. Slips into sleep with dawn glowing around the edges of the curtained window, one hand cradling the box to his side. The edge of the cross peeks from its wrapping and a pale tendril of sun catches it, dazzling the room with a spray of light that is gone in a few moments.

Angel dreams of silence and peace. He dreams of stillness. Grace.

~end



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