ethrosdemon ||| Buffy & Angel

Interpersonal Relations
by ethrosdemon

Email: naturallycalm@yahoo.com
Distribution: Ask first, dahlinks.
Disclaimer: Joss made it up, too bad he is an incompetent ninny. Mutant Enemy and others own the rights. No suing please.
Rating: R for naughty language and, um, other stuff
Dedication: Donna for being herself and coddling me. Lar for the beta and everything else she does.
Notes: Companion to Personal Demons. Angel POV
Improv: silver--wander--hollow—fitting
Spoilers: Reunion

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There was an agenda for tonight.

Sit in the dark and alternately feel oppressive guilt so heavy I can barely lift my arm to reach for my mug of blood, until I can feel the tingle that signals the bloodlust starting to itch so terribly that I know it isn't IF I ever give in but when now.

Instead, the kids thought I needed to be brought to my senses. Right about the time I was mentally wondering in and out of the entrails and pieces of flesh that once were the esteemed lawyers of Wolfram and Hart, they decided to take a stand. Bad timing on everyone's part.

Just a slight bounce in my step at the look on Cordelia's face when the edict was delivered. Tiny sliver of spite, but she's earned it. I'll pay later, I'm sure.

Not like the scene has any inherent meaning. They can't be fired; I'm not unaware of the irony. It's like firing your family, murder is far more expedient.

It's almost an addiction. When I felt their apprehension and fear, I was temped to flash the ridges, take it just that much further, but the three of them together have a good chance of taking me down. They know how I fight, that I lean too far on my left leg sometimes, that I like to roundhouse kick with my right, and my bad decision could have become my fatal mistake.

It's not that I want to hurt them…not really. In their way of seeing the situation, I belong to them; I have a responsibility to be what they think I am, who they think I am. Maybe that isn't them so much as Cordelia. The first to fear betrayal, the last to recover from it.

I belong to them. They possess some part of me, or the whole of me in echo. The trade for having a place and being wanted in some way. I assume that's how it normally works.

It's not me. Not in my nature. Or how I see my nature lately. I don't allow others to possess me. The claims they make on me, the demands humans make on one another when bonding happens, are like tiny hooks in my flesh pulling me in a hundred directions at once, flesh distended and aching. I feel their need, and I want to block it out, forget it and give in to the call to claim my women and forget all the time I spent pretending to be more human than I am.

Then there's the hum of the knowledge that leaving is not so simple: the belonging rightfully runs the other direction. Towards me as opposed to away. They all belong to me, but they don't know it. And they rarely act in accordance. I can't just drop them and turn my back. I've plotted out my territory, and pride won't let me just cut the bonds and move on. Pride, maybe something else, maybe I have no idea what.

Which brings me a dim corner of Caritas, nursing a second whiskey, and thinking of killing something before the end of the night. Because, really, he doesn't need to talk to me that way. I thought I was as calm and reasonable as possible under the circumstances back at the office.

Wesley might be the death of me, or I might be the death of him very shortly.

There was no way to avoid this place. The information I need is in here. I just don't know which head holds it.

They are out teaching me a lesson as the cubes in my drink water down the fluid to an undrinkable point. One teaching me for leaving, the other teaching me for letting her go. Bodies piling up, and there is guilt there. Guilt for lives that might as well be on my own tally, but far more for the pain they suffer for love of me, for lust of me, for hatred of me, whatever the flavor is tonight.

More importantly, the more bodies, the more conspicuous the disposal of the bodies (without Spike or Penn who's going to hide them?) the more attention they will draw. From the authorities, but also from others of our kind not too pleased by their old-school rampage through the population of a city with far too many cameras.

If they are going to die, it will be by my hand. My grand folly and her new offspring.

But, instead of dealing with that situation, I'm here dealing with my other one. Waylaid again. Images of Wesley entwined with that walking cherry freeze-pop is not improving my mood. It looks like inter- species bonding might be the outcome of the evening, and I'm equally worried that his one-night stand might be internal-organ devouring and getting to savour something I haven't.

What's mine is mine. It doesn't matter that none of the new ones have shared my bed or fed my life.

Wesley is walking a fine line picking up a quick fuck in a place I frequent. Hard to tell if the disrespect is intentional or the product of the drugs he's on, so I might let it slip. His entire posture has altered since he thinks I left. Right index finger punctuating some point he is making, left hand palm up and open on his thigh, laughter, smirks and quirked eyebrow. That was the man who used to shadow my life and my days. Only taken out and dusted off for strangers now.

Pain turning over to anger, because this is the end result of my own actions, again.

Obviously time to return to the hunt, even a little blood spilled in here will revoke my welcome, and if the blood starts flowing it's not going to be a little bit tonight.

********************************************************************

It's not been easy to rein myself in and keep it together with them. The human face lulling them and tamping down their fears and misgivings. No way for them to know what lies behind my stoic gazes and impassive facial expressions.

Took me year upon year to develop the screens to keep my true desires to myself. Humans like the illusion of sitting on the top of the food chain. It would hardly be fitting for me to disabuse them of their delusions by coming over rapacious or lust-filled on a constant basis.

Especially when I felt the slip. Just a slip, not a regression. Enough movement though to alter my perceptions of my companions. Let the need in and take root a bit.

Catch my eyes lingering over the arch of Cordelia's foot. Watch her manicured toes tap out a reggae beat and imagine them under my tongue, inside my mouth or laying on the tiles sliced off with a pin- knife.

Light on Gunn's shoulder blades when he cleans up after a battle, muscles twisting and furling. Sense memory filling in the gaps of my chest pressing against the hardness, his indrawn breath and lust scent overpowering my will or the delicious crackle and give of his arm yanked out of socket so suddenly he has no ability to even process the sensations.

Wesley's face profiled against the sconce on the wall of the office. His shirt falling open, the hollow of his collarbone visible. Mind's eye imposing my lips and tongue drifting no place in particular and hitting all the highlights on the way. The sweetest vision of them all, my teeth slicing through his skin to get to the ultimate prize, and him a willing victim.

Sex and death and all the clichés. The longer you're around the more you realise that no thought you have is a new one. Every desire is universal. Need is all the world is composed of. I thought my world was condensed to the need to find Dru and Darla and to start rectifying that situation in one direction or another.

But I suppose need of one sort or another is what's brought me back to Caritas to see if Wesley's still here. Maybe to see if the sleazy demon with the too loud laugh is here or not.

Only been gone an hour or so, magnetic pull to come back and see this situation right, I can at least FIND Wes. A bird in hand…

What the righting is being slightly more slippery than the knowledge that something needs to be righted.

Three feet in the door, and all I can see is nose, chin and silver cufflinks flashing in the blue light.

"Ah, back again, gorgeous. Can't beat you off with a stick, can I?"

"Have you seen Wesley?" Keep my voice as steady as possible, not the time to have half the bouncers in this joint spewing immobilizing bile on me.

"I've seen him, not as much of him as I would like, but you know, someday my Prince will come. Oops, claws in tiger! So manly. Gotta love it."

"Who's manly? His date?" Might have tipped my cards on my interest on that one.

"A little discombobulated tonight, not a surprise what with recent events. Most of the men around here are not even human, much less manly, Big Guy. But your manly man is over there at the bar where you left him." To say that this guys gets on my nerves would be a gross understatement. I think living in a sanctuary is a good choice for him.

`Thanks." I wonder what color he bleeds.

Finding Wes would not have taken the Host after all. He's regaling some species of Pqual about the time Gunn had the six foot, air- breathing fish latch onto his cheek. It's a funny story, but the volume should be tempered slightly since there appear to be at least three amphibian species in here that I can see, and none of them appear happy.

Slide into the seat behind him and wait. The brighter, white lightbulbs along the back of the bar cause Wes's hair to shimmer in endless themes of brown, gold, and auburn. It would take the sun would do it justice. I can smell his aftershave, crisp like leaves, under the stink of cigarettes and demon funk.

No sign of Mr Scales. Maybe on the dance floor.

Rolling wave of laughter, and Wes shifting in his seat. Turning towards me. Only halfway, and his spine goes rigid, his right hand plucking his glasses off to wipe them on the hem of his shirt. Which tells me where we are tonight, Wes and I. Displeasure at my presence, but not fear.

The place inside me that the belonging lives tightening. He won't get away from me. Fired doesn't mean free. I won't ever be free of them, why should they be free of me?

The other part too, the regret. Could have bit my tongue and just walked away. No reason to hurt them all. No reason. There is always a reason. Their constant nagging and demands are the reason, never leaving me to myself for one day, never doing what I say without questioning every step. Making me insane with their neediness and obstruction of me fulfilling my own needs. All of that tangled with the guilt of lashing out, of actually letting it show.

"Angel. I thought you had expressed your displeasure at my continued existence and stomped off into the night." Glasses back on, gaze still averted.

"Wes, could we talk about this? I mean, calmly. I guess not tonight though. When you're sober." Maybe that was not as clever as it sounded in my head.

"I don't plan to be sober again for quite some time. Make the rounds and get back to me." Why did I come back here? I can barely drive without jumping out of the car to smash another driver's head in lately, being here and having Wes smart off is not conducive to sanity.

"I just thought, I don't know, that I would tell you I was sorry if I let you down." Still not looking at me. Can't stop myself, need him to pay attention, be with me, here, in this conversation. Reach my hand out and wrap my fingers around his upper arm. Muscles flexed under crumpled orange cotton.

Head pivoting, eyes locking on mine.

"I think if I were not immunised against it right now, that you might be causing me a great deal of pain." Let up a little, but keep the hold.

"What are you on?" Brother of the grin I know, twist of his arm, and my grasp is broken. Let my hand fall to my lap. Left arm stretched along the bar, knees almost brushing the outside of Wes's thigh.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Well, I did ask...can I have some?" Yes, that did get his attention. Fluid grace when he shakes his head, foot beating on the rail of his stool in the same beat.

"You don't handle your drugs very well." Broader grin, something Angelus usually doesn't conjure.

"Are you feeling unadulterated bliss? Because it doesn't look like it to me. Just kind of stoned." Three or four facial changes in a row, and he's kicking back the rest of his scotch. Pouring another fluid in to the glass from a flask in his pocket.

"Cheers." So, I guess I have to drink it now. Taste of flowers, lemon, and bitterness. I can see him watch me around the edges of the glass. Unreadable.

Within seconds I can feel the tingle all the way to my fingertips and toes. Forget what I was doing here to begin with. Something to do with Wesley and I fighting. Thought Darla might come in here.

"Two more scotches over here! What's that bar tenders' name? Juan? Raoul? Oh, right. There they are. Fast. Good service." Take a drink, because, I think I might be babbling.

He pours himself a two fingers more of the flower-elixir, drinks it in one pull.

"Belladonna, opium, what else?" Hold my empty glass out for another sample.

"Secret, magic ingredients." Magic potion. Naturally. One mouthful, and it's gone again. My mouth feels numb. That's how I recognised the opiate, been a while, but you never forget. Not that I forget much, besides why I'm here again.

Pry my eyes off the dappling on the bar top to see Wes staring at me.

"Do I look really fucked up?" Laughter bursting out of his mouth and filling the air with the scent of whiskey and genuine mirth. I'm joining in before I even have time to realise I'm doing it. He turns to me fully, braces his hand on my shoulder to steady himself.

"You know, Angel, you really are quite a ponce." Exactly. I think I might be. I can laugh at myself, know I'm not good at letting go, at enjoying the moment with someone else. Know I was really angry not too many minutes ago, but don't care too much to bring that back.

"You have anymore of your magic potion?" His face is flushed with exuberance, alcohol, and who knows what. Brushes his fingers through his hair and pulls back from my immediate space.

"You bled me dry." People who make puns need to be stopped at all costs. "That is, I haven't any more in my flask, but back home I quite a lot."

"Alright, why are you still sitting there, let's go." On my feet, tugging at his elbow, money flung out on the bar, and I am ready for some fresh air.

"Jesus. You aren't planning on talking about anything serious are you? Oh wait, or trying to kill me?" Can't tell if he means any of that or not. Can't decide, can't decide. Pretend it is a joke.

"Ha. I don't think your life is in danger, I couldn't kill David Nabbit right now." His grin is nothing short of feral, makes me catch my breath, so how long have I been breathing?

Almost to the door, Wesley's back bobbing and weaving amongst clientele all the colors of a carnival, the scent shifting as we move, but the numbness in my mouth making them difficult to distinguish.

"Where's the fire? You should spread that love around, instead of keeping it all to yourselves. Well, don't be strangers, you greedy children."

I really hate that guy.



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