ethrosdemon ||| Buffy & Angel

Personal Demons
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: To Olwen, because I suck so much. I am sorry for not betaing your last fic, please don't send attack rodents after me. To Lar, well, because she asked for this.
Notes: This is an unbetaed fic, proceed with caution. I wrote it waiting for my lameass friend to get on IM, so if it is angry, there is your answer. There may be more if anyone is interested in where this is going. Alert me to interest.
Improv: silver--wander--hollow—fitting
Spoilers: Reunion

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"Wes, did you hear what he just said? `Cause, like, I think he just tried to fire us…Wes? Where are you going? I am so totally not talking to your back!"

There was more, there is always more with her, but right now the last thing I need is to take out the frustration tightening the muscles in my back, legs, arms, face on her. Even if now would be the perfect opportunity to do it and have an excuse for later "Sorry, Cordelia, I was over-wrought. I didn't mean to call you a dozy mare. I broke your princess figurine? I don't remember that." Best to keep walking, ignore the shrill echo of her voice chasing me to the door.

On my bike and home in under a half hour, good time. Luckily there weren't any major traffic situations, because I made the trip fully on autopilot, and one sudden stop could have cost me a limb or my life. Let the smog rub over my clothed body knowing it isn't any dirtier than the miasma of rage that encloses me.

Alone with my bubble of free-floating anger that I carry home with me, through the door and into my flat. Don't let the sun go down on your anger. Don't let the sun rise on your anger for me, I suppose.

The itch has started on the back of neck, and I know I'm not going to hold out tonight. I will indulge and regret, but there is no staving off the desire to obliterate thought tonight. I need a soft and curved world now. No protrusion or edges to get caught on.

Don't want to dangle from the hook of the knowledge that my love for Angel could transmogrify to hate in two breaths or one misdirected glance, because then the lulling limbo that is my life would fade to the next level of hell.

Three messages on the machine from Virginia. Blast, I forgot about that charity gala tonight. There's always the fate of the world card to save me from real explanations with her. She'll have a three glasses of champagne glow by now and be craving a dance. Someone else will happily stand in and take the twirl.

The cell starting to chirp now. Cordelia getting Gunn to call for her, no doubt. Thinks I might be reasonable with him. Might suck it up and come running back to the Hyperion if he calls instead of her. Not bloody likely. Cordelia and Gunn can rustle up his posse and deal with whatever evil du jour pops up. They are more than capable, and I need this time to get the need to kill in check. Taking pleasure in the nightly carnage is what brings one to the state Angel finds himself in now.

Rip open the closet door so hard the wood cracks a bit when the hinges can't give anymore. Hang my jacket up. Stow my helmet. Drop to my knees and rummage in the back. Cardboard gives way to metal, and I pull out my prize.

Hang Dynasty, such a beautiful piece to live in a musty closet. Jade cabuchons over the hinges and lock. Blue silver. All the same, better not to have prying eyes fall on it and decide to investigate the contents {{again}}. Force myself erect and feel my knees crackle in protest and realize maybe Angel did me a favor. How much longer could my body take the nightly beatings and other worse injuries? At least I don't have as many head traumas under my belt as Giles. {{You know, Wesley, that stuff will put you in a grave earlier than a full- grown Mialak. Some of the old ways should become extinct ways.}} So, scotch is so much better, old boy?

Set the kettle on to boil and bring out the good teapot, the pansy patterned Limoges, Grandmama's. {{Wesley, my darling, when I pass, these things will be yours. Won't that be lovely for your wife?}}

Release the spell that binds the box closed to anything short of nuclear attack. Unroll the linen and measure out a goodly measure of the contents.

Spice, tang, and bitterness wafting directly up my nostrils when I add the all but boiling water. Carry the pot and the cup with me to the chesterfield and let the ritualised activities chase away the image of the expression on Angel's face when he let us go. Flippant. An expression I know well. Both the feel on my own features and the sight on others'.

Might not let it steep long enough, but the waiting is going to break me tonight. Pour the concoction into my cup, first sip numbs my tongue. I adore that part, feeling the numbness spread up from the tip of my tongue all the way to the back of my throat, millimetre by millimetre. No way to notice when you burn your tongue drinking that way, and I've woken many morning with skin hanging off my tongue. Perhaps tomorrow will be one of those days.

One cup down, another full one clutched to my chest and the easing has begun. Tension receding from my stomach outward to the rest of my body. Calmness claiming my mind.

Two cups and I feel like I am breathing water. Like the air around me has liquified to pad my movements.

Now is the time for the scotch.

~

How fitting is it that Caritas is within walking distance of my flat? Three bars in reasonable walking distance, one an Armenian mafia hangout, one a lesbian disco, and Caritas. Not a difficult decision. Only places reachable on foot are really feasible right now. Drug induced hazes are not known to sharpen driving skills.

There must be some sort of ascension or astral alignment tonight, because the place is packed. Most of the clientele seem to prefer the tables though. Ensconce myself at the bar and pray to Brigid that the Host overlooks me until I can get through at least two or three Glennfiddiches before he saunters over. There needs to be a plausible excuse for my behavior.

That red-scaled character in the corner doesn't seem familiar. Could he be a species I have not encountered? Odd that. Perhaps I should go over and make small talk and see what I can dredge up. He seems an affable bloke, all smiles and robust laughter.

"You said you could help me."

"Listen, vamp-daddio, your girls are not my major concern. Why don't you just have an aqua vita and cool your heels, maybe they will turn up too."

The Fates just keep spinning my thread and falling over themselves with laughter.

"There has to be someone you could call or contact."

"When is there not someone waiting by the phone for a call from yours truly? Why, never! But, Tall, Dark, and Troubled, this is your road to walk, but thank Liza, not alone. Go talk to your compradre, perhaps he has some new and exciting info."

"What the hell are you talking…this is just fucking beautiful."

Luckily, I have my special take on reality tonight, or else I might have had to turn to see what type of rage was overtaking him. The urge to placate him, to sooth him and not be the object of his anger might hijack me and force me to scrape and debase myself. Not tonight.

"Wesley, look at me." Directly over my left shoulder, 6 foot plus of misplaced emotions and the need to unleash. Normally, I would be overjoyed to be the object of any of his attention, but I had what is termed a moment of clarity when my third drink mingled in my bloodstream with the tisane. I really don't have to tolerate this shit.

"Don't talk to me like a child." Breathing. A little off his game. He breathes when he's not fully in control of himself. Probably a habit he could never break. I don't think he's very good at breaking habits.

"Why are you following me?" Somehow I doubt that that is a joke.

"Did it not occur to you that I might have a life of my own that has very little to do with you?"

"Look, could you move? I need to sit in your seat." The Luoama demon sitting to my left leaps up and scuttles away. Angel replaces him on the stool. Makes himself known, seen. Always such a wanker that way. In control or out of the picture.

Still breathing, back hunched up, right hand about to leave indentations on the bar railing.

"You expect me to believe you were wandering around in the night and just happened to come to the same exact place I happened to be?" Leaning in to my space, showing his dominance in his usual manner.

"Not that I am even attempting to justify myself to you, but I do believe I informed you of this place."

Maybe shock, maybe a chit with her cleavage showing, who knows, but he shuts up.

"Could I get one of whatever he's drinking?"

Tonight won't be simple, plain, and curved edges after all. Can't muster up the right emotions for the situation all the same. Some irritation at my musings over the other individuals in the bar being interrupted, and aggression towards Angel for being a complete ass as per his normal routine of late, but no desire to lessen his burden or ease his way.

"Wes, you smell strange. Want to tell me why?"

"Why don't you tell me. Or how about you tell me how many people I fucked this week and where did it?"

"Look, I don't have time for this, are you on something? Because if so, I'm going to call Cordelia to come pick you up."

"So, what you're saying is that if I'm freebasing, you will take the time to call Cordelia to come all the way over here to get me, but sod all if you're going to take the time out of your busy stalking schedule to drive me home?"

"Why are you twisting my words? You sound like Buffy, for fuck sake, I thought you were above this whiny bullshit."

"I am fairly sure you are insulting me, so go to hell."

"Fine. You know where I am when you want to tell me what's on your mind." Swirl of the tail of the black coat and one last put upon sigh, and he is outta here.

Reach in my pocket for the flask I stashed there before I left home. Pour a half glass full in my empty tumbler to stave off the hollow feeling I can sense creeping up on me from somewhere not far off.

"Hey guy, you ok? Was that punk-ass bothering you?"

Scarlet and mother of pearl iridescent scales flash and glimmer; the light cast by the disco ball on the dance floor through the archway to my right playing over features that would most assuredly stop people in their tracks even without the decidedly non-human skin.

"It's ok. Over now anyway."

He plants himself on the seat Angel just vacated. Waves a drink over, gets some subtlety fluorescent pink liquid.

`Yeah, I figured it was your ex. He was a major ass, you could do much better."

"That's not what…to be honest, I’ve been thinking so myself lately. I'm Wesley, and you are…



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