Gone by Christie
Summary: Misery is an old friend of Angel's.
Spoilers: Through to Couplet, Season Three.
Notes: Thoughts after Groo fought the demon in the park, and before Angel and Wesley talk in the magic shop.
Angel remembers
standing there, in the shadows, for hours and hours. Just watching. The sun
wandering across the sky, transferring shadows from western corners to eastern
ones, and Angel moved accordingly, shrinking back toward the building as puddles
of sunshine crept nearer.
He remembers Cordelia laughing, Fred laughing, the sun making both their eyes
crinkle a little at the corners, barely visible beyond the edge of the
sunglasses. The sparkly silver of Cordelia's bikini catching random rays, making
them wink at him. Mocking him. Her skin glowing golden as the hours slipped by,
becoming wet with a fine sheen of perspiration. He remembers thinking,
redundantly, she's beautiful. Thinks it again, and again, trying to make it
somehow bigger, stronger. Beautiful. Not enough to describe her. No words
enough.
When the sun had crept too close to the building to leave room for him, he'd had
a decision to make. He went inside. Into the dark and gloom of the Hyperion,
what Cordelia tried to pass off as coziness but knew she wasn't really fooling
anyone. Not the six people that rattled around its halls all day, sometimes all
night, and not the occasional client who passed through. Calling the Hyperion
cozy was like calling their coffee Starbucks and it just wasn't going to gloss
it over enough, no matter how many coats of paint you slapped on it.
Angel hadn't been disappointed that day; only that he'd been forced into the
darkness while Cordelia was still in the light. But he'd left with a lightness
in his heart, because he loved her, and everything seemed right that way.
Now, he's reminded of that day. The false sense of belonging. The way Cordelia
looks in the sunlight. Like she belongs. Only this time she's not sipping
margaritas and joking with Fred, sun tanning in the hotel's garden patio because
she needs to be close by in case Wesley breaks the case. No, she's standing in
the sun, along with the rest of the people he's come to consider family. And
they're congratulating the interloper for saving the day. And the interloper,
the Groosalugg, *is* the hero, because if he hadn't been there, no one would
have, and an innocent woman would have probably died.
He escapes into the dark, back through the sewers, as quickly as possible. No
need to remind everyone of what exactly he is. No need to broadcast his
limitations. He knows them, everyone knows them. The less is said, the better.
He makes good time back to the hotel, doubles back and decides not to go there.
Not now. It's too...painful.
Different kinds of pain -- different remedies. Angel will take physical pain
over this any time. The darkness of the sewers isn't just dark. It's deep.
Weighty. It sits on his chest and presses. Angel wonders if he was human, or a
Groosalugg, if he'd have trouble breathing.
Angel wonders if the Groosalugg sits and thinks about Cordelia. Not just the
obvious things, but extra things. Like how she stirs the sugar into her coffee
in the morning. Once clockwise, twice counter clockwise. Lifts the spoon from
the mug and taps it, three times, against the edge. Then sets it on a paper
towel. Folded, over one way, then the other to make a perfect square. Every day,
the same. Clockwise, counter clockwise, tap tap tap. It's never faltered in the
entire time Angel has been taking notice.
Does Groo know that? Angel's willing to bet good money that he doesn't.
Does Groo know that when Cordy's been on her feet all day, she sits, takes off
her shoes one by one, first the left, then the right. Never right then left.
Left. Right. Takes both shoes off, tosses them to her right, haphazard. Never
sets them neatly, never puts them away. Always tosses. Like the ritual itself is
tossing some of her fatigue with it. Sighs softly after the toss. Blows a small
breath up, and depending on the hairstyle that day, might puff some strands into
the air. Might not. Doesn't matter. Always blows a small breath up. Lifts her
toes, left, then right, stretching her Achilles tendon and her calves, then
points toes down, left, then right. Uses her left hand to massage her right
foot. Uses her right hand to massage her left foot.
Never wavering. Always the same, subconscious procedure.
Angel bets Groo doesn't notice. Angel bets Cordelia doesn't even notice.
Angel notices.
He finds himself at the juncture where he became human. It's weird to be back
here, and he turns in small circles. When he was human, he was weak. Untrained
and confused, even more useless than he feels now. He supposes that's what they
call Irony. With a capital I. He supposes the Groosalugg has the best of both
worlds, only the nagging in the back of his mind warns him about greener grass,
because the Groosalugg has his own set of problems, even if they're not quite
visible when Cordelia's kissing him off the cheek and sending him off to battle.
The Groosalugg isn't even human, and his heart is in his ass, and that comforts
Angel, but only a little. Only in the largest sense of Irony.
The Groosalugg can fight in the sunshine, and be applauded in lush parks by
admiring masses. The Groosalugg can be embraced in the sunshine by the most
beautiful woman in the world. The Groosalugg, Angel thinks, might not mind that
his heart is in his ass because at least it's beating, and someone wants it.
Angel follows the path he and Buffy took that fateful day that was never meant
to be. He prowls the sewers in the opposite direction, starting where he'd ended
and ending where they'd started. The steps leading to the world above, to the
sunshine, are wrought against the sewer walls like a path to salvation. Angel
studies them.
If Angel concentrates, he can almost see Buffy climbing those steps,
disappearing into the day with sadness and hopelessness in her eyes that had
nothing to do with the demon she was hunting. Even then, Angel had said it: *he
went up, where he knows I can't follow.*
It seems like a lifetime ago, but everything comes back; only the feeling of
inadequacy had been quickly replaced with hunger, wonder, excitement. Human
feelings.
Inadequacy hadn't come back. No one ever caused him to feel it. He always won
the battle. That much closer to winning the war. Until now.
Angel doesn't pay attention to the shaking of his hand as he places it up. One
rung. Lifts his booted heel and places it, too. Two rungs. Two steps closer. To.
Gone.
He stops, wonders what it would be like for them. Without him. He saw it once,
saw them move on. He had been the one left alone. It was about the mission, not
the man. About many souls, not just one. They'd figured that out, or always
known it.
Angel's hands aren't shaking any more. He can feel whisps of warmth from the day
above. It feels like a sheet fresh from the dryer. Only he knows it won't feel
that comfortable for long. One more rung. He squints. That much closer.
The darkness below him pulls. Back down. Down, where he belongs. Angel looks
back, then up, and wonders. Will they ever figure it out? No pile of dust in
some conspicuous place that they can put two and two together and figure out
where he went.
Just. Gone.
They would mourn. They would continue the fight. It's about the mission, not the
man. About many souls, not just one.
Angel lifts his hand, the left one, and lets the sun filter onto it. It burns.
Physical pain that makes him yell without realizing it, but pain much less than
the ache in his heart. Instinct pulls the hand back down, into the dark comfort
of the sewers. It weighs on him. His hand throbs. He smiles.
End.
Contact Christie
http://number14.org