Martyr by Medea
Summary: Angel has some very dark moments on Valentine's Day.
Spoilers: Waiting In The Wings, Season Three
Notes: Response
to Yahtzee's challenge on ACAngst.
Website:
http://members.fortunecity.com/medealives/index.html
He deserved this. Today of all days, he deserved
the most excruciating tortures the world could rain upon him.
The
pink candy hearts.
The rosy-cheeked, holiday cherubs that graced store fronts, restaurants -- bus stops, for godssakes.
Even
the Backstreet Boys.
Well,
maybe not that. He'd visited some of his worst horrors on this day,contrived and
executed some of the blackest tortures ever suffered by human or demon, but some things
were too sadistic even for Angel.
Bitterly,
Angel hung his head and stared at his shoes as he continued downthe street. Too
sadistic for him? Who was he trying to kid?
A
vision of a lithe, dark-haired school teacher crept into his thoughts.Those
brown gypsy eyes had widened in eternal terror when he'd snapped her neck.
Angel shuddered. He could almost feel the vertebrae cracking beneath his
palms. Fighting down a wave of nausea, he clenched his fists tightly enough
to draw blood.
Blood.
Valentine's red.
A
near-miss with a passerby reminded him that the streets weren't empty, and
he
raised his head. Ahead of him, two well-coiffed men strolled arm-in-arm, their
hands occasionally drifting down to cup each other's asses. Their muted voices rose and fell in
a relaxed, playful cadence. Angel glanced away.
But no
matter where he looked, his gaze landed on couples paying tribute to the
cultural imperatives of this day. In a café window, he saw lovers stretch their hands across
white, linen table cloths and entwine their fingers.
Undoubtedly,
Rupert had planned just such a romantic, candlelit dinner for Jenny Calendar. The
soft-spoken Englishman had probably taken his courtship slowly, like the proper
gentleman he was, fussing and sweating to ensure that everything would be
perfect on the night he seduced her.
Her
beauty had been perfect in death as Angel had lain her body out for Giles
to find.
Angel
hunched over, his shoulders sagging under the weight of remorse.
Of all
possible nights of the year, why couldn't the Powers have required his services against a demon
or other such menace tonight? He could use a good fight right now.
Anything to take his mind off his bloodier diversions of Valentine's past.
But,
no, tonight it just had to be quiet.
Quiet
enough for his comrades-in-arms to have plans. Fred and Gunn. Wesley. Cordelia.
Cordelia.
Cordelia
was probably showing her precious Groosalug the sights of L.A., dazzling him with her smile
and with a taste of city life that had to be a little daunting for the
overgrown peasant.
Angel
clenched his jaw. At least he hoped it was daunting.
Pausing,
he closed his eyes. His skin crawled, he was so agitated. It would feel really, really good to
hit something.
Decision
made, he opened his eyes again and started back to the hotel. A few hours
with the punching bag in his basement should do wonders for the tension.
Couples
continued to pass; solitary souls, too. Angel turned his attention away from them, letting
everyone fade to a wash of gray at the periphery of his vision. Or maybe he let
himself fade from view; a phantom drifting through a world upon which
he'd forfeited his claim. It didn't matter.
A few
blocks from the hotel, a small flash of red caught his eye. Roses, single stems and bouquets,
beckoned from a street vendor's white, plastic tub. But that wasn't the red
that drew him. The vendor, a gnarled old man in sweats and a thin wind
breaker, cursed, brought a finger to his mouth, and nursed it with his tongue.
Salt rich, the scent of blood whispered across Angel's palate. A single,
dark drop clung to a thorn on one of the stems.
Angel
paused, then strolled over to the vendor.
He was
on the edge.
A few
pleasantries and five dollars later, Angel was once again on his way to the
hotel, bearing a single red rose.
The
fragrance taunted him.
Rich,
copper tang...
But he
wouldn't. Today of all days, he wouldn't.
He had
glutted himself on blood on this day; indulged himself in every wanton, dark desire; summoned
forth that desire in innocent beauties only to smother it forever. More than
enough reason for him to deny himself now.
The
lobby was deserted when he returned home. Old. Silent. Empty.
His
footsteps resounded in the air as he crossed to the office. No messages on the
answering machine, nothing scrawled on Cordy's notepad.
Angel
ran a finger over the yellow carbons of old messages, tracing lightly over
Cordy's fluid handwriting.
He
placed the rose on her desk and walked away.
Lorne
greeted him in his apartment with news of Connor's quiet evening, but the
ever-sensitive demon couldn't fail to note Angel's dark mood. When his initial
attempts to draw Angel out failed, he hesitated for a moment, as if contemplating
his options, then gracefully departed, leaving Angel alone save for his sleeping son.
Angel
stood beside the crib and stared down at Connor, envious of the child's peaceful, untroubled
slumber. A brief, wistful smile touched Angel's lips before his eyes darkened
and he withdrew to change for a work-out.
Shedding
his leather coat, he stripped off his shirt and exchanged dark slacks for loose-fitting
sweat pants. Ever so softly, he gathered Connor up in his arms, unwilling to
rely on electronic baby monitors, given the array of forces with unholy designs
on the child. Angel grabbed a thick, cotton quilt and made his way down
to the basement. He spread the quilt on the practice mat and lay Connor
down. Hopefully, a few grunts and the dull thud of Angel's fists against the
punching bag wouldn't awaken him.
Angel
was grateful for small mercies when, indeed, Connor slept through the two
hours his father spent pummeling the bag. However, far from relieving the
tension, Angel's frustration merely increased. The dark vampire abandoned his exercise in
futility, pretty certain that if he kept going much longer, he'd knock the
punching bag clean out of the ceiling.
He
needed something more. He'd hit and he'd hit and he'd hit, but it hadn't purged
him. He needed something extreme. Something that would cut to the very depths.
The
thought clung to him like a shroud.
As he
climbed the stairs back up to his apartment, with Connor snuggled against his bare shoulder,
the thought twisted and darkened.
He knew
he should be disturbed that he was even contemplating doing this. He *was*
disturbed; it was sick, and Angel couldn't help feeling that, somehow,Connor
would be tainted just because he was sleeping nearby while Angel did this.
But Angel was tainted; he was unnatural. And he needed this.
So
Angel set Connor back down in his crib, then sat on the edge of his bed,and
opened the drawer to his nightstand, revealing the crucifix he kept hidden
there. He winced, but forced himself to look at the Christian symbol.
The
Church honored Valentine as a martyr to the faith. Somehow, what had been a
commemoration of violent, ugly death had been polished into a bright, shiny
celebration of romantic love. But Angel was damned. Faith rejected him. Love, he was denied.
Only the darkness of his own murderous legacy remained to torment him.
Slowly,
Angel reached into the drawer and closed his hand over the cross. His flesh seared upon contact
and instinctively he pulled back. A wild, determined gleam shone in his
eyes and he thrust his hand back down. This time, when his fingers curled
around the cross, he held on and let it burn until his entire arm trembled
from the pain. When the agony became too great, he dropped it on the
bed.
Angel
stared down at the angry, blistered brand on his palm. He panted in pain,
blinking back tears.
Reaching
for the shirt he'd discarded before his work-out, he wrapped it around his injured hand. Then
he carefully picked up the cross and applied it in merciless, gradual
steps all the way up his arm.
For
each angry mark, a memory.
Wrist...Jenny
Calendar.
Mid-forearm...the
newlyweds he'd sliced beyond recognition with a straight-razor in 1872.
Elbow...Drusilla
and her entire family.
Bicep...the
eleven year-old girl he'd sodomized with a red-hot poker in 1854.
Angel
was struck by the sheer irony of it, as he gazed down at his red, inflamed flesh. He was
running out of arm, and he'd barely even tapped the surface of his vicious
legacy.
"Angel?"
Shit.
Cordelia's
tentative voice sent a guilty shiver down Angel's spine.
She
appeared at the French doors that opened into his bedroom, still dressed in the
elegant, subdued ensemble Angel guessed she had worn for her evening out
with her Pylean hero. In her hand she grasped the rose he'd left on her desk.
"Oh...I
wasn't sure you were here," Cordy murmured. "I just came to check
on---what
the HELL are you doing?!"
Her
eyes widened in alarm as her gaze fell upon his abused, tortured limb. The
rose slipped from her fingers.
There
was really no way to answer this question. So he didn't.
"I
thought you had plans for this evening," Angel countered.
"I
did, and stop avoiding the question," Cordy snapped as her expression
instantly
shifted from concern to anger.
"This
doesn't concern you, Cordy."
"The
hell it doesn't!" Furiously, she strode forward and yanked Angel's arm
between
them, like a lawyer confronting a defendant with the murder weapon. "When
I find my friend hiding out in his room, deliberately hurting himself, you bet
it concerns me."
"I
wasn't hiding out."
Delicate,
feminine eyes flashed at him in cold fury. "You answer me, Angel. You
explain to me why you're not a danger to yourself, and to your son, or so help
me I'm taking Connor home with me."
"Connor's
in no danger," Angel retorted sharply, fixing her with an unrepentant stare. However,
Cordelia didn't flinch, and in the end, it was Angel who relented.
Averting
his eyes, Angel confessed, "This wasn't about causing pain, Cordy. It was
about easing it. Valentine's Day isn't one of my better days."
"Don't
you think this is taking the whole Lonely Hearts thing to the extreme?" Cordy
demanded.
"Not
everything associated with this day has to do with romance," Angel snarled
darkly. "When I didn't have my soul, I celebrated it every year, but
love
and romance were in no way a part of it. You don't even want to know the
things I did. Jenny Calendar was one of my milder whims."
Cordelia's
lips parted and the fury in her eyes was replaced by uneasy comprehension. For a moment,
she said nothing, and merely scrutinized him with such intense compassion
it wrenched his heart.
"Give
me the cross," she whispered at last, holding out her hand.
"Cordy,
I'll be fine."
"I'm
not letting you do this to yourself any more. Give me the cross," she
repeated,
the sternness in her voice belied by a hint of panic. Impulsively, she snatched the cross out of
his heavily-wrapped hand.
Cordy
attempted to fling it away but Angel's reflexes were too quick for her. Gripping his unscarred
hand over hers, he drew her intimately against him and slowly positioned
their hands over his heart. Upon contact, his skin hissed beneath the cross.
Cordy let out a desperate whimper and fought to jerk her hand away.
Mercilessly, he trapped her hand under his, forcing her to press the cross to his
chest.
The air
smelled of charred flesh and Cordelia's perfume.
Vaguely,
through the blinding pain, Angel wondered if the cross would burn straight down to his heart.
He felt Cordy shiver against him, felt the soft brush of her thighs against
his, the enticing curve of her hips, and imagined holding her close
until she burned all the way inside, until he was nothing but ashes.
"Angel,
stop this," Cordy's voice trembled as she stared at him with equal measures
of pity and horror.
Traces
of moisture glistened at the rim of her eyes, just above those soft, dark
lashes. Her fear mesmerized him. For whom? Herself? Him?
Cordy
raised her free hand to caress his cheek and whispered brokenly, "Please...please, Angel,
don't do this."
Eyes
locked with hers, Angel eased his grip and let the cross slip from her hand.
He released a shuddering breath as it clattered to the floor. For several moments more, Angel
held Cordy's hand over his heart. His entire body throbbed -- just not in
the way he'd imagined, those countless times he'd pictured her body
pressed so closely against his.
Now
that the source of his agony had been removed, the pain was almost worse. It radiated through
his limbs, unbearably paralyzing. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and
scream, but he couldn't tear his gaze from Cordelia's. She was crying in
trembling, muffled gulps, as if she were afraid to let herself cry
because it would make this all too horribly real.
Suddenly,
the guilt, the tension, the bitter self-recrimination drained away, and Angel felt only the
need to comfort and be comforted. Cordy hadn't deserved any of that. She
couldn't know, couldn't understand, and he valued whatever it was that they had
too much to add her to his list of Valentine's Day victims.
Murmuring
hushed assurances, Angel gathered her in his arms and held her close. He felt the damp
flutter of her lashes against his chest and reveled at the heat she imparted to
his cool skin.
Cordy
pulled her head back but didn't try to break free of his embrace. Setting her jaw, she stared
at him and choked, "Promise me you'll never do that again."
Angel
lovingly caressed her face. Then, taking a step back, he knelt down, gingerly
grasped the fallen crucifix with his protected hand, rose up, and placed it in her hand. He
took her free hand, cupped it over the crucifix, then covered it with his own.
"Take
it, Cordy. I'll be fine. I promise."
Slowly,
Angel leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers. He let his lips linger, savoring the taste of
her, the feel of her. But just as she relaxed and parted her lips in
dawning realization of much that had remained buried, Angel broke off the kiss.
Cordelia
and Angel regarded each other quietly, the veil between them momentarily removed.
Then
Angel moved away. One step back, scarce inches, but in terms of what they
were to each other, what they could be to each other, a chasm of decorum.
"Happy
Valentine's Day, Cordy."
"Angel..."
she began uncertainly.
Discreetly,
he shifted his gaze away from her questioning eyes. "Isn't there someone
waiting for you?"
Cordelia's
breath hitched. She hesitated for several moments, then turned to leave. At the French doors
she paused and bent down to retrieve her rose. Twisting to give him one,
final glance, she said, "Happy Valentine's Day, Angel."
Clasping
rose and crucifix against her chest, Cordy silently left his suite. Angel
stared after her for awhile longer, sadly reflecting on his inability to give
love without pain. A woman who took his heart had to be mindful of the
thorns.
Weary
of such thoughts, Angel went to Connor's crib, gently lifted his son and
cradled him close. Warm and comforting, like Cordelia. Stretching out on the
couch, Angel settled Connor on his chest, and smiled as the sleeping babe
snuggled against his bare skin.
No
rosy-cheeked, holiday cherub could compare.
End.
Contact Medea