Feigned Patricidal Failures
Disclaimer: I don't own Angel, Buffy, or any related characters. Those all belong to Joss Whedon, god among puny mortals. I make no money, please don't sue.
A/N: This is my very first fan fiction EVER! Yes, I know it's short. I've read fan fiction for years and years, but unfortunately- I just didn't have the cojones to put myself out there. And if I get no reviews, I will retreat into my shell, and only pop out once or twice to review stories written by you amazing people who just seem to crap perfect writing. CONSIDER IT A WARNING! Then again, if you didn't review then you really won't care so-- shutting up now. Please read. Pwease?
A/N2: Connor is my woobie. Respect him, I respect you.
It was pouring with rain
Connor lunged toward Angel with the machete, swinging, attempting to slice off his head with it.
It's all about balance.
Something he didn't have- not anywhere. Not in his head- not in his life- not even in his fights, as slipping on wet cement clued him in on. Still clasping the large knife, Connor jumped right back up into the fray with wet, grimy, and bloody hair.
But he wasn't fast enough. Angel grabbed hold of the machete, flinging it away to the other end of the alley. He then grabbed Connor, tossing him- with greater care- towards the other end. A dead one.
Connor jumped right back up, more blood pouring out- fresh wounds on his scalp. He started pushing Angel- shoving him. Trying to force a reaction.
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Immediately, Angel was reminded of Faith… and utterly horrified at his realization. He caught Connors hands, shoving them aside, and grabbed hold of Connors shoulders, getting a better look at his boy.
It wasn't anger- there was no hate in his features… There was just defeat, the bitter sting of loss, and resolution. Connor wasn't trying to kill him.
He was trying to kill himself.
Angel had been through this with Faith already. She pushed him- past the limit. But she'd never really wanted to hurt him… she'd wanted him to punish her.
And it was the same with Connor. Was Connor really so guilty about Angels little ocean adventure- that he wanted to die? That he wanted to be that thoroughly punished?
Angel was panic-stricken that he'd let this continue… not interfering until it was possibly too late. With a pained look on his face, salt mixing with rain, Angel grasped Connor in his arms shoving him into his chest and grabbed hold of him with no intent to ever let go.
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Connor was torn between wanting to run from this alley and never look back- and wanting to hide his face within the folds of his fathers black leather jacket, and hope the world stops. Just for him.
He didn't have to make that decision- Angel crushed Connor against his chest, not letting go, even while Connor kept squirming.
"Let go! Get off me!" Connor beat his fists against Angels chest, attempting to coax Angel into a brawl. Anything to get him off… get Angel to stop touching him.
Angel grabbed his sons faces between his hands, forcing his eyes up. "Dammit Connor. How could you…"
Tears fell, hitting Connors hands. He stared down at them, wondering when fists of fury had tangled themselves in black leather, clutching tightly.
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Angel lightly stroked Connors face, attempting to sooth him. He hoped his boy would say something… Anything. He couldn't bear the silence, although it had been mere moments since Connor had spoken. It seemed so important now. He needed Connor to talk to him. Even if it was to tell him that he hated him, Angel wanted some sign that things were going to be OK. Even that they would go back to normal. To a world where Connor only hated Angel, and not himself.
Yet as any parent of a suicidal child will tell you, things never get back to normal. It will be stuck in your head from here to doomsday. You failed them.
'And you can't ever make it up', Angel ruminated morosely, clutching his sons messy brown hair. Attempting to run his fingers through, he wondered if any amount of atonement could help him make this up to his son.