"Learning to Breathe"

An Angel One-Shot by SpookyChild

I don't understand why you showed up here, smirking in the doorway, all pale skin and faded black clothing, or why your bag is now sitting in the hallway. You shrug and say that you have nowhere else to go, but I know that's a lie. You don't like sitting in my office because the walls seem to close in around you, and I'm confused, because you've never been claustrophobic before.

You say something about going out to get a pack of cigarettes like everything is normal, but I know it's not, because I'm too busy staring at your eyes, and the way your shoulders seem to slump in defeat. You laugh and say it's no big deal, and your hands start twisting around themselves, and suddenly, you look like you're seventeen, not one hundred twenty-something.

You're talking about Sunnydale and about her and about us, but I'm not hearing anything. After a while you stop talking. I should be killing you. You should be dust now, just something for Fred to sweep up later, if she's at all bothered to do so. But you're not. You're just sitting there, tired, with that slightly annoyed look you used to get one hundred years ago when I didn't listen to you.

I guess I'll give you a break. Nobody ever gives you a break.

So it was me who led you up those stairs to that room, where you sidestepped the patch of sunlight on tiptoes, like a child. It was me who made you pull the covers up, me who closed the blinds, and me who turned the light off, sitting by your bedside, waiting for your habitual breathing to stop.

That was hours ago.

You're lying in the bed, sprawled out on your stomach, head buried in the pillows, and you're having nightmares. Nightmares about killing him and killing her and killing them and killing me and killing, killing, killing. It makes you hurt, too, because that soul is forced in you too tight, spreading out over every part of you, smothering you.

And I had wondered why you'd suddenly become claustrophobic.

I put my hand on your shoulder, trying to comfort you, but it only seems to make it worst. So I get up and leave.

I know you'll wake up screaming, but I'll pretend not to hear it, because if I go in there you'll laugh and tell me not to be such a prick, and I'll have to watch your tired hands work at that lid on the tranquilizer bottle.

You want me to help, but you won't let me in.

I walk back down into the lobby, and I'm all too aware of Wesley, furtively Not-Looking, hurrying back to his office, where he shuts the door too loudly. I close my eyes and rest my head in my hands, listening to the low hum of the air-conditioner in the lobby.

"Angel?"

You're standing at the top of the stairs, a one hundred twenty-something vampire with that deceptively young face and scuffed Doc Martens, gazing at me with that same stare you had back in 1880.

I pretend not to hear you, and after a while you walk back up the stairs. The air-conditioner stopped humming. Sometimes, I love you so much that I can't breathe. But that's okay, because I don't need too.

The clock struck nine and I opened my eyes.

---

So, this is my very first 'Angel' story, go me! So… whatever. Yeah. Commend or condemn me, people. And guess what? I'm already out of fun things to talk about.

Imagine that.

-SC