4.
Three more hours until sunset as the dust motes danced and pirouetted in the golden late afternoon haze.
Angel's eyes remained unfocused as he stared out into his apartment. Had he honestly thought that he would be able to change Wolfram and Hart from the inside? Or had he known from the beginning that it was futile and hadn't cared so long as Connor was safe? He could no longer say.
In the absolute stillness that characterized his very being, he could discern other sounds – the hum of the air conditioning unit, the start and stop of the refrigerator motor, the slight rustle of the papers on his desk. If he concentrated a little harder, he could faintly make out his employees on the floor below him, the creak of the building, and the elevator gears turning. He should be downstairs in his office, doing the CEO thing. Throwing Evil, inc. off the scent of what he had planned for tonight.
He found himself thoroughly unable to muster any concern.
If he closed his eyes, the faint sunlight filtering through the window would disappear. He didn't feel any warmth because the sun's heat didn't make it through the specially magiced windows. Like everything else in this place, it was all artifice. Get too close and the strings were readily apparent.
Tonight it would end. They would take down the Circle of the Black Thorn. People would have just a bit more freedom in their lives. The scales would tilt just slightly more to the side of Justice. And come the morning, he would be dust.
He was ready. He had made so many missteps over the course of his unnatural existence. At least he was leaving the world a better place.
He had said his goodbyes to Connor, even if he hadn't phrased it that way. Connor. It was worth everything to see his son and to hear Connor acknowledge him as his father. To see him healthy and whole, doing all the things Angel wished for him. Angel was aware that even if every other moment of his life had been beyond reproach, the fact that he had sacrificed his friends to Wolfram & Hart was enough to secure his place in Hell. He still wouldn't have undone it, even if it was offered to him.
It didn't mean that he shouldn't offer some sort of penance.
The expensively decorated suite had never been any kind of home to him. Anything that meant something to him, anything he held dear he had left behind, not wanting it tainted. Better to never see it again.
There was no denying though that doing without his personal treasures hadn't been exactly difficult. From the expensive Italian silk suits to the garage full of sport cars to the wall-hung, flat-screen TV, he enjoyed every bit of luxury that had been showered upon him. He had been trapped in a gossamer web of material things, willing to compromise his principles over and over for the sake of keeping the company running. No more. Right now, he would use one of their gilded thorns to try to find some small measure of peace for those he had wronged.
The modern, black wood desk in the corner, like all the other furniture in his apartment, was composed of simple lines with no ornamentation. Soulless, in his opinion. Opening the drawer, he retrieved several sheets of personalized stationery, as well as an ornate enameled fountain pen, complete with gold nib. One of the few things in this entire building that wasn't sleekly modern; he balanced the pen in his hand and smiled. Not the tool he preferred, but it would serve his purpose.
After taking a deep, unneeded breath, he began to sketch. It seemed appropriate to start here, with the one person who had sinned against him as much as he had sinned against her.
He had drawn her thousands of times, so much so that even with his eyes closed he could still draw a reasonably accurate portrait. Ten minutes later, he was finishing some crosshatching of her hair for texture. Pushing back in his seat, he admired his work. The features were delicate, the very definition of femininity. And yet, if one looked closely enough, the steel behind the eyes was hinted at and her mouth had more than a touch of haughtiness. Darla could play at being innocent, but the truth was there if one knew what to look for.
Even now, he couldn't quantify his feelings for her. - mother, lover, teacher – each of those and more. She had nurtured every drop of viciousness that had existed within him, initiated him into every form of perversion known to man and crowed with delight when he surpassed her cruelty. She had pointed out the path to Hell and he had been more than happy to dance along it.
When she had been resurrected, he had never asked where she had found herself prior. He told himself it was because he didn't want her to have to dwell on it. But the truth was he was terrified to know where she had gone after he had dusted her. He had already spent a seeming eternity in a hell dimension, confirming that that would be his final fate was more than he could endure.
If he asked his adopted family (not that he would), they would agree that his conflicted feelings were because she was Connor's mother. And that was certainly part of it. He loved Connor more than anything else on earth, and because she was a part of Connor, he loved her. But even before his son's miraculous conception, his emotions toward her were less than straight-forward. He had a soul, but underneath that thinly pasted-on veneer was a demon. Darla had aided and abetted the demon as he raised the corruption of innocence to an unsurpassed art form; and it still thrilled him.
He stared at the portrait and thought of the human she had originally been and the human that Wolfram and Hart had raised from the grave. He wished he had been able to save her. And once he had failed in that endeavor, he wished he had staked her immediately. But he wasn't sorry he hadn't, because it brought him Connor.
He said a silent prayer for Darla. And hoped that God was more merciful than he and Darla had ever been.
It took him a few minutes to compose himself. Tilting his head back until the back of it hit the top of the chair, he let his eyes flutter closed. Sifting through his memories the way children sifted through the sand, keeping only what he needed. The past flowed through his pen, each line precisely placed. He had lost so much since coming to this city.
Darla's portrait stopped at her shoulders. The muscle in his jaw jumped as he firmly closed down the thought of her slender ivory throat. Leaning forward, he continued to work on the full-length sketch he was now drawing. He could hear Cordelia's voice. Only you would draw the clothes for the guy who dressed worse than a blind homeless person. His mouth quirked up just a tiny bit. It was true that Doyle hadn't possessed much in the way of fashion sense.
Allen Francis Doyle was his first friend in over two hundred years. Angel hadn't exactly made it easy for Doyle to befriend him; black was not only the color of Angel's clothes but his entire scowling demeanor. But for some reason, Doyle had persisted.
Doyle had died a hero's death, but he should not have had to make that sacrifice. Angel should have saved him.
What would Doyle have thought of Wolfram and Hart? Been impressed by the quality of the booze, that at least was undeniable. Would the shiny toys have seduced him as easily as everyone else?
Angel didn't think so.
There were harder questions. If Doyle hadn't died, Angel himself would never have fallen for Cordelia. Or, even if he had, he never would have acted on the feelings. Cordelia would have never gotten the visions. Would that mean that Jasmine would never have gotten her wormy hands on Cordy? Even if she had, Doyle would have seen through the ruse instantly and they could have saved her. No Jasmine; and if Jasmine had never come to power, Connor would have never succumbed to despair and madness. Wolfram and Hart would have lost their bargaining chip and Angel wouldn't be sitting here right now, planning on a final heroic act. What if. A bitter laugh echoed in the room. What was done, was done, no point in thinking about what might have been.
He scrubbed his hands over his face, emotions crashing randomly through him. Grief and guilt drove his pen, the ink flowing smoothly across the paper. Cordelia rose before him on the page, her megawatt smile beckoning him. Doyle might have been his first friend, but Cordelia had become his best friend. He had never met anyone like her, with her tenaciousness, her bluntness, her huge heart. Why had he had so little faith in her? How had he been so easily manipulated to believe that she would betray his feelings for her by sleeping with Connor? Or was the real problem that he hadn't felt he deserved her love?
His stupidity had cost Cordelia her life.
He missed her every day, although he kept his sorrow to himself. If she were still alive, she never would have let him sign up with Wolfram and Hart. She would have called him an idiot and helped him find another way to save Connor. Without Cordelia by his side, it hadn't taken him very long to lose his way.
Abruptly, he pushed himself out of the chair and crossed the room. Opening the cabinet, he pulled out a bottle of Jameson's and a cut crystal tumbler. The whiskey slid down his throat and pooled hot in his gut. At least he knew that Doyle and Cordelia were in a better place. Cold comfort, but better than none. Better than where he'd be heading.
In the end, being his link to the Powers hadn't done Cordelia any good. There had been no visions warning them about Jasmine or the aftermath. Maybe he should have remembered that having the sight was always more a curse than a blessing.
Sliding back behind his desk, he set the refilled glass down and picked up his pen. He found his hand shook slightly, and as a result, could do no more than depict her eyes, different sets all over the page. Cruel and calculating, chaste and unsullied, wanton and dangerous, the light of wisdom, the emptiness of madness – he had seen all of this in Dru's eyes, sometimes in the course of mere seconds. He should have ended her unholy existence long before; now she would continue to murder long after he himself was gone. It seemed that Connor was not his only child that he favored over the world. One more stain on his soul.
He took a long pull of whiskey, knowing he was putting off the next drawing. He had long thought Drusilla his worst sin. Now, he was no longer sure. Every line he drew felt like a slash against his own skin. The ink that flowed felt like it was composed of his own blood. Fred stared back at him, as trusting and accepting as ever.
Fred. He could draw her as much as he wanted but the fact remained that there was no Fred anymore. Winifred Burkle now resembled an Easter egg, repainted, the insides removed and thrown away, only a fragile shell left. Cordelia and Doyle were dead, but Angel knew that their souls resided in Heaven. Fred didn't even have that. She was just gone.
Handsome man saved me from the monsters. She had never caught on to the fact that the handsome man was the monster.
What would Gunn have done if he realized Angel's complicity in Fred's cessation? The only reason Wes hadn't staked him was that Wes was all too aware of his own part in sending Fred to her death.
Turning Fred would have been kinder. At least her soul would still exist somewhere. He stalked over to the window and watched as the azure sky slowly bled pastel. The last sunset he would ever see and more than he deserved. He thought briefly of Connor's smile as he said, "Dad," earlier. He would have made the exact same choices even knowing what he now knew. Fred for Connor. Cordelia for Connor. The world for Connor.
The silver accents in his apartment glowed pink from the setting sun; a note of grace for the living before the world edged into darkness. A reminder that his kind would be banished once more to the alley's shadows as the world turned. The beauty of the sunset was not meant for him.
He picked up his pen, and realized that it was almost empty. He twisted the barrel counterclockwise, laying the cap on a piece of blank paper in order to contain any stray droplets. Opening the bottle of blue-black ink, the smell enveloped him – slightly metallic, sharp, relaxing him as always with the sure knowledge that ink was something he was master of.
He is on his knees, the wood seat uncomfortably rigid against them, but he is too short to see the entirety of his father's desk any other way. The heavy oak door is slightly ajar and he can hear the murmur of his father's voice as he talks to Mr. Ceallaigh. His father rarely takes him to his place of business. All during the long buggy ride Liam finds himself enthralled by the sight and sounds of the bustling village. His father's business is the best of it all, though. First they stand in the big storeroom. Liam runs his fingertips over the bolts of linen when his father isn't looking, feeling how the fabric changes from featherweight smooth to coarse and rough. But his father's desk is by far the most fascinating thing in a building full of fascination and Liam has never gotten to see it without the presence of his da looming over him. There is a stack of heavy ivory paper, each sheet so thick that it feels more like a piece of cloth that writing paper. His father's seal, heavier than he expected. Candle, oil lamp, paper knife, scraper – he touches each in turn as if it will impart some sort of knowledge. At the edge of the desk is a large, heavy bound book. Liam opens it and sees the rows of numbers, all in his father's precise script. He is learning his sums at school and he happily thinks that is something he can do to help. He turns the pages until he comes to a blank sheet. Leaning over, he unstoppers the bottle of ink and breathes it in deeply. He is not allowed to use ink just yet, but he has watched the older boys very carefully and knows what to do. Taking the quill, he dips it in the ink pot and lets the excess drip back. Then, he carefully begins to write out numbers, but he soon tires of that activity. Instead, he begins to draw. First he draws the ink bottle and he is pleased at the likeness. He then sets to, his tongue poking out of his mouth slightly as his concentrates on transferring the contents of his father's desk to the ledger in front of him. He is so intent on his task that he doesn't even hear the creak of the door as it opens or his father's heavy tread. His arm is nearly wrenched out of its socket as his father drags him away from the desk. He doesn't understand the look of rage that is plain on his da's face and he is too frightened by it to even speak as his father demands to know what manner of demon possessed him. That night, he is thrashed for the first time in his life and with each blow, something hardens irrevocably inside him.
Angel stared at the picture of his sister, mother and father. This was the first time he had drawn them since the day he murdered them. What could he possibly say? Sorry? Forgive me?
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen. The words left his lips soundlessly.
He slowly rifled through each of the pictures he had done. They were all members of his family, adopted or blood, forced or voluntary, still, all his and all dead because of him, in some way. He shuddered. Here was tangible proof of what he was, what he would always be.
He turned to look outside. The sun had almost sunk below the horizon. Within the hour he needed to be at Spike's to set his plan in motion. But first...
One more sketch to go, but instead he found he couldn't stop. As soon as he put the finishing touch on one drawing, he was instantly starting another. It was only the fact that time was in short supply that caused him to finally lay down his pen.
Buffy.
Buffy in every pose imaginable, every facial expression he had ever seen.
Through the years he had often wondered if he had done the right thing by walking away time after time. Especially after finding out how lost she had been after her resurrection. Now, however, it was obvious that leaving her had been the better option. He hated The Immortal, but there was no denying how happy Buffy had seemed.
More importantly, she had escaped the real curse of his existence. Get close to him, wind up dead. Seemed rather obvious in retrospect. By the morning, the rest of his gang of misfits would also be dead. He could see it in their eyes, a haunted look that he suspected he sported as well. None of them wanted to be a part of the world any more. It had taken and taken and not given much back.
But Buffy? She was different. He had always known that she was special. Who else would have reached out to someone like him? Who else would have loved him and continued to love him after the crimes he had committed against her and others? Yes, others had come to stand by him but that was only because she had first turned him into someone worth taking a chance on.
Everything he had been through had left him broken, a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing. Everything she had been through had only made her stronger, better. He remembered the way she had smiled at him when he had handed over the amulet. Then she had told him she still dreamed of a future with him.
Not now, though. Now he had taken over Wolfram and Hart and lost her trust. He had crossed one too many lines and Buffy had finally given up on him.
Would she mourn when she found out his fate? Some selfish part of him wanted her to break down and rail against the heavens.
He grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and drew one final picture of Buffy, bringing every trick he knew to bear. She looked almost real when he was done. Her back was arched, a flush evident in the swell of her breasts. Her lips was slightly parted and kiss swollen, her eyes wide. She was a study in erotic bliss, the perfection possible when two merged hearts, minds, souls. He had given her that and that was enough.
He stood. Time was up. His final reckoning was upon him.
