Title: Fragile
Written By: Drea Jackman
Email: DreaJackman@Literati.co.uk
Rating: 15 (UK-rating)
Summary: Liam's life lacked that little extra spark and love that could've kept him away from becoming Angelus/Angel in the future. What could've driven him to it?
Disclaimer: Don't own Angel (or any of the characters) and I never will. *cries* "I wanna keep Angel!"
Archive: Sure, just email me to lemme know where first. Thanks!
Feedback: Hell yeah! It's another of the small pleasures of writing.
Author's Note: First ever fic I tried out. Written over a year ago it was attempted when nothing was known of Angel's past as Liam. In short, I guessed and played around with the idea of making it a series or something. In the end, I moved on to greater things...
________________________________________________________________
*Galway Ireland, 1753*
The night is cold and wet, rain falling to the darkened cobbled streets. A young man
stumbles off the dankly lit street and onto a small drive leading up to a large house. The
house itself not all that grand, but for what the small town had to offer it was grand in
comparison. All the windows are darkened, everyone asleep on this horrible night. He
creeps around to the side of the house, entering through the unlocked kitchen door.
Treading silently into the hall passing a statue displayed on a pedestal toward the stairs.
Approaching the steps with caution, aware of his slightly drunken state, he started to
climb.
"...Liam" the voice was stern and strong.
A man stepped out of the shadows at the top of the stairs, an angered presence glaring
down at his son. Liam was quick to respond in his fright.
"Father...I" he began, voice not betraying the same fear his stance did., but he was cut
off.
"I'll hear no more of your lies boy. Do you learn nothing?"
Liam could say nothing. He stood, half way up the steps, clutching the smooth wooden
banister that ran along side. His voice may not have been broken by his fear, but his
body knew instinctively to be wary of this being. A fine figure of a man his age, Liam
stood tall at around 6ft, strong build, powerful arms and yet when in the presence of his
father he always seemed broken, body slightly hunched, as if tensed to take his
punishment. As if sensing what was coming next he backed away a few steps, but was
not fast enough.
"You'll drink and you'll lie and you'll stay the worthless wretch you've always been.
You could never be anything more."
With every harsh word spoken he took steps toward Liam. Advancing on the boy that
cowered before him like a frightened animal, desperately searching for a way to escape
the beating that would follow. Eyes darting back and forth around the shadows almost
praying that a wall or the floor would somehow rise up and engulf him, protecting him.
His fearful gaze settled on the object clenched within his fathers furious grasp and his
body began to tremble violently. He could not take his eyes off the walking stick, that
horrid wooden club capped with the families crest in the handle, solid silver.
"....Father, father please......I didn't mean to..." voice shaking so much that he couldn't
finish his desperate plea.
"Enough!" his father yelled
The viscous tones echoing off into the silent house, down corridors that Liam would have
gladly escaped into, rooms that he would have hidden in. Raising the stick he swung it
out at Liam, who drunkenly leapt back to avoid it. In his state of partial drunkenness he
missed his footing and fell down the rest of the steps, tumbling backwards, the pedestal
cracking into his back and knocking the statue to the floor where it smashed into pieces.
Still reeling from the pain in his head he almost didn't feel the blows made to his side
until his father picked him up. Holding him up before him, his father continued to
"discipline" his boy. Between every frightened gasp or plea Liam made he followed it
with a strike across the face, only hitting harder the more he begged for mercy. After
Liam had no more strength to stand by himself or to cry out to his father, only then did he
stop and let his limp body fall to the floor. He straightened up his collar and disappeared
upstairs to bed.
Liam lay unconscious for sometime before coming round again. This time had been one
of the worst beatings, but he was still familiar with the situation. Pulling himself up
against the wall he gasped as a thousand aches and pains shot through his body.
Gradually he made his way up the rest of the steps to his room. It wasn't until he had
safely locked the door that he truly felt safe.
Walking to the mirror he looked at the bloodstained face that stared back at him, eyes
that had once been bright and so full of life now looked out upon their world dull and
listless, the fire had gone, burnt out after so many beatings. Shaking himself out of his
trance he limped to the wooden chest across the room.
He slowly began to undress for bed, trying to carry on as normal. He struggled with his
boots, eventually laying them aside, then moved on to his shirt. Opening it to reveal the
sickeningly blue and purple bruises that marred his skin he winced at the sight in the
mirror. Taking the sleeve and wiping away the bloodstains from his features and the
fresh blood that still trickled from the wound by his eye. It stung, he jumped as the silk
made contact. Suddenly, as if the mere stinging of one cut had triggered the sensation to
the rest of his body.
Tears formed in his eyes and he felt lost again. Unable to contain the whimper that
escaped his lips he sank to the floor. Burying his face in the bed coverings than hung
beside him, huddling into a tight ball he clung to sheets as if they provided the protection
and comfort he needed, he wept. The house loomed around him vast and silent as
outside the rain continued to pour.
*Los Angeles, present day*
Alone in his office Angel sat facing the open window, the room in darkness. His deep
brown eyes never flickered as he watched the rain splashing off the glass panels then
running down in cascades. Hearing voices and bustle again he shifted in his seat, coming
out of his reverie.
Written By: Drea Jackman
Email: DreaJackman@Literati.co.uk
Rating: 15 (UK-rating)
Summary: Liam's life lacked that little extra spark and love that could've kept him away from becoming Angelus/Angel in the future. What could've driven him to it?
Disclaimer: Don't own Angel (or any of the characters) and I never will. *cries* "I wanna keep Angel!"
Archive: Sure, just email me to lemme know where first. Thanks!
Feedback: Hell yeah! It's another of the small pleasures of writing.
Author's Note: First ever fic I tried out. Written over a year ago it was attempted when nothing was known of Angel's past as Liam. In short, I guessed and played around with the idea of making it a series or something. In the end, I moved on to greater things...
________________________________________________________________
*Galway Ireland, 1753*
The night is cold and wet, rain falling to the darkened cobbled streets. A young man
stumbles off the dankly lit street and onto a small drive leading up to a large house. The
house itself not all that grand, but for what the small town had to offer it was grand in
comparison. All the windows are darkened, everyone asleep on this horrible night. He
creeps around to the side of the house, entering through the unlocked kitchen door.
Treading silently into the hall passing a statue displayed on a pedestal toward the stairs.
Approaching the steps with caution, aware of his slightly drunken state, he started to
climb.
"...Liam" the voice was stern and strong.
A man stepped out of the shadows at the top of the stairs, an angered presence glaring
down at his son. Liam was quick to respond in his fright.
"Father...I" he began, voice not betraying the same fear his stance did., but he was cut
off.
"I'll hear no more of your lies boy. Do you learn nothing?"
Liam could say nothing. He stood, half way up the steps, clutching the smooth wooden
banister that ran along side. His voice may not have been broken by his fear, but his
body knew instinctively to be wary of this being. A fine figure of a man his age, Liam
stood tall at around 6ft, strong build, powerful arms and yet when in the presence of his
father he always seemed broken, body slightly hunched, as if tensed to take his
punishment. As if sensing what was coming next he backed away a few steps, but was
not fast enough.
"You'll drink and you'll lie and you'll stay the worthless wretch you've always been.
You could never be anything more."
With every harsh word spoken he took steps toward Liam. Advancing on the boy that
cowered before him like a frightened animal, desperately searching for a way to escape
the beating that would follow. Eyes darting back and forth around the shadows almost
praying that a wall or the floor would somehow rise up and engulf him, protecting him.
His fearful gaze settled on the object clenched within his fathers furious grasp and his
body began to tremble violently. He could not take his eyes off the walking stick, that
horrid wooden club capped with the families crest in the handle, solid silver.
"....Father, father please......I didn't mean to..." voice shaking so much that he couldn't
finish his desperate plea.
"Enough!" his father yelled
The viscous tones echoing off into the silent house, down corridors that Liam would have
gladly escaped into, rooms that he would have hidden in. Raising the stick he swung it
out at Liam, who drunkenly leapt back to avoid it. In his state of partial drunkenness he
missed his footing and fell down the rest of the steps, tumbling backwards, the pedestal
cracking into his back and knocking the statue to the floor where it smashed into pieces.
Still reeling from the pain in his head he almost didn't feel the blows made to his side
until his father picked him up. Holding him up before him, his father continued to
"discipline" his boy. Between every frightened gasp or plea Liam made he followed it
with a strike across the face, only hitting harder the more he begged for mercy. After
Liam had no more strength to stand by himself or to cry out to his father, only then did he
stop and let his limp body fall to the floor. He straightened up his collar and disappeared
upstairs to bed.
Liam lay unconscious for sometime before coming round again. This time had been one
of the worst beatings, but he was still familiar with the situation. Pulling himself up
against the wall he gasped as a thousand aches and pains shot through his body.
Gradually he made his way up the rest of the steps to his room. It wasn't until he had
safely locked the door that he truly felt safe.
Walking to the mirror he looked at the bloodstained face that stared back at him, eyes
that had once been bright and so full of life now looked out upon their world dull and
listless, the fire had gone, burnt out after so many beatings. Shaking himself out of his
trance he limped to the wooden chest across the room.
He slowly began to undress for bed, trying to carry on as normal. He struggled with his
boots, eventually laying them aside, then moved on to his shirt. Opening it to reveal the
sickeningly blue and purple bruises that marred his skin he winced at the sight in the
mirror. Taking the sleeve and wiping away the bloodstains from his features and the
fresh blood that still trickled from the wound by his eye. It stung, he jumped as the silk
made contact. Suddenly, as if the mere stinging of one cut had triggered the sensation to
the rest of his body.
Tears formed in his eyes and he felt lost again. Unable to contain the whimper that
escaped his lips he sank to the floor. Burying his face in the bed coverings than hung
beside him, huddling into a tight ball he clung to sheets as if they provided the protection
and comfort he needed, he wept. The house loomed around him vast and silent as
outside the rain continued to pour.
*Los Angeles, present day*
Alone in his office Angel sat facing the open window, the room in darkness. His deep
brown eyes never flickered as he watched the rain splashing off the glass panels then
running down in cascades. Hearing voices and bustle again he shifted in his seat, coming
out of his reverie.