History Repeats (3/?: Memories and Metaphors the First)
Angelus
See first chapter for disclaimer, etc.
~*~
When she's not here, at least he has the cigatrettes and booze to keep him company. He tries not to dwell on how many nights he's spent like this; a glass tumbler in one hand, the television remote in the other, a cigarette balanced precariously against his full lower lip. "Passions" is on, he reminds himself nightly, for the pure fact that it's the one thing around here he can count on not to change.
To the casual observer, he supposes he appears dead. A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of hismouth when he remembers that he is, in fact, dead. He lays there on his debris-covered bed, motionless, a study in contrasts; his black jeans and open black button-down shirt paired with his platinum hair and the ivory skin of his face, chest, and bare feet, all against the gaudy, pink silk sheets of the bed that he never cared enough about to change. The only sign that he's living - or unliving - is the sporadic movements of his hand as he takes long, slow, cleansing drags off of his cigarette.
Passions ends, as do the five shows after it, yet still he sits in front of the television. Cigarette after cigarette burns down to a tiny stub, and the pile next to his bed grows just as quickly as the brandy bottle empties.
As he pulls out the lighter once more, his addled brain recognizes just how drunk he really is. Getting drunk is hard for him to do, considering the incredibly high tolerance he's built up for it over the years, but it does happen, at times like now when he just doesn't care enough to pay attention and limit his intake. Consequently, he ends up doing things like turning his lighter over and over in his hands for hours on end, or until the effects wear off, which takes considerably longer than it does an actual human due to the fact that he no longer has a working liver, seeing as how he's been dead for quite some time now.
It's a nice lighter; smooth and shiny, with the inscription on the bottom that reads:
"To my William. With love, Catherine."
He remembers the day Druscilla gave him this lighter. It had been his birthday, or so she said. Truth be told, he didn't remember his human birthday, but once every few years Dru would decide to celebrate on a random day. This particular year, they had still been with Darla and Angelus. The four of them had gone to the ballet at Dru's insistence. Obviously, Peaches and the Bitch Queen had been in a good mood if they had allowed themselves to be persuaded to attend, for they didn't share his trait of catering to her every whim.
She had looked beautiful that night. At the ballet she had become quiet and well-behaved, hopping back and forth from his lap to Peaches'. The evening was so magical that even that hadn't bothered him. On the way home, she had danced through the moonlit streets, spinning 'round and 'round is dizzying circles and singing to the stars. She had held out her hand and he had taken it and they had shared a waltz in the middle of the darkened streets of Greece.
When they had returned home, Darla and Angelus had retired to their bedroom without comment, leaving himself and Dru to their own devices. They had made love; slowly, passionately. Later that night, she had awoken, dressed, and gone out. And, being as protective as he was, he had followed her. It hadn't been anything special; she had simply been hungry. But after her handsome young victim had fallen to the ground beneath her, she had bent down, picked up and object off the ground, and headed for home. As usual, he had beaten her there, and had lain in bed as if he hadn't even noticed that she was gone when she had crawled back in beside him and held up her prize, dangling it in front of his face: that very lighter.
He had chuckled then, and kissed her, thinking of what a coincidence it had been that of all people, Dru had managed to unknowingly find someone named William to rob and kill. They had made love again, and as he was right on the edge, she had informed him in grave seriousness that she had a secret to tell him.
"What, luv?" he had asked distractedly. She had smiled coyly, her lips just grazing his ear, and has whispered:
"My name's not Catherine."
Just that moment, he had come, laughing and shouting her name and thinking that surely, it just couldn't get any better than this.
He still misses her. There are some things that Buffy will never be able to understand: his penchance for masochism; his need for blood; and, above all, his love for her.
So still he sits, thinking, turning that lighter over and over in his hands, careful not to accidentally open it and burn himself like last time. And suddenly it occurs to him - maybe it's the alcohol - how much like Buffy this lighter really is.
On the outside, it's flawless, as is she. It's cold and hard as she would like to appear, yet inexplicably, irresistibly alluring. Yes, she tries to appear like the concerns of the world can't touch her, but he knows the truth. He's seen her laugh, seen her cry, seen her in such a rage that she's taken out a concrete tombstone with one fatal kick.
Yes, underneath the metal, what she tries so desperately to hide, lies passion; passion that burns white-hot; passion too hot to compare to even the flame inside his lighter. Whether in rage or in love, she radiates searing passion. It was that passion that attracted him to her ever since their first meeting. Even then, he was captivated by her incredible beauty and savage spirit just begging to be tamed.
She's beautiful when she's angry. But she's even more beautiful when she smiles. And he can't help but notice that she does it more often that none when she's around him.
He may lead a tragic, meaningless, unimportant life, but if he can manage to make the Slayer - *his* Slayer, his Buffy, his love - laugh the way she does when she's with him, he thinks that perhaps his unlife is worth living after all.
Angelus
See first chapter for disclaimer, etc.
~*~
When she's not here, at least he has the cigatrettes and booze to keep him company. He tries not to dwell on how many nights he's spent like this; a glass tumbler in one hand, the television remote in the other, a cigarette balanced precariously against his full lower lip. "Passions" is on, he reminds himself nightly, for the pure fact that it's the one thing around here he can count on not to change.
To the casual observer, he supposes he appears dead. A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of hismouth when he remembers that he is, in fact, dead. He lays there on his debris-covered bed, motionless, a study in contrasts; his black jeans and open black button-down shirt paired with his platinum hair and the ivory skin of his face, chest, and bare feet, all against the gaudy, pink silk sheets of the bed that he never cared enough about to change. The only sign that he's living - or unliving - is the sporadic movements of his hand as he takes long, slow, cleansing drags off of his cigarette.
Passions ends, as do the five shows after it, yet still he sits in front of the television. Cigarette after cigarette burns down to a tiny stub, and the pile next to his bed grows just as quickly as the brandy bottle empties.
As he pulls out the lighter once more, his addled brain recognizes just how drunk he really is. Getting drunk is hard for him to do, considering the incredibly high tolerance he's built up for it over the years, but it does happen, at times like now when he just doesn't care enough to pay attention and limit his intake. Consequently, he ends up doing things like turning his lighter over and over in his hands for hours on end, or until the effects wear off, which takes considerably longer than it does an actual human due to the fact that he no longer has a working liver, seeing as how he's been dead for quite some time now.
It's a nice lighter; smooth and shiny, with the inscription on the bottom that reads:
"To my William. With love, Catherine."
He remembers the day Druscilla gave him this lighter. It had been his birthday, or so she said. Truth be told, he didn't remember his human birthday, but once every few years Dru would decide to celebrate on a random day. This particular year, they had still been with Darla and Angelus. The four of them had gone to the ballet at Dru's insistence. Obviously, Peaches and the Bitch Queen had been in a good mood if they had allowed themselves to be persuaded to attend, for they didn't share his trait of catering to her every whim.
She had looked beautiful that night. At the ballet she had become quiet and well-behaved, hopping back and forth from his lap to Peaches'. The evening was so magical that even that hadn't bothered him. On the way home, she had danced through the moonlit streets, spinning 'round and 'round is dizzying circles and singing to the stars. She had held out her hand and he had taken it and they had shared a waltz in the middle of the darkened streets of Greece.
When they had returned home, Darla and Angelus had retired to their bedroom without comment, leaving himself and Dru to their own devices. They had made love; slowly, passionately. Later that night, she had awoken, dressed, and gone out. And, being as protective as he was, he had followed her. It hadn't been anything special; she had simply been hungry. But after her handsome young victim had fallen to the ground beneath her, she had bent down, picked up and object off the ground, and headed for home. As usual, he had beaten her there, and had lain in bed as if he hadn't even noticed that she was gone when she had crawled back in beside him and held up her prize, dangling it in front of his face: that very lighter.
He had chuckled then, and kissed her, thinking of what a coincidence it had been that of all people, Dru had managed to unknowingly find someone named William to rob and kill. They had made love again, and as he was right on the edge, she had informed him in grave seriousness that she had a secret to tell him.
"What, luv?" he had asked distractedly. She had smiled coyly, her lips just grazing his ear, and has whispered:
"My name's not Catherine."
Just that moment, he had come, laughing and shouting her name and thinking that surely, it just couldn't get any better than this.
He still misses her. There are some things that Buffy will never be able to understand: his penchance for masochism; his need for blood; and, above all, his love for her.
So still he sits, thinking, turning that lighter over and over in his hands, careful not to accidentally open it and burn himself like last time. And suddenly it occurs to him - maybe it's the alcohol - how much like Buffy this lighter really is.
On the outside, it's flawless, as is she. It's cold and hard as she would like to appear, yet inexplicably, irresistibly alluring. Yes, she tries to appear like the concerns of the world can't touch her, but he knows the truth. He's seen her laugh, seen her cry, seen her in such a rage that she's taken out a concrete tombstone with one fatal kick.
Yes, underneath the metal, what she tries so desperately to hide, lies passion; passion that burns white-hot; passion too hot to compare to even the flame inside his lighter. Whether in rage or in love, she radiates searing passion. It was that passion that attracted him to her ever since their first meeting. Even then, he was captivated by her incredible beauty and savage spirit just begging to be tamed.
She's beautiful when she's angry. But she's even more beautiful when she smiles. And he can't help but notice that she does it more often that none when she's around him.
He may lead a tragic, meaningless, unimportant life, but if he can manage to make the Slayer - *his* Slayer, his Buffy, his love - laugh the way she does when she's with him, he thinks that perhaps his unlife is worth living after all.
