Fighting for salvation?! Rated ® (I think)
My first attempt at anything resembling fiction. So please let me know what you think. Be kind! If you are familiar with the Angel/Buffy universe you might recognize some of the quotes I emphasized in italic, If not I tried to identify the person saying the "quote" in ( ). Hope you enjoy. And of course there are references to older epps, like "Shanshu in LA" and "Amends" And Buffy Series finally.
I think the story is its own summery. So there is none forthcoming here. Other than, every time I watch Angel season finally "Home," I feel like crying for our hero. This is a little brooding session. And, well, he deserves one. I would, wouldn't you?
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this fic (Angel is the brainchild of Fox and Joss Whedon.
He sat facing the windows, the curtains lay open, as the bright afternoon sun flooded the entire room with brilliant sun light. As the sun set the color spectrum changed to yellow then orange then from bright red to purple then blue and finally purple. To humans it looked black. Did they know the knight sky over LA was purple? It was a glorious sight.
He should not have been able to do this. Sitting in the light, watching the sun go down. In fact he would not have been able to do this anywhere but here at Wolfram and Hart. And a knife pierced his hart.
Why he still though of this firm as Wolfram and Hart he did not know. The name had been changed to Angel Investigations month ago, but it still felt wrong. He was still waiting for the Senor Partners to come in and present him with a contract, his contract, stating; Your time is up, we are now here to reclaim you soul for hell. We have a nice cozy spot for you all warm and bright and full of little fun activities for you to endure. Oh what? Not wanting to go? Didn't you know Angel? You sold your soul to us with the deal you made for Connor, his soul for yours. That was the deal. There is no salvation for those who make deals with the "Senior Partners".
Ever since his return from Sunnydale Angel had been lost. All good attentions aside, he knew when he was beat. Not since he failed to save Darla with the trials, had things been this dark. But that was not dark enough, not nearly dark enough for the Powers. It was not enough to show him the real champion and allow him to die, not one day after Angel had been send to play second fiddle by Buffy.
The champion was now here, here at Wolfram and Heart, and he was human. Spike returned from Hell, not much worse for wear, Non worse actually, Human. Shanshu had been about Spike.
The knife turned, cut. He almost laughed. What on earth had possessed him to believe that it was him? Was it delusions of grandeur? What made him worthy, he, the scourge of Europe, to be granted grace? He'd killed tens of thousands. And even with a soul he had killed. There was no hope, not for the likes of him.
Was he jealous of Spike? Why shouldn't he be? He had been working for the good guys of years now. Before that he had been trying to make amends the best his limited life experience had allowed him to. But no he was not jealous of Spike; he was too far gone to be jealous. Jealousy would mean that Angel had some shred of self worth left in him. He was not jealous, had no right to be.
He had been abandoned by the Gods a long time ago. He used to know that until Whistler. He'd been chosen to make a difference. Believing that was his first mistake. Every mistake after that was borne out of the idea that he was chosen, chosen for something special. Then to think that he deserved this chance, or the Slayer, that he deserved for her to see him as anything other than the animal he was. He did laugh at that. Buffy had saved the world, it was her and the Champion. He was just a delivery boy.
What had he done? All that monumental fighting, all the loss, to what end? "Peace on Earth". The impossible birth, his son, and Cordy, his link to the 'Powers That Be', were nothing more than vessels for that Power to give birth to itself. The Power's he'd worked for, Cordy, worked for, was a minor deity with delusions of grandeur. How fitting. This is what he'd been chosen for, a lie. Connor was right. Everything was a lie. And he, in his arrogance destroyed the only lie that held some hope of happiness for him. There was no salvation for him, never was, never will be. "You where a worthless being, before you where ever a monster" 'The First' had been right about that. He destroyed everything he touched, then and now. That was his gift, his only real gift. He is the destroyer, another lofty title.
A knock at the Door interrupted his down ward spiral. "What?!" he asked, making his voice purposely forceful. Spike stuck his head in the door. "There is big nest of Nashu demons moving into a warehouse by the docks." He raised his eye brows wistfully. His hair was longer now, and no longer white. He had let it grow back to its original dirty blond. His Billy Idol faze was officially over. But those where not the only changes, Spike had become quieter, more thoughtful. A trip to hell can do wonders for ones disposition. You would do anything not to have to go back there again. "I know," Angel answered in response to Spikes unasked question. "It would do you good to kick some ass on behalf of the good guys, get out the office? Don't tell me you don't miss the action?" 'On behalf of the good guys.' Spikes' intention was to be funny, cheer Angel up; he did not realize that he had just torn off another piece of Angels soul. He did notice however the air going out of the room. "Angel? You all right?" "Yeah, peachy." "Are you coming?"
"You don't need me." Spike looked at the floor, trying to think of something to say, anything. "You can't stay in here forever Angel." He finally said. Seconds oozed by, before he realized Angel was not going to answer. Was he planning on staying in there forever? Was he planning? "We'll talk when I come back!" he said, closing the door slowly as if not to disturb the dead.
Cordy was in a coma, Angel might as well be too. Despair oozed out of the Vampires every pour and Spike could do nothing but watch.
Angel did not want to talk, not now and not later. He did not want to chare his feeling, did not want to change them, he did not want to cheer up. His mind screamed at him, to snap out of it, to join the living, that this was no way to exist. It told him to fight, to be strong, to go on. It was his soul that incapacitated him now. It was too broken to care, and he did not want to anymore. Everything, everyone, he ever cared for, he lost, with no one to blame but himself. No more. He was tired. Not depressed, not brooding, just tired. Maybe if he could rest for a hundred years he could find a reason again to fight.
He stood up, slowly feeling every one of his 250 years pressing on his shoulders, feeling every wound ever dealt him, as he shuffled to the elevator. He had 12 cars to chose from, to take him home. In "A world that does not want you?" (Keeper of the word) Home? Once in the garage he got into the first car, he did not have to energy to walk any further, or make a decision of preference. "I Chose, because I could. It's what makes us human. You took that away from us" (Angel) "You are not human Angel!"(Jasmine) "Working on it." (Angel) She'd nearly killed him. And now he wished she had. He would never be human. He was so terribly tired.
Where the driver came from he didn't know. But he was there suddenly, opening the back door for Angel and he climbed in cooperatively. "Where to Mr. Angel?" The driver asked congenially. "Some place sunny." Angel ordered seriously, but he was not surprised that he elicited a laugh from the Man. They where determined to keep him out of the sunlight. Did they think they where being kind? "Home, Mr. Angel?" The Man asked still smiling.
"Sure." Did if matter? "You are not staying for Mrs. Cordy's birthday party?" the man asked conversationally. "No." was the monosyllabic answer. Had he gotten the memo regarding her birthday party? He probably did, just did not read it. Would they even miss him? Should they? He was there every day, but he had not spoken to anyone in weeks. Since Spike came to them, they where not stupid, they recognized the real thing when they saw it. They flocked around him and they should. Angel had nothing to offer them but despair. Wesley had given him that look, when he realized that Spike was the Vampire in the prophecy, that look that said. "Oops is was not about you after all." They had all thought it. No one knew were Angel was supposed to fit in now, least of all Angel. No one here was trying to convince him that he belonged in this world now. The world was ready to let him go.
All he saw was struggle, and pain, and loss, from the beginning to infinity, there was no end to it, not for him. At first he fought to keep Buffy safe, now she was safe(no thanks to him) then to make amends. But that was just a dream he could never make amends, not for the things he did. Then to fulfill the prophecy, only to be beat to it by someone else. And for Connor, who would never know who his father was, would never love him, had in fact hated him. What was he fighting for?
Nothing. Now there was only loneliness, and darkness. He was ready to go That's what he deserved that was his reward, his ..
My first attempt at anything resembling fiction. So please let me know what you think. Be kind! If you are familiar with the Angel/Buffy universe you might recognize some of the quotes I emphasized in italic, If not I tried to identify the person saying the "quote" in ( ). Hope you enjoy. And of course there are references to older epps, like "Shanshu in LA" and "Amends" And Buffy Series finally.
I think the story is its own summery. So there is none forthcoming here. Other than, every time I watch Angel season finally "Home," I feel like crying for our hero. This is a little brooding session. And, well, he deserves one. I would, wouldn't you?
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this fic (Angel is the brainchild of Fox and Joss Whedon.
He sat facing the windows, the curtains lay open, as the bright afternoon sun flooded the entire room with brilliant sun light. As the sun set the color spectrum changed to yellow then orange then from bright red to purple then blue and finally purple. To humans it looked black. Did they know the knight sky over LA was purple? It was a glorious sight.
He should not have been able to do this. Sitting in the light, watching the sun go down. In fact he would not have been able to do this anywhere but here at Wolfram and Hart. And a knife pierced his hart.
Why he still though of this firm as Wolfram and Hart he did not know. The name had been changed to Angel Investigations month ago, but it still felt wrong. He was still waiting for the Senor Partners to come in and present him with a contract, his contract, stating; Your time is up, we are now here to reclaim you soul for hell. We have a nice cozy spot for you all warm and bright and full of little fun activities for you to endure. Oh what? Not wanting to go? Didn't you know Angel? You sold your soul to us with the deal you made for Connor, his soul for yours. That was the deal. There is no salvation for those who make deals with the "Senior Partners".
Ever since his return from Sunnydale Angel had been lost. All good attentions aside, he knew when he was beat. Not since he failed to save Darla with the trials, had things been this dark. But that was not dark enough, not nearly dark enough for the Powers. It was not enough to show him the real champion and allow him to die, not one day after Angel had been send to play second fiddle by Buffy.
The champion was now here, here at Wolfram and Heart, and he was human. Spike returned from Hell, not much worse for wear, Non worse actually, Human. Shanshu had been about Spike.
The knife turned, cut. He almost laughed. What on earth had possessed him to believe that it was him? Was it delusions of grandeur? What made him worthy, he, the scourge of Europe, to be granted grace? He'd killed tens of thousands. And even with a soul he had killed. There was no hope, not for the likes of him.
Was he jealous of Spike? Why shouldn't he be? He had been working for the good guys of years now. Before that he had been trying to make amends the best his limited life experience had allowed him to. But no he was not jealous of Spike; he was too far gone to be jealous. Jealousy would mean that Angel had some shred of self worth left in him. He was not jealous, had no right to be.
He had been abandoned by the Gods a long time ago. He used to know that until Whistler. He'd been chosen to make a difference. Believing that was his first mistake. Every mistake after that was borne out of the idea that he was chosen, chosen for something special. Then to think that he deserved this chance, or the Slayer, that he deserved for her to see him as anything other than the animal he was. He did laugh at that. Buffy had saved the world, it was her and the Champion. He was just a delivery boy.
What had he done? All that monumental fighting, all the loss, to what end? "Peace on Earth". The impossible birth, his son, and Cordy, his link to the 'Powers That Be', were nothing more than vessels for that Power to give birth to itself. The Power's he'd worked for, Cordy, worked for, was a minor deity with delusions of grandeur. How fitting. This is what he'd been chosen for, a lie. Connor was right. Everything was a lie. And he, in his arrogance destroyed the only lie that held some hope of happiness for him. There was no salvation for him, never was, never will be. "You where a worthless being, before you where ever a monster" 'The First' had been right about that. He destroyed everything he touched, then and now. That was his gift, his only real gift. He is the destroyer, another lofty title.
A knock at the Door interrupted his down ward spiral. "What?!" he asked, making his voice purposely forceful. Spike stuck his head in the door. "There is big nest of Nashu demons moving into a warehouse by the docks." He raised his eye brows wistfully. His hair was longer now, and no longer white. He had let it grow back to its original dirty blond. His Billy Idol faze was officially over. But those where not the only changes, Spike had become quieter, more thoughtful. A trip to hell can do wonders for ones disposition. You would do anything not to have to go back there again. "I know," Angel answered in response to Spikes unasked question. "It would do you good to kick some ass on behalf of the good guys, get out the office? Don't tell me you don't miss the action?" 'On behalf of the good guys.' Spikes' intention was to be funny, cheer Angel up; he did not realize that he had just torn off another piece of Angels soul. He did notice however the air going out of the room. "Angel? You all right?" "Yeah, peachy." "Are you coming?"
"You don't need me." Spike looked at the floor, trying to think of something to say, anything. "You can't stay in here forever Angel." He finally said. Seconds oozed by, before he realized Angel was not going to answer. Was he planning on staying in there forever? Was he planning? "We'll talk when I come back!" he said, closing the door slowly as if not to disturb the dead.
Cordy was in a coma, Angel might as well be too. Despair oozed out of the Vampires every pour and Spike could do nothing but watch.
Angel did not want to talk, not now and not later. He did not want to chare his feeling, did not want to change them, he did not want to cheer up. His mind screamed at him, to snap out of it, to join the living, that this was no way to exist. It told him to fight, to be strong, to go on. It was his soul that incapacitated him now. It was too broken to care, and he did not want to anymore. Everything, everyone, he ever cared for, he lost, with no one to blame but himself. No more. He was tired. Not depressed, not brooding, just tired. Maybe if he could rest for a hundred years he could find a reason again to fight.
He stood up, slowly feeling every one of his 250 years pressing on his shoulders, feeling every wound ever dealt him, as he shuffled to the elevator. He had 12 cars to chose from, to take him home. In "A world that does not want you?" (Keeper of the word) Home? Once in the garage he got into the first car, he did not have to energy to walk any further, or make a decision of preference. "I Chose, because I could. It's what makes us human. You took that away from us" (Angel) "You are not human Angel!"(Jasmine) "Working on it." (Angel) She'd nearly killed him. And now he wished she had. He would never be human. He was so terribly tired.
Where the driver came from he didn't know. But he was there suddenly, opening the back door for Angel and he climbed in cooperatively. "Where to Mr. Angel?" The driver asked congenially. "Some place sunny." Angel ordered seriously, but he was not surprised that he elicited a laugh from the Man. They where determined to keep him out of the sunlight. Did they think they where being kind? "Home, Mr. Angel?" The Man asked still smiling.
"Sure." Did if matter? "You are not staying for Mrs. Cordy's birthday party?" the man asked conversationally. "No." was the monosyllabic answer. Had he gotten the memo regarding her birthday party? He probably did, just did not read it. Would they even miss him? Should they? He was there every day, but he had not spoken to anyone in weeks. Since Spike came to them, they where not stupid, they recognized the real thing when they saw it. They flocked around him and they should. Angel had nothing to offer them but despair. Wesley had given him that look, when he realized that Spike was the Vampire in the prophecy, that look that said. "Oops is was not about you after all." They had all thought it. No one knew were Angel was supposed to fit in now, least of all Angel. No one here was trying to convince him that he belonged in this world now. The world was ready to let him go.
All he saw was struggle, and pain, and loss, from the beginning to infinity, there was no end to it, not for him. At first he fought to keep Buffy safe, now she was safe(no thanks to him) then to make amends. But that was just a dream he could never make amends, not for the things he did. Then to fulfill the prophecy, only to be beat to it by someone else. And for Connor, who would never know who his father was, would never love him, had in fact hated him. What was he fighting for?
Nothing. Now there was only loneliness, and darkness. He was ready to go That's what he deserved that was his reward, his ..