Disclaimer: Joss Whedon doesn't care if I or anyone else writes fanfiction, and he in fact encourages it.
A/N: Give us a review, luv. Ah, and this is potentially extremely depressing, so come back later if you're triggerable.
A/N 2: Takes place directly after Somnambulist.
This is Reality
B.L.B. Liquor
It was nice pretending to Cordelia. He was relieved to know that even encountering his childe from years back wouldn't force his emotions to the surface. Sometimes it was like his fake smile was all he had going for him anymore. Well, not fake. The meaning behind it was real enough. I'm going to be okay. And he would. And he remembered the days he would smile because he was happy, not because others needed to think he was happy. They weren't that long ago. So he smiled, and he almost felt the emotion in reverse. Almost.
He knew the dreams of drawing blood crosses on the left cheeks of innocents would be replaced tonight. He would instead dream of Penn. Betraying Penn, but still being forgiven. That was always the way it played out after these sorts of days. They were comfort dreams, but he knew they were only there to torture him further. He'd wake up, force himself to wake up, because he knew he didn't deserve comfort, and even less forgiveness.
He didn't remember the specifics following the arrival of his soul about a century ago, but he didn't need to remember the reality behind the haze of pain and panic to recall the torment in all its glory, as if nothing had happened since then and he was back sobbing in front of Darla, and none of his actions since had mattered. But they didn't, did they? There were times he calculated—the Angelus days against the Angel days, and how many of the former he had spent killing and raping and driving his victims insane, against how many of the latter he had spent helping people. It was something like 43,000 to less than a thousand. There were other ways to look at it, of course. How many lives did Angelus wither, and how many had Angel even brightened? It was astronomically unbalanced. Yet, those numbers did not begin to scrape at the depth of his darkness. He only had to close his eyes and think a name—William, for instance—for the blood-black-emptiness to open up before him, through which a single screaming voice pierced—
"Please, pl—Angelus—God, no—so sorry—"
Angel treasured that one among the best, for it allowed him to sit in one place in the basement that night for hours, punching the stone floor or wall until both hands were bleeding and bones were broken. Another childe, in spirit if not by definition, and so it seemed appropriate for tonight at three a.m. as the blows finally weakened, and after a few more minutes he staggered up, grabbed the first aid kit, and collapsed on the bed. He examined his palms, fingers, and knuckles with a shade of what could be called a smile, if he were in another dimension where all smiles spoke self-hatred, and he agonizingly pried off the lid to the kit and took out some rolls of bandaging. He straightened out his fingers so that by the time he was in the office that afternoon they would be good as...new. He found the edge of the bandage on the first roll and began the wrapping process, using his mouth to hold the gauze in place as he wound the material around his right hand reverently.
"Ssh, William. It will be right as rain soon," he whispered to the now-bandaged hand, and as he maneuvered the next roll to unravel and wind around his left hand, he made a stifled, choking noise. "I won't hurt ye again." His body shook the tears out of him, sobs that became increasingly hysterical when he finished and packed the kit back up. He put it on the kitchen counter and turned off the light in the bathroom, submerging his quarters in full darkness. He crawled into his bed and lay beneath the covers. Salty, burning tears dripped onto the pillow, and he cradled his arms in front of him, suddenly exhausted. He shut his eyes and prayed for nightmares devoid of forgiveness.