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Divided House: Three Angel(us) drabbles

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  • Divided House: Three Angel(us) drabbles

    Disclaimer: None of the characters in this work belong to me--they're Joss's, of course.

    Characters: Angel(us); Drusilla, Harmony

    Warning: Extreme violence in the second drabble.

    Summary: Angel's future offers him two extremes. Whether he can find a balance between them--and follow it if he does--is the real question.

    "I am not myself," said Peter.
    "You are saying this to control yourself," said Wang-Mu, guessing but also sure she was right. "This is your incantation, to stop yourself from doing what you desire."
    --Children of the Mind, Orson Scott Card

    Zen and the Art

    "Good night, Mr. Angel."

    He wanted to break free of restraint, to leap up and seize her. Rip off that white dress, tear into her body right there. It wasn't going to happen. He was under lock and key. The last trickles of liquid drained away down his throat.

    He'd been a fool. He'd expected to be free. To not feel like this, even just for one instant. It was a lie, a lie, had always been a lie.

    Deep inside him, Angel felt something tear loose. At last. Alarms began to sound.

    His wrinkled fingers feebly gripped the bedsheets.

    In Sheepdog's Clothes

    In the end, there are no more tears.

    Angel knows there should be tears for Darla. But some hidden key has turned inside him and locked the tears away.

    He is striking harder, pounding, grinding bone on concrete, and the whimpers of "Daddy" give way to wordless mewls, go from mingled pleasure to purest pain. He has crossed this threshold before, and each time Drusilla moved it further away. Never again.

    A circuit has closed, and all he can feel is the joy of inflicting agony.

    His fist batters through her skull and slams the sidewalk. Dust settles.

    Angelus smiles.


    "I don't remember what it was like," Angel says.

    He's lying. He was never human, four and a half years ago, but he remembers every detail.

    Harmony begins to rattle on, and he wants to tell her: there is a lock to which he has lost the key. And he has begun to realize it will never be found. Not, at least, by him.

    Claws locked around Groo's throat. Blood scent. Crush. Maim. Kill. Drink.

    Angel seizes a remnant of self and pulls away.

    "Harm," he says, interrupting. "Sit down." She frowns, puzzled. "Tell me what it's like being you."
    Last edited by Mabus; 25-03-09, 08:39 PM.
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