morbidityRating:MA (15+ Australian) or R (US), language, sexual references, a touch of Angelus.
Posted: July 7, 2000
Notes:
1) So today started out rainy, drear and windy. What better than some angst?
2) References are made to events that occured in By Sun and Candlelight.
"Liam Corish.""Cathleen."
"Mother."
"Father."
"Aine."
He always said his christian name and family name first - once a day - out loud - to remind himself who he had been, that he could still speak. The names, when he knew the names, of his constant, persistent companions followed.
Little Cathy was always first to greet him. A ghastly grin on the once truly sweet face. Cathy was the only one who ever attempted a genuine greeting, her drawn lips a mockery of a lovely, living smile. He really wished she wouldn’t. His mother and father never smiled, they stared coldly through him. His mother always had pooling tears in her pale eyes. They had never yet overflowed. Aine beckoned laughingly, as though to entice him to her ragged, decaying bosom. The pretty servant had always eluded his coarse advances in life, why did she summon him now?
His voice faded to a murmur as the litany of dead filed past.
The collapsed crypt was small, confined, dark and dry. Somewhere to curl up. Dark was a necessity, dry was a luxury.
The rubble clinked occasionally as his shoe moved against the loose stone, flinching at the memories, trying to curl up tighter. The stones tumbled into the narrow shaft and dropped with a faint tinkle into the sewer below.
The rats rarely came up this far. The bones in the crypt had long been gnawed clean. When he had first stumbled into this darkness the small cavity had been strewn with remains. He had gathered them together and, not knowing which belonged to whom, he had covered them all in a shallow hollow covered with stone.
A single smooth wall surface provided security for his back. He could lie against the coldness and clasp his knees to his chest, his shoulders and head tucked down. Huddled, defeated.
Every day.
"Liam Corish."
"Cathleen."
"Mother."
"Father."
"Aine."
He only fed when desperation drove him down to the sewers, for the rats.
The first rat had been the worst, though the others were never easy. Sinking his teeth into a furry, sinewy, flea-ridden, corpse-fed, sewer-bathed, shit-covered, angrily screeching rodent was sickening and humiliating. The blood was drawn in seconds, hardly a few mouthfuls. He choked back a need to expunge his stomach and spat the hairy fibres from his mouth. He would require several more rats before he could climb back to his lonely sanctuary.
The putrid, stinking warmth filled the tunnels. He kept to the stone ledge along the side of the sewer, above the dark, murky, swirling depths. Once he had fallen in, his hungry eagerness to reach for a rat floating past on a swollen corpse overcoming his loathing of the liquid stench.
He was learning. Spending the next day and night scrunched up in a miserable, lower than low, foul ball was not to be repeated. He had not fed for nearly a week after that drenching. Wishing for the weakness to let it end. The end never came. His will to survive was too strong.
He wasn’t sure how long this phase of his existence lasted. One day he was woken from one of his brief sleeps by the sound of digging and picks on the stones above him. He left, hurriedly, no packing required, slithering into the sewer, cowering against the damp walls until darkness allowed his escape.
To move on.
Cordelia had asked. He had surprised himself, and her, and told.He looked over towards her. She had turned away, standing, looking into the kitchen. She was disgusted. Why wouldn’t she be? Rats, shit, dead bodies, degenerate fear, loathing?
He sat silently, wondering if he should just leave now. He didn’t want to. He wanted so much for her to understand. She was moving, towards him. One hand over her mouth, pressing into the living pink flesh, holding in her emotions. The familiar feel of rejection began to knot his soul. He started to tremble.
Cordelia stood in front of him, her skirt brushing his knees. He concentrated on her bare midriff.
Soft fingertips trickled down his cheek. She was touching him. If she loathed him she wouldn’t touch him. The fear remained, but he waited, still.
"You don’t want pity. I can understand that - but, I can’t help it," she whispered.
He looked up at the now tear-stained face. The fear was gone, the trembling ceased.
"I know you had those memories of dead people, Angelus’ memories and yes, I know it hadn’t been… easy… for you surviving all these years - but - I didn’t want to think about that - and now, knowing a small part of the pain you deal with every day, inside your head - and I can’t do anything. I want to help. Tell me."
"Cordelia, don’t." He pulled her forward onto his knees and folded her close to his chest. "I’m a selfish bastard. I should never have told you."
"I asked," she said as an apology and curled into his body.
"You have asked before. I’ve avoided." Angel’s hands supported and caressed. "You do help. Every time I am with you - you help. I don’t dwell on the past as much. I’m sorry. I had no right to give you those memories."
The back of Cordelia’s pale, bare neck was only inches from his face. The little ridges of bone clear in the shadowy light. He released his hand from her waist and brought his fingers up to trace the knobbly little bumps.
"I have the memory now and you can’t have it back," she said into his sweater.
He lightly kissed the second bump.
"Stay with me tonight," she asked softly.
"You know that isn’t - a good idea," he said reluctantly.
Cordelia pushed herself up, her face now close to his, peering at him intently. "Nothing happened. You didn’t go ‘grrr’. It was a dream, enjoyable. Why can’t we do it again?"
"No," he searched her face, was she offering her dream-self out of pity? "I can’t. I’d want more and then - who knows? I won’t put you at risk Cordelia."
She wriggled slightly on his lap, her hip and buttocks rubbing into his groin. Angel’s hands flew to her hips, pinning her tight. "Do that again," he said, with a softly threatening smile, "and you will be on the floor."
Cordelia sighed and dropped her head back onto his shoulder. They sat silently for a few moments. Angel wished occasionally that he could take an interest in football. At times like these he could indulge in non-erotic football thoughts.
"Angel?"
"Mmmm?"
"You could let me look after you, you know, like you did for me - in our dream," her voice was hesitant.
"What?"
She touched at his stomach, "Like well - me - down there," but Cordelia hardly finished the sentence. She almost was tumbled onto the floor. Angel had quickly stood, ungraciously landing Cordelia on her feet.
"No!" He strode agitatedly to the other side of the room. "This is all wrong! Even if you weren’t trying to comfort me…."
"But…" she was more than surprised at his sudden commotion.
"No, I can see it in your eyes Cordelia. You might not realise, but pity has spurred this offer to… to… Hell, Cordelia, ladies don’t!" He finished on an explosion of words.
Cordelia was bewildered. "Ladies don’t? Don’t what?"
"That was for harlots, whores, fens. When you didn’t know if they were clean or riddled with the pox - to be safe, you fucked their mouths - and I’m not swearing - I mean fuck," he was panting, moving, clenching, unclenching his fists. "Ladies, women you…" he glanced briefly at Cordelia, "women you care about, respected - you would never…. never….."
If possible he was even more agitated. How had they moved from a starting-to-get-comfy-cuddle to this frenzy? Cordelia went to him, blocking his narrow path, her hands flat against his chest.
"Shh. Shh. I am a lady - I hope. Attitudes have changed Angel. More of your 18th century inhibitions?" she tried to smile, "It’s okay. I didn’t mean to upset you. I haven’t been much comfort to you tonight."
"All wrong," he muttered, "It’s all wrong. I want you to…Feel me.." Angel grabbed Cordelia’s wrist and crudely held her palm against his burgeoning penis.
"Angel?" Cordelia, startled, looked up into his contorted face - full of pain, self-loathing, but overall, a leering lust. "Is that you?"
Was he still Angel? He had never felt quite this close to losing control around Cordelia. Why? The painful memories? Had they brought Angelus nearer to the surface. The arousal, desire - remembering what he had done to any woman, lady or not, as Angelus. Because Angelus wanted to do the same to Cordelia’s compliant mouth now?
Push her to her knees, twine his fingers into the glossy hair and pull her head back to wrench the glistening moist mouth open. Fill her mouth with his engorged penis, pull her head back and forth as he rocked his pelvis back and forth to force himself more and more inside her. Ignoring the gasping, choking splutters - back and forth, in and out - the tear-filled, hatred-filled, fear-filled, pleading eyes. Fuck her mouth, down her throat, spill his dead sperm into her already glutted cavity, revel in her humiliation, her sobbing suffocation.
"Angel?"
He dropped her hand from where he had been rubbing her warmth against his now complete erection. That mouth, full red lips parted in bewildered concern. The tip of her pink tongue quickly flicked the nervous dryness from the corner of her lips. God help him, not now, not Cordelia. She didn’t run. He couldn’t smell any fear.
Cordelia’s hand, so recently full of turgidity, again rested on his chest. Not pushing, not pleading, simply there. Would she push him away if….
She didn’t. He covered her mouth with his own. Her lips already parted, there was no barrier to his rapine tongue, inside her, pushing into her throat and then drawing her own tongue roughly into his mouth, eagerly sucking on her flesh. No resistance , hands still on his chest, his own now lightly covering them, she allowed him his way. His aggression and lust was waning, needing fear to feed on. There was none.
The barely concealed violence was gone. Angel’s gentle tongue explored her mouth tenderly, soothingly. Cordelia responded, her lips stroking his, tongue swirling against his - no longer compliant but giving.
Reluctantly Cordelia released his mouth. For a moment Angel stood with eyes closed, savouring the taste of her kiss. His hands remained resting on her own.
"Angel?"
"Mmmm?" he said on a sigh and opened his eyes. His face was once more smooth, relaxed, calm. The moisture glistening on his cheeks the only evidence of the tempest.
"I guess the door was opened a crack," she asked tentatively, desperately hoping Angelus had made a brief visit - that the pillaging violence she had felt hadn’t come from her Angel.
"Yes," his voice was restrained. "I’m so sorry," he added more gently, stepping back from her, hands dropping dejectedly to his sides. "Not your fault Cordelia, a combination - bad memories…"
"That I asked about. Me wriggling in your lap."
He nodded, "Your neck, your scent…."
"Me talking about our dream."
He nodded again. "…and then offering to…well, Angelus didn’t care Cordelia - any woman, any how. I remembered and then… I could feel him." Angel looked at her with an almost smile. "You were great - you helped calm him."
"Me?" she asked incredulously. How could he say she did great when she had inadvertently helped to loose the demon?
"You didn’t panic - no fear - if you had, if he had smelt fear - I don’t know….I don’t want to think about that." But he knew he would have to - later, when he was alone. Cordelia didn’t know how imminent the danger had been and he couldn’t tell her - at least, he could never tell her about Angelus’ intent. He would have to teach her to read the warning signs - agitation, uncharacteristic actions.
"Okay, no sex talk after memories talk or vice versa or maybe never at all. I get the message," Cordelia gave Angel’s chest a gentle thump, "You hear me in there Angelus? I get the message!"
"I’m ashamed that he was well, not so very far away. I thought I had better control." Angel was walking towards the front door. "I’d better go."
"Hey, you aren’t going to beat yourself up over this are you? I need to have better control! I know I contributed a lot - however much you tell me it wasn’t my fault - but personally I blame Angelus and I don’t mind dumping shit on him." She was unwilling to let him go. Angelus had come and gone so quickly, no fangs, no game face - there, just under Angel’s skin. Already the last ten minutes felt surreal, a bad dream.
"You’ll be okay about all this tomorrow? No avoidance? No unnaturally-broody brooding? No walking out without giving me my almost habitual kiss on the forehead?" she reminded him as he put a hand out to the door handle.
He looked back over his shoulder, smiling. "The other kiss wasn’t enough?"
She shook her head and went to meet him, "That was Angelus."
The cool lips pressed to her forehead for longer than usual. "Only the first half. The second half was me," he whispered against the soft skin. "Be patient with me. Please?"
And he was gone.
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Disclaimer: The characters are Joss Whedon's, Mutant Enemy's and probably a heap of other people about
whom I know nothing.
I lay no claim to ownership of the characters, I simply like to ask them out to play now and then.