Title: Effrayé de Moi
Pairing: None really. Angelus/Dru reference
Warning: Mentions of sex and violence.
Summary: Angelus fears one thing. His conversation with the Beastmaster aka Evil!Cordy during ‘Release’ One-Shot.
Timeline: Spoilers up to this scene, and references Buffy season 2.
Notes: I was watching this Ep. and got inspired by David’s acting ability. Angelus scared, who knew?
Title means ‘Frightened of Me’
“Hello, volume!” He covers his ears and winces in pain. Damn! loud much?
“I am not well pleased!”
“I am not well deaf.“ He says and straightens up.
“Do you think me blind, little man? That I don't see every move before you decide to make it? Dare to seek me out again, and your insolence will be punished ten-fold.”
“Yeah, what're you gonna do, huh? Give me a migraine?” He laughs and takes a few anxious steps. “You ethereal types with your big, swinging omniscience. When push comes to shove, though, you gotta send some overgrown slag-heap to do your dirty work. Ooh, that's real spooky.” He turns back to the shopkeeper and discovers he’s gone. “That's great! You made me lose my shopkeeper.” He glares at the Persian rug and stands back up, moving around in an irritated way.
“This isn't the way, my sweet. We should be friends, you and I.”
“No, and I'll tell you why. One, because, you know, I'm evil, so—the friends thing—that's out. And two, if I did have any friends, they sure as hell wouldn't be living inside my head.” Sure, he’s had companions, acquaintances, family, minions, enemies, prisoners. Friends-not really; that was more of the soul’s deal.
“Like you're forced to live inside Angel's?” The beast master chuckles and Angelus is reminded of the Master and Darla, It‘s funny now that he thinks about it, the whole order of Aurelius is sadistic like that.
“Because you're the voice in there, aren't you? Just beneath the surface, buried under all that goodness, fully conscious, fully aware, but trapped. Unable to move or speak, powerless to act on your desires. So thirsty, so helpless...it must be agony.”
He’s tired of playing all this talking crap. “I’m getting real bored with this game.” He walks away, trying not to think about what it would mean to have the soul back.
“Then how 'bout a round of show-and-tell?” He stops at these words, turns slightly and sees something on a table by the fireplace.
“Soul, soul, who has your soul?” It shimmers and dances, white, glittering light in the bottle. All the good and righteousness exposed in corporeal form. “Oh, right. Me.”
He lunges for the jar, trying to grab it. He won’t let it out of his sight if he can help it. But as he comes to the table, his hands slip right through it.
“More smoke and mirrors?” He asks, ignoring the wriggling in his stomach at the disappointment of not having the jar.
“Only a glamour, yes, but I assure you, my sweet, this very moment I hold the real thing in the palms of my very corporeal hands, and I will restore it if you don't behave. I'll put you back in your box, Angelus, and bury you so far inside Angel, you'll never claw your way out again.”
Angelus didn’t get scared. Fear wasn’t in his vocabulary. He was always the one who tormented. He was in nightmares, he was the thing that people feared, an idol among demons, a god to other vampires. He didn’t fear anything.
Except the soul. Except his cage.
One hundred years of watching someone suffer should have been a gay romp, but not when said victim was trying to redeem and help along the way. Every nice thing Angel had done he remembers, every person saved, every Apocalypse averted, everything that Angel has done, lives in the back of his brain like a hang-over that won’t go away.
Angelus was actually a pretty normal demon. Liked to kill and maim, destroy and torture, never wanted to end the world though. But being shoved into a small dark box in someone’s brain, forced to watch horrors that are good and moral for a hundred years will screw you up.
When he first woke up, in Sunnydale he couldn’t remember the last few years and it took him a minute to realize what had happened. The pain was gone for good, at least he thought so. It had been like a high, he had been giddy for hours; Happy beyond belief. The soul was gone, it was like everything seemed clearer, brighter, hurt just a little bit more. It was great.
After a couple weeks he’d noticed a few things that were different. His childer for instance. Dru was the same, basically, a little crazier, more independent. Daddy hadn’t always been there, and she had learned to adapt.
Spike, though, had become a master vampire. He’d killed two slayers. It made the blood in Angelus’ veins sing. Hot and sweet, boiling with happiness and frustration. Spike had done two things he’d never done before. One, he’d made Angelus proud, the second: he’d made Angelus jealous.
Spike had accomplished something Angelus hadn’t even done. Angelus had killed a slayer; One. A pretty Russian girl in the early 19th century. She had been new, three or four months into her calling at the most. Spike had killed one slayer that was four years in, the other no more than two. It made Angelus mad.
Spike had surpassed his expectations and risen to follow in dear old dad’s footsteps. He was evil and black and made children wet their beds. Angelus was angry at this turn of events.
After a month Spike had become more withdrawn and angry. Angry that his sire had changed, become something different. He’d confronted Angelus about it, asked him why he was off his rocker. Spike had had to stay in bed for a week for that.
This made Angelus wonder. Dru had changed, but she didn’t fear him anymore. One of the big reasons he’d kept Dru around was the fact that she’d feared him, even when she had out grown the title of ‘fledgling’ she still feared him. Nowadays, though, she just laughed and let him fuck her through the mattress.
Once, early after losing his soul he had overheard Spike asking Drusilla about him. If the stars had revealed anything about him.
She had smiled and weaved a little dreamily. “Oh yes my Spike. Daddy won’t kill the gazelle until he’s been scolded by mother. He’s been locked up tight, in the dark with a window looking out over the nasty white light. He tortured a lamb and made it a demon once, and now he can’t remember how to eat lamb chops. They get stuck in his teeth, and he’ll stay like the lamb for always.” She had ended her speech with that crazy laughter that always sounded one part amused, two parts crazy. Later, when he’d been re-ensouled he had figured out that she’d said he was a little bit crazy, like her-the lamb he’d slaughtered.
Back to the present he bites his lip and stares at the ceiling, if he gave in it would mean submitting, and he‘s never submitted to anyone against his will before. The soul would be worse, though.
He wouldn’t be in his cage again. He knew that for certain. He wouldn’t be forced to watch it all again, and when he was in there he could feel his sanity slipping ever since he’d been aware of it diminishing.
As soon as he took care of L.A. he would ensure that nothing ever stopped him again, he would go to Sunnydale and sort out the witch soon enough. So now, he just had to go with the flow until he could ensure his future soulessness, and it might not be that bad working for an all mighty evil, at least until he could make it his bitch.
He just knows he won‘t be in that box again, so he plays along. “All right. What do you want me to do…” He pauses and grits his teeth. He flashes back to all the times he got torture-happy with the minions and his insolent childer; Knows that if he doesn’t say it, he’ll be worse for it in the end, performance might suffer. So he resigns, “Master?”
P.S. I just realized how perfect my icon goes with this story! Hee!