More dribbles

[thebratqueen]

No, I didn't forget about cagey-goodness. I just had other stuff going on with my free time. But currently I'm trapped at the keyboard thanks to cat bondage, so...



He didn't open his eyes when he woke up. He had the weird feeling like it wouldn't matter. Like maybe his eyes were already open and he couldn't even tell. He'd just gone blind. Blind and numb.

Except - no, not numb. Because he hurt. Everything hurt. His bones ached, his skin throbbed, and each tiny bit of movement brought with it a blossom of agony across his chest.

His fingernails felt grimy. He realized they were still caked with his own blood. The memory made his hand twitch, his fingers digging into his palm, and he was suddenly seized with the thought of pressing of cutting and tearing the flesh down to the bone, of looking at the bone and touching it as though it wasn't even real, not even a part of him but some thing he could -

"No," Angel whispered, and curled up into himself.

"But why not?" a gentle female voice whispered.

"I don't want to," Angel answered, then shook his head. "No. You're not real."

"Angel," she said, patiently, "you know that's not true."

"You're not real," Angel said again. He closed his eyes tighter, as though he could squeeze the noise out of his brain.

"I'm as real as you are," she said. "Why do you keep denying that? Why do you keep pretending that you don't belong with me?"

"Because you're not real," Angel said. He clung to the words, forcing himself to believe in them. It was hard. Reality had become so slippery - had been so slippery for centuries. He couldn't even remember when his mind had cracked. When all the torments of Hell had finally broken him. Truth be told, he didn't even know if any of this was a step towards being fixed. But she was wrong. She had to be. God she had to be.

"What do you think is real?" she asked. Her voice was closer now, as though she'd knelt down beside him. "This world? This cage? The torture? Is that real to you?"

"Feels real," he muttered.

"Since when do you trust your feelings?" she asked.

"This has to be real," he said. He curled up tighter, trying to blot her out. He felt something slip along his body and he jumped, thinking she'd tried to touch him. Opening his eyes, though, he saw that that wasn't the case.

It was a robe. One of Wes's. Angel held it, staring at it and feeling every conviction in his bones that it would dissolve in an instant if he so much as blinked.

"Like that's real?" she mocked.

Angel clung to it. He could feel it in his hands. And - yeah - smell it. He cradled it to his chest, terrified she might snatch it away. He looked around. If he had the robe, then -

There was Wes. Asleep. Head resting against the bars of the cage. Shirtless.

Angel held the robe tighter.

"He could be real," she agreed. She was practically whispering into his ear now. "All warm and vulnerable. You could touch him. You could taste him."

Hunger licked through him. His mouth drooled at the thought of a mortal's neck grasped in his teeth.

"You want to taste him," she purred. "You could do it right now. Just grab him. He won't know what - "

"Shut up!" Angel told her. He shoved himself back from the bars. "I won't. I won't!"

Wesley woke up at the sound. He blinked at Angel, blearily. "Angel?"

"You can't make me do it," Angel told her. "I won't."

"Kill yourself then," she said. "Be with me."

"Angel, what's wrong?" Wesley asked. He sat up, facing the cage properly.

"He doesn't trust you," she said. "He thinks you're crazy. Look, you can see it in his eyes. He knows how lost you are."

"Angel?" Wesley said. "Angel, can you hear me?"

"I believe in you," she said. "I'm here, aren't I? I didn't let anything tear us apart."

"You're not real," Angel whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Angel," Wesley said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the fog.

Angel's attention snapped to him. He held on to the robe, thinking that Wes must be cold. Mortals got cold in places like this.

"I could be," she told him, her voice a soft caress at the back of his neck. "I could be as real as you wanted if you joined me."

"You - " Angel managed, his eyes focused on Wesley. He held the robe up, hoping the gesture conveyed a question.

"You needed it more than I did," Wesley told him.

"There'd be no more doubt," she said. "No more questions. You'd be with me and you wouldn't have to wonder again."

"Do you want it?" Wesley asked. "You can keep it if you like."

Angel took in a deep breath, letting the scent of it fill him. "Can't," he said. "They'll take it."

Wesley frowned, then nodded. "You're probably right. Still - you could have it until then."

"Once he's gone," she said, "you won't know if he was here. If he was just some memory. But I'll still be here. I'll always be here."

"They'll tear it up or something," Angel said. He held the gift out, stretching so that it could reach the bars and Wesley.

Wes took it uncertainly. "All right, if that's what you'd rather."

"This isn't where you belong," she said. "You know it's not."

"Are you feeling any better this morning?" Wesley asked, slipping the robe on. "Are you hungry? Should I get you something to drink?"

"He'll never trust you," she said.

"Shut up," Angel told her, vamp-soft. He brought himself closer to the bars again. "Blood? And - and talk? I - I could tell you more. About me. Or - or whatever."

"We could do that," Wesley said. He gave Angel an encouraging smile. "I could get myself some tea and fruit, perhaps. We could have breakfast together."

"You're imagining this," she told him.

Angel jerked his head away from her. "Yeah. I'd - that'd be great. If you wanted."

"My pleasure," Wesley said. He started to get up, then paused, frowning at him. "Angel - are you all right? Are you still getting the visions as badly as yesterday?"

Angel shook his head, ignoring the spectre of Buffy beside him. "No," he lied.