Title: Healing
Fandom: BtVS
Author: badly_knitted 
Characters: Angel, Buffy.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1255
Spoilers: Homecoming.
Summary: Angel is gradually recovering from his time in the hell dimension, thanks to Buffy’s regular deliveries, but he can’t bring himself to drink in front of her.
Content Notes: None needed.
Written For: Challenge 216: Drinking Alone.
Disclaimer: I don’t own BTVS, or the characters. They belong to Joss Whedon.




Angel’s getting better, healing, he thinks, from being in… the other place. It hurts less anyway, so that seems like a good sign. His memory is improving too, he remembers this place, the old mansion where he and Spike and Dru made their home, and he remembers Buffy. Of course he does. How could he forget her? She’s the best thing in what passes for his life, the only good thing, which is kind of a problem really, seeing as being happy was what caused him to go evil again and… He remembers all that; the people he killed, the pain and anguish he caused, and he remembers how much the demon inside him revelled in it. The memories disgust him, fill him with shame and self-loathing, but they’re an important reminder of what must never happen again, what he never wants to become again, so he holds tight to them to safeguard his battered excuse for a soul.

Although he’s healing, he feels chilled all the time. Vampires are naturally cold, usually taking on the temperature of their surroundings. They have no circulation so their skin, except for immediately after feeding, remains cool to the touch. It doesn’t bother them. They don’t feel the cold, but he does; everything feels cold to him these days. Where he was before was so much hotter, and while he has no wish to return there, he could wish not to feel the lower temperatures so badly. This is California, not the arctic; he shouldn’t feel so frozen all the time, but even the fire blazing in the grate can’t chase away the chill that seems to have taken root in his bones.

Part of it is that he was starved for so long. Vampires can exist for a very long time without feeding, but it weakens them. It takes time to recover from prolonged starvation. An ordinary vampire, one without a soul, would be out every night, slaughtering and feeding in an endless frenzy, but Angel can’t; his soul holds him back, that and the fact that no one must know he’s returned. Seeing him would just be a painful reminder of all the terrible things he did while he was Angelus again. While he deserves to suffer for all he did, he wouldn’t want to reawaken the grief Buffy’s friends are surely still feeling. He doesn’t want to hurt them more than he already has. He wishes he could take it all back, but such things can’t be undone. What he did is something everyone involved must learn to live with. Still, if there were some way he could even begin to make amends, he would. He betrayed the people who’d grown to trust him, Buffy most of all.

Why she still cares for him, he’ll never understand, but she’s doing all she can to help him, as if she’s trying to atone for something that wasn’t her fault. Neither of them knew what would happen, they acted out of love for one another, they meant no harm. If anyone’s to blame it’s him. He’s older, so much older, and he should have behaved more responsibly, resisted temptation, but he’s always been weak. Buffy has nothing to make up for, least of all to him, and yet…

She visits him, almost every night, and she usually brings him food; animal blood from the butcher’s, cold and lifeless, but it helps nonetheless, and he’s grateful for it, grateful to her for providing it. Still, even knowing she’ll probably stop by, her arrival always manages to startle him. Used to be, no one could sneak up on him; he’d hear and smell their approach long before they got close. These days, he’s too distracted, wallowing in guilt, swamped by memories, his awareness of his surroundings drastically reduced. Buffy’s inside the mansion before he registers the presence of an intruder. They startle each other, each wary of the other in a way they never were before. It hurts, almost more than the ache in his bones.

She’s bought a plastic container of blood, and he wants it, needs it, can almost taste it, poor though the flavour is compared to the richness of blood from a living human. He’s so desperate for it that he removes the lid, raises the container, breathes in the coppery aroma and iron-richness. Hunger knots his insides, cramping painfully, but Buffy is standing there, watching him, and he can’t, he won’t, drink; not in front of her. She shouldn’t have to see that, and his shame for needing blood is too great anyway.

To his relief, Buffy doesn’t stay long; Angel doesn’t blame her. She should be out there somewhere in the company of her friends, living her life, and he’s better off alone. Still he waits after she’s gone, just in case she’s forgotten something and comes back. The minutes drag, each one feeling like an hour, but only when he’s absolutely sure she won’t return tonight does he pick up the container of blood once more and carry it into his inner sanctum. There he settles himself by the fire, removes the container’s lid once more, and allows himself a sip. The craving is so strong that he could gulp down every last drop in less than a minute, but then it would be gone and there’d be no more until the following night, so he sips slowly, making it last as long as possible. It kills some time, gives him something to do besides his endless pacing, remembering, and self-recrimination. How far has he fallen that drinking pig’s blood alone in a darkened room each night is the highlight of his sorry life, the one thing he looks forward to?

He can’t afford to look forward to Buffy’s visits, he knows he doesn’t deserve to, and besides, they’re a peculiar kind of torment. Just a glimpse of her used to make him happier than he ever imagined he could be, she filled his dead, unbeating heart with joy, but now it hurts to even look at her, knowing she can never be his. He was a fool, and worse, to ever believe they could make a relationship between them work, and all her loved ones had to pay the price for his self-deception. Buffy deserves so much better than him, a full, rich life, marriage, maybe even children; things he could never give her. Perhaps she’ll find those things with Scott. He wants to be happy for her, but it’s harder than it should be. He has no right to feel pangs of jealousy but the human soul is more petty than noble and self-sacrificing.

So he’ll sit here, making the meal Buffy brought him last while he drums into himself over and over exactly why he needs to stay away from her, even though he knows how badly he needs her help. If only the blood were strong liquor and he could drown his sorrows as easily as he used to back in Ireland. Might as well wish he were human again, or that he could turn back the centuries and be the son his father had hoped for rather than the wastrel he’d been, never meeting Darla, never being turned. Wishing is pointless; it will change nothing. The past cannot be undone, but those wise enough to heed the lessons it teaches can sometimes learn from it. That knowledge gives Angel a small measure of hope; it isn’t much, but maybe in time it will prove to be enough.


The End