wesleysgirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wesleysgirl) wrote2005-09-06 10:01 am
wesleysgirl) wrote2005-09-06 10:01 am
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Headful of Ghosts, pt 22
It hits him all in a rush, harsh and hot like the desert, and Angel exhales without saying anything and can't inhale again. No air means no words. They're quick and painful, cutting him open, making his brain bleed. One picture after another, but everyone's already dead, and there's nothing he can do to stop it, which just makes it all a terrible nightmare that he'd give anything not to be having.
"Angel?" Doyle says, but Angel can't give the answer Doyle wants, because he's not all right, there's something wrong, like an empty, echoing hollow inside his head, a black hole hungrily swallowing up anything nearby.
"I can hear them," he whimpers, holding onto Doyle. "They're all dead, and I can't save them."
"Who?" Doyle says.
Angel shakes his head against Doyle's chest. "First you had them, then Cordy. They were supposed to help me..." Another one cuts into him and he cries out, spasming. "Forty eight beech. Forty eight beech; like the tree, not the ocean. They've been safe there all this time, but now there's..." Angel tries to count to forty eight with his fingers, but there aren't enough, not on his hands. In his head, though, there are hundreds of fingers searing like brands, leaving prints that would be clues if he could figure them out. He looks up at Doyle, shivering. "You're supposed to be there."
Doyle is looking back at him, horror dawning on his face. "Jesus. The visions?" Angel doesn't respond quickly enough, and Doyle shakes him. "That's it, isn't it."
"I don't know," Angel says helplessly.
In the doorway, Spike moves, and Angel remembers everything. Xander. Willow. Spike.
He makes a choked, desperate sound and jerks away from Doyle and the doorway, rolling until the mattress disappears beneath him and he falls through air he can't breathe. He hits the floor hard, shoulder and hip, and whimpers. Tries to crawl under the bed as the memories hit him, sharp punches to the face that break bones, again and again.
Doyle's there, saying something to him, blocking his way. He can't hurt Doyle, can't... "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
"It's okay," Doyle says, holding onto him, but Spike and Xander are nearby now, and Angel knows what he did to them. It's too much, unbelievable. He wants it to be unbelievable.
Connor.
And the way the boy turns up in the alley, eyes blazing and an otherwordly, beautiful snarl on his face.
And the way Connor fights, like an instrument of death molded of skin and bone and blood.
And the way Connor dies, one crushing blow of a dragon's taloned foot smashing him into something that can't live anymore.
Angel wants it to be gone.
Doyle's voice fades into the background like someone turning down a dial, and Angel lets him fade into blissful silence and with only the palest tinge of regret.
I love you, Angel thinks, to both of them.
It's his last thought before he's gone.
"Angel?" Doyle says, but Angel can't give the answer Doyle wants, because he's not all right, there's something wrong, like an empty, echoing hollow inside his head, a black hole hungrily swallowing up anything nearby.
"I can hear them," he whimpers, holding onto Doyle. "They're all dead, and I can't save them."
"Who?" Doyle says.
Angel shakes his head against Doyle's chest. "First you had them, then Cordy. They were supposed to help me..." Another one cuts into him and he cries out, spasming. "Forty eight beech. Forty eight beech; like the tree, not the ocean. They've been safe there all this time, but now there's..." Angel tries to count to forty eight with his fingers, but there aren't enough, not on his hands. In his head, though, there are hundreds of fingers searing like brands, leaving prints that would be clues if he could figure them out. He looks up at Doyle, shivering. "You're supposed to be there."
Doyle is looking back at him, horror dawning on his face. "Jesus. The visions?" Angel doesn't respond quickly enough, and Doyle shakes him. "That's it, isn't it."
"I don't know," Angel says helplessly.
In the doorway, Spike moves, and Angel remembers everything. Xander. Willow. Spike.
He makes a choked, desperate sound and jerks away from Doyle and the doorway, rolling until the mattress disappears beneath him and he falls through air he can't breathe. He hits the floor hard, shoulder and hip, and whimpers. Tries to crawl under the bed as the memories hit him, sharp punches to the face that break bones, again and again.
Doyle's there, saying something to him, blocking his way. He can't hurt Doyle, can't... "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
"It's okay," Doyle says, holding onto him, but Spike and Xander are nearby now, and Angel knows what he did to them. It's too much, unbelievable. He wants it to be unbelievable.
Connor.
And the way the boy turns up in the alley, eyes blazing and an otherwordly, beautiful snarl on his face.
And the way Connor fights, like an instrument of death molded of skin and bone and blood.
And the way Connor dies, one crushing blow of a dragon's taloned foot smashing him into something that can't live anymore.
Angel wants it to be gone.
Doyle's voice fades into the background like someone turning down a dial, and Angel lets him fade into blissful silence and with only the palest tinge of regret.
I love you, Angel thinks, to both of them.
It's his last thought before he's gone.
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;-)
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Julia, persistantly blown away
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Also, I missed your post about this, but I'm so glad that the paxil's working out for you -- both the calmer and the bonus of the 'done' feeling. I understand completely when you say you miss that feeling. I kinda do, too :)
*smooches you*
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That's just...
Good gods. Beautiful in a vicious, poisonous way. Love it.
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The visions!
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...
Oh.
*heartbroken*
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This just keeps on being brilliant and painful and poetic and . . . beyond my powers of description.
Thanks.