The Humanist

 Yipee!

The wonderful Angelus2hot wrote this awesome story, just for my Birthday...

Isn't she the bestest?

angelus2hot.livejournal.com/161946.html#cutid1



( The Story... )


If you like the story, don't hesitate to send your kudos her way, I am elated!

This is the first work of fiction I ever did for the Whedonverse world.

Ats, PG, Season 1, Word Count: 826

Nominated at Sunnydale Awards (Fall 2011)



The Morning After, by Pat


The morning after, no one ever writes about that. I'm not talking about a night of party hardy where too many drinks are followed by a few frisky innuendoes but the one where you get your teeth knocked in by a truth you're not ready to invite into your life. The morning when reality hits you where it hurts, making you aware that you will set one foot ahead of the other and continue a life without him and without his dreams. It is the morning that seals your pain, your anger, and your hopes into a web of cluttered emotions that will change you forever.


I woke up in Angel's bed; he probably took my curled up form from his sofa and brought me here after the last of my tears exhausted me and sent me into a fitful sleep. With a faint headache I remember every minute of last night. Neither of us could talk and we sat here, in Angel's apartment, trying to hold even the slightest grip on the evening's events. I monopolized the sofa unable to find the strength to voice my pain, my head full of adjectives and expletives colliding without the least sense of organization. I look at Angel hoping to make that connection I think I need to wake from the nightmare of Doyle's death.


Angel didn't touch me or reach out last night, we just walked side by side and now he's sitting silently in the chair in front of me. Anchored to his deep chocolate gaze, I'm not really looking at Angel; I'm seeing his soul and a clear reflection of my grief. In that dark hue, the storm of my hurt and incredulity, my defeated psyche is fighting with too many realities to confront. Holding my gaze, he too remembers the Doyle we knew and his contribution to our lives. I can't find the words, yes Cordelia Chase is at a loss for words, and I can't rationalize let alone explain all that Doyle was to me, all that he gave, all that could have been.


The sparkles in Angel's eyes make me wonder if he's going to cry. I don't understand how he can be so stoic because I haven't been able to hold back my tears. The stars now shining in his Glare tell me he is as unforgiving as I am to myself. How could we have failed the one that brought us together? In that moment I realize what Doyle's passing means. Angel and I are more than friends now, we are a family with an obligation to stay true to Doyle's memory.


With relief, I accept the offered glass of water and Angel's disappearance into the kitchen. My eyes close and I feel the sobs wracking my body with each memory of who our friend was, what he could have been, of what he couldn't forgive in himself. With every cry, I visualize what I had, what I missed, and what I could have wanted. I had to open my eyes; being in the dark with thoughts of what might have been was more than I could take.


Walking into the kitchen I sat across from Angel with a new understanding of who we are, and the tragedy that had hit us. His hand reaches out to seize my trembling fingers before faltering and returning to the table. His intense gaze tells me of all the pain he was in, of all the friends he has already buried and of the unyielding belief that he should have been the one the perished hero.


I slide my hand closer to his and with shiny eyes will Angel to see that his need to share his strength is enough. Silently I inch closer to his face asking him to never let go, telling Angel I need him now and forever. The golden ambers watching me finally recede into the dark brown eyes I have come to trust.


Those stolen moments feel like an eternity, the squint at the corner of his eyes finally opens the door to his acceptance of the inevitable; saying adieu to his extraordinary friend. I wasn't ready yet and rising from my chair I popped in the video before returning to the sofa with Angel following my every movement. For now I'll let Doyle's face accompany my sorrow, his voice calm my weeping and Angel's watchful eyes escort my mind to a more peaceful sleep.


Soon the aroma of strong coffee will reach our sleeping senses and with wary eyes Angel and I will rise to start a new path, continuing a life without Doyle but not without his dreams. A youth passed surviving the hellmouth of Sunnydale and a new life along the side of an experienced Master of pain will teach me to keep the gift of the first soldier down in my mind. Today will be our morning after.



End.


~*~

Note:

I would like to thank Lysa for the suggested exercise, as well as CydneStorm and Stormy for the great beta work.

This was about looking and the scenario I picked on for working was:
AtS Episode: between Hero & Parting Gifts
Cordelia and Angel are still in shock and mourning Doyle. This can happen at the office, in Cordy’s apartment or Angel’s place. This ‘look’ is angsty and heartbreaking and whatever else you want to put into it…as long as everything is conveyed only with their eyes.

I hope you guys and gals will survive my first fiction post...


Nominated for Round 11 of Fang fetish Awards

community.livejournal.com/fangfetish/32847.html