Chapter Text
i.
Beings with no souls cannot have soulmates. Angelus does not have a soulmate, he doesn’t adhere to a soul or what having a soul looks like, his skin is pale and rough, there is nothing pumping into his heart therefore his heart does not work. He is fresh-faced, buried in Darla’s gold, and he uses his new teeth to scrape the name off of his skin. He has no soul, would rather ash himself in the depths of sun than have anything resembling such a downfall.
Yet the name remains, and his teeth do not scar. The word is in an untranslatable shade of green - trees, he thinks, or would if he was poetic. The silver shine of an olive tree, the color of his land.
He thinks that, if he does have a soulmate, it should be Darla. Darla’s name should adorn his wrist, and his name should be carved into Darla’s—
Again: he cannot afford that kind of weakness. He is a monster and adores it, licks the blood from his teeth right up. Look at the darkness surrounding him, look at the little place in history that his monstrousness has secured him, a space between ribs, the space between cold fingers, pressed into the dirt as he dances on top of a torso, with no life to operate.
ii.
Angel cannot breathe.
Here is the ultimate reality, frozen like bone: Angel cannot breathe. So he takes breath from others, so he picks up a weapon and he does what was written into his code: he fights, fist-sword, the body of ancient humanity colliding with metal, which produces a champion, which produces a man
who still can’t breathe but tries his best to keep the world’s chest rising, falling. That’s it - the world is a deep breath, the world
is a pink lung, a pluck on the inner strings of the helpless.
And he gets tired.
It is tiring, having the world in your hands. The world is heavy, and glass, and he is just so tired.
He likes the attention, at first; smart and cute, says the Host, and Angel thinks of the name on his wrist. It’s not - it’s not Buffy. It should be Buffy, he thinks, it should make sense. It should click in place, gears turning.
He doesn’t know anyone named Lorne.
“There are three things I don’t do,” Angel says, and it rolls out like fire, pours through his teeth acidic, “tan, date, and sing in public.” It feels wrong, soul-shattering. Part of it is true: he doesn’t date. He falls in love.
He looks into the eyes of the Host, blood-red, and walks out, away, removes himself from the Bad Situation. For a moment Angel imagines himself like this: human, bathing in sun. He is not pale, he looks human and it is true, it is golden, the aura moving over him is golden. He is a different creature, worthy.
Oh. He’s been here before. In this fantasy, however, the world is blessed and there is something like God, or something besides him that can protect the world. He no longer has to fight. He can focus on other things, like love.
As he leaves, he hears it; how fabulous would I look in that coat?
iii.
“Angel,” she says, voice calm-yet-firm, a winding spiral of trouble. Cordelia is walking fast to catch up to him, and she’s daring to walk through his favorite damp, messy sewer tunnel, so something must be wrong.
“Cordelia,” he responds flatly. The tone is in jest, but - something is wrong.
She grabs his forearm to slow him down, yanks on it hard. “Admit it,” she says, curling her hair behind her ear. Her eyes flutter closed-open in mocking patterns. Oh no.
“Admit what?” he asks, lamb-innocent. Cordelia is being Cordelia. Angel is being Angel. They are two people, underneath the ground. They are just two people. He thinks about the fantasy---Cordelia is the good, the reigning. He would be lost without her.
“You do have a heart.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “Surprising, isn’t it?”
“Shut up, ” she says, but she’s excited now. “You know what I’m talking about.”
Angel frowns. “I don’t, actually.”
Her eyes spread wide. “That demon host guy? You were totally into him.”
His first reaction should be this: denial, what are you talking about, I don’t date, remember? Remember, Cordelia? That’s what I said, I don’t date. I don’t feel things and I burn in the sun and I am a monster. He should be offended at the suggestion, should find it horrifying; instead his hands fall to his side, and he gives a very stupid, entirely unconvincing psh.
“No,” he says, fuck. “I don’t - no. No. ”
“Well,” she says, “he was totally into you at the very least.”
This is interesting. He reacts instinctively different; straightens his coat ( how fabulous--- ), blinks exactly twice, and bites down on his cheek to stop himself from smiling. Despite his lack of romantic or sexual feelings for the Host, it does feel very validating to know the Host was kind of maybe perhaps - into him, as Cordelia says.
“What? Really?”
She rolls her eyes. “Angel, he called you cute.”
“Well, he did, but that doesn’t mean—”
“He was looking you up and down like you were the - the sexiest piece of meat he’d ever….” She sighs. “You know. He was checking you out. He watched you when you left. He likes you.”
Now the smile cracks through, just slightly. “You think so?”
“I know so,” she says. “I know these things.”
“We just met.”
“So?” she smiles, and hits him playfully on the chest. “This could be good for you, I think.”
“Yeah,” he says, clicking the cool demeanor back on. “Except I don’t like him like that, and it’s not like we can… you know… anyway. At least, I don’t think so…”
“Ha!” Cordelia exclaims. “You’re thinking about it now.”
“Goodbye, Cordelia,” he says, and begins his trek again, away away away from the confrontation. He can hear Cordelia’s knowing laugh, and as he grows farther and farther away, he looks at the name on his wrist, buries himself in the green.
It almost looks like—