sevendeadlyfun (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sevendeadlyfun) wrote2007-02-02 11:34 pm
sevendeadlyfun) wrote2007-02-02 11:34 pm
Entry tags:
Five Things
A/N: Once again, for girlpire who likes five things every now and again. Lyrics from Moment In The Woods by Stephen Sondheim. Nothing overly sexual here, so I'd give it an R rating.
girlpire who likes five things every now and again. Lyrics from Moment In The Woods by Stephen Sondheim. Nothing overly sexual here, so I'd give it an R rating.Five Times Angel Was Happy
Angel laid Connor down in his crib, brushing a finger over his son's cheek and sitting down in the glider to spend some quality watching time. He really enjoyed these moments, just the quiet susurration of his normal human son's heartbeat. It was a kind of nirvana, he reflected. The kind of peaceful contentment he knew that humans enjoyed all the time. He was, he thought, happy.
Not perfectly happy, though. Which was fine, because cursed soul issues aside, perfectly happy was one of those things that ought not to happen too often. There was a song...oh if life were made of moments, even now and then a bad one...but if life were only moments, then you'd never know you had one...Angel figured perfect happiness was like that. A once in a lifetime thing, that gave you a sweet memory, a little glow when you remembered it. Or in his case, a deep and abiding sense of shame for trying to touch something he had no business even thinking about.
But there had been times, before that, when regular happiness was enough for him. More than enough, because it was all he'd known. Now it was better than enough, it was everything. Slight moments of plain happy, stolen in between incredible pain and loss and...Nope, not thinking about that now. Just happy and he smiled, hearing a soft sigh of breath from the crib.
The first time he'd ever been kissed. That was a happy memory and he pulled it out for review. He'd been all of ten years old, a strapping lad with what Mary Kathleen called "the Devil's own twinkle" in his eye. She was a worldly sophisticated lass of fourteen and engaged to the butcher, not that it stopped her own twinkling eye from lighting on him.
He was no stranger to the world of sex. Grow up around animals and sooner or later you learn where babies come from, regardless of how evil The Church proclaimed the act. The Church and its condemnation of one of the few pleasures available to the mostly impoverished congregation hadn't been in his thoughts when Mary Kathleen pulled him behind the rectory after Mass, nibbling on his lower lip. He could still taste the faint winey flavor of her mouth and feel the tips of her pebbled nipples on his chest. When she'd slipped her sly tongue in his mouth, he come close to shooting all over her very pretty dress. He'd floated home, for the first time feeling what it meant to be a man. It had been nice, even if he hadn't figured out how to control it.
He'd gained a measure of control over his appetites after Darla got hold of him. Too much control, actually, because he'd channeled all that passion into cruelty. But some of it had been nice. Not the killing or the sometimes mechanical fucking, but there were moments of peace in the whirlwind. A warm bedroom, with Drusilla's sweet voice singing him an old lullaby. They were just cuddling under the covers, hands roaming affectionately over sleepy bodies. He'd yanked off the coverlet and tickled her, enjoying the sound of her giggles washing over him. She was such a curious mixture of child and seductress, his Princess. Her dark hair tangled around her face, and her fey eyes staring up at him, the Alpha and Omega of her existance. He sat her up, curling his large frame around her frail one, and brushed her hair. One hundred strokes, and it snapped and hissed at him like a live thing. Her hair fascinated him and when she'd leaned down to twine it around his cock, he had smiled. Kissed her on the forehead and told her she was his good girl, laying her down gently for another good cuddle. Awash in unfamiliar feelings of love and sweetness, he'd drifted off to sleep with her voice in his ear. He'd been happy, and it had been a rare treat.
A night with Doyle, sitting there talking about hockey and footie and the state of demonic organization. They'd battled cheerfully, with Doyle claiming that the forces of darkness were at their peak and Angel ranting about how in his day, evil had been really organized and what was it with these newbies? It was all bite and plant, no respect for the time and effort it took to really destroy the world. They'd had a beer, just like friends do, unsheathing the weapons of sarcasm and snark without fear. No hidden agendas, no plots or double crosses, just a good put-down and a quiet smile. Angel couldn't remember having friends before that and while he had friends now, none came as close to his heart as Doyle. That night, Angel had known what it meant to be included, to be cared for, just for himself. He'd enjoyed that night almost more than any other in his whole life or unlife. The happiness that sprang from companionable silences and equally companionable discussions couldn't be matched in any other relationship.
He had been happy when they saved Cordy from the killer vision mojo, but that was happy relief. What had made him happy was the look in her eyes when she saw him. She'd been glad to see him and he had been her hero. Not in the "save'em and move on" way he was to most people. He was important to her. He mattered. She cared and he'd helped. Cordy knew him like nobody else and she still liked him. It was a bone-deep sense of rightness, and it had made him happy.
And now he had this. A sweet beautiful baby in a quiet room, a mission and friends to help. Sometimes Angel wondered what he'd given up along the way, for immortality, for love, for redemption. But in this room, in this moment, he was happy. Not perfectly happy and that was good. This kind of happy couldn't be beat by a moment of perfect happiness. This happy lasted a lot longer and no one moment could top that.
Angel laid Connor down in his crib, brushing a finger over his son's cheek and sitting down in the glider to spend some quality watching time. He really enjoyed these moments, just the quiet susurration of his normal human son's heartbeat. It was a kind of nirvana, he reflected. The kind of peaceful contentment he knew that humans enjoyed all the time. He was, he thought, happy.
Not perfectly happy, though. Which was fine, because cursed soul issues aside, perfectly happy was one of those things that ought not to happen too often. There was a song...oh if life were made of moments, even now and then a bad one...but if life were only moments, then you'd never know you had one...Angel figured perfect happiness was like that. A once in a lifetime thing, that gave you a sweet memory, a little glow when you remembered it. Or in his case, a deep and abiding sense of shame for trying to touch something he had no business even thinking about.
But there had been times, before that, when regular happiness was enough for him. More than enough, because it was all he'd known. Now it was better than enough, it was everything. Slight moments of plain happy, stolen in between incredible pain and loss and...Nope, not thinking about that now. Just happy and he smiled, hearing a soft sigh of breath from the crib.
The first time he'd ever been kissed. That was a happy memory and he pulled it out for review. He'd been all of ten years old, a strapping lad with what Mary Kathleen called "the Devil's own twinkle" in his eye. She was a worldly sophisticated lass of fourteen and engaged to the butcher, not that it stopped her own twinkling eye from lighting on him.
He was no stranger to the world of sex. Grow up around animals and sooner or later you learn where babies come from, regardless of how evil The Church proclaimed the act. The Church and its condemnation of one of the few pleasures available to the mostly impoverished congregation hadn't been in his thoughts when Mary Kathleen pulled him behind the rectory after Mass, nibbling on his lower lip. He could still taste the faint winey flavor of her mouth and feel the tips of her pebbled nipples on his chest. When she'd slipped her sly tongue in his mouth, he come close to shooting all over her very pretty dress. He'd floated home, for the first time feeling what it meant to be a man. It had been nice, even if he hadn't figured out how to control it.
He'd gained a measure of control over his appetites after Darla got hold of him. Too much control, actually, because he'd channeled all that passion into cruelty. But some of it had been nice. Not the killing or the sometimes mechanical fucking, but there were moments of peace in the whirlwind. A warm bedroom, with Drusilla's sweet voice singing him an old lullaby. They were just cuddling under the covers, hands roaming affectionately over sleepy bodies. He'd yanked off the coverlet and tickled her, enjoying the sound of her giggles washing over him. She was such a curious mixture of child and seductress, his Princess. Her dark hair tangled around her face, and her fey eyes staring up at him, the Alpha and Omega of her existance. He sat her up, curling his large frame around her frail one, and brushed her hair. One hundred strokes, and it snapped and hissed at him like a live thing. Her hair fascinated him and when she'd leaned down to twine it around his cock, he had smiled. Kissed her on the forehead and told her she was his good girl, laying her down gently for another good cuddle. Awash in unfamiliar feelings of love and sweetness, he'd drifted off to sleep with her voice in his ear. He'd been happy, and it had been a rare treat.
A night with Doyle, sitting there talking about hockey and footie and the state of demonic organization. They'd battled cheerfully, with Doyle claiming that the forces of darkness were at their peak and Angel ranting about how in his day, evil had been really organized and what was it with these newbies? It was all bite and plant, no respect for the time and effort it took to really destroy the world. They'd had a beer, just like friends do, unsheathing the weapons of sarcasm and snark without fear. No hidden agendas, no plots or double crosses, just a good put-down and a quiet smile. Angel couldn't remember having friends before that and while he had friends now, none came as close to his heart as Doyle. That night, Angel had known what it meant to be included, to be cared for, just for himself. He'd enjoyed that night almost more than any other in his whole life or unlife. The happiness that sprang from companionable silences and equally companionable discussions couldn't be matched in any other relationship.
He had been happy when they saved Cordy from the killer vision mojo, but that was happy relief. What had made him happy was the look in her eyes when she saw him. She'd been glad to see him and he had been her hero. Not in the "save'em and move on" way he was to most people. He was important to her. He mattered. She cared and he'd helped. Cordy knew him like nobody else and she still liked him. It was a bone-deep sense of rightness, and it had made him happy.
And now he had this. A sweet beautiful baby in a quiet room, a mission and friends to help. Sometimes Angel wondered what he'd given up along the way, for immortality, for love, for redemption. But in this room, in this moment, he was happy. Not perfectly happy and that was good. This kind of happy couldn't be beat by a moment of perfect happiness. This happy lasted a lot longer and no one moment could top that.