This story was nominated in the 2001 'Undead Awards'.

Title: Brume 
Author: scynneh
E-mail: scynneh@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Do I even need to say that none of this crappy season would have proceeded without Angelus making an appearance or a permanent stay if I had control?
Improv 12: flame, boot, ache, tender.
Pairing: Aren't pairings something nice? Consensual? This is...somewhere in between..Aus/L
Dedication: To tortured geniuses everywhere.
Rating: NC-17, as if Angelus would be kind to the audience. Count yourself lucky that he let you live.
Distribution: Angel Slash, wherever, just ask.
Spoilers: 'Darla' storyline. That ending sucked, I sat in front of my television set, and as the credits rolled, Angelus leaned over and said 'that would never have fucking happened.' Now, understand that I may have been under the influence of leather pants at the time, but he seemed to make a lot of sense. So here's what HE says should have occurred. 
Synopsis: Angelus talks, and yes, he does like the sound of his own voice, but I have no problems with his soliloquies...or whatever he happens to be saying. Then Lindsey takes a turn, and Angelus takes a turn at Lindsey..*riotous laughter*
Author's Note's: This is the next story after 'Cenagal', the latest in this as-of-yet, unnamed series in an AU that cropped up when I wasn't looking; in which Angelus explores his new purpose and what he wants to do to the people who have screwed him over in the past. The Gaelic lines are from several 'Enya' songs, and while Angelus isn't really the type to like her music, the language seemed to appeal to him. Also, the title is French for 'mist', or 'haze'.
March 2001

**

    All are not cooks that walk with long knives.

    All cats are gray at night.

                        -Russian Proverbs

Napoleon claimed that he was 'a child of the revolution.'  And then he turned around and stabbed Mommy  dearest in the back when she wasn't of use any more.  Trouble was that she still remembered him when the things began to get bad, and gutted him with his own dagger.  Still, the thing I remember most about the little general is the fact that he was a squat, rude little man.  Saw him at a party once, really not too much to be said good about that human.

I'm not at all convinced that Napoleon was the military genius that he was made out to be.  He used the 'bowling ball technique' in battle for Hell's sake.   And besides, most of his experience was in Italy, where the one rammed opponents into steep embankments and pinned them down.  Once he was confronted with the Spanish guerilla style of warfare, he was left at a loss.

Me, I have adjusted, not a Paleolithic monster, bound to stay the same, doddering as the years pass, but sharpening claws to dig deeper into armored throats and tear out the fatal wounds.  I am a sonata of depravity, meant for midnight's couplings, diffused throughout all for necessity's sake.  Yeah, it's a tired old rant, but what else can I do but try and reinvent the boundaries to suit my needs and have a bit of fun along the way.  Wholly unbelievable has been the fortune in this city's stocking, so much for the good citizen to exploit, and authority can only dig in nails hoping that the scabs clot around the furrows made in corroded metal flesh.

Plays and books delude the doomed into accepting a far less amount in the present than the next world.  Because everyone will go to Hell; God is fed up with the trash that Mother Nature has churned out, and this schism means that green rolling thighs,  like those acres of cellulite that Reubens painted in such glorious relief will be disdained- the Devil is a decent lay, even if there's a steep price for the time spent down under, and the sheets never quite lose the aroma of blistered fingers, nor does the sensation of shattered bone lips moving over a body left submissive ever truly depart.

Recriminations chase my boot-heels, slinking away like flayed hounds, then crawl back, cries shining and wet teardrops on my ears.

'Oíche 's mé liom féin.  Spéartha dubh go domhain, a choích.  Ag cuimhneamh ar laetha a bhí
gan ghá agus gan ghruaim.  Éistim leis an ghaoth.  Uaigneas mór, go deo, a choích.  Night and I am alone.  Endless deep black skies.  Recollecting the days that were carefree and happy. I listen to the wind.  Great loneliness, forever, and ever.'

Terrific, Enya.  Warbling and 'intoning' to Kingdom Come, but never being understood, sounds a bit like poor Soulpuppy.  That fucking gobdaw longed so much for Ireland that he'd collect all sorts of memorabilia, tasteful, yes, but so cutsey, and by Aphrodite's tits, 'Irish Jigs for young and old, the sounds that captivated the world', more puking dribble.  I can't believe that the cheerleader and even the tight-assed Watcher never found his stash.  Maybe if they'd given him a hard enough time, he would have gotten rid of some of this offal.  Not that I hate Enya, precisely, she sings in the old tongue, and that's not all bad, but the moping that was done in tune with some of these pieces means that his favorites are going in the trash.  Clanging sounds of metal make for pleasant listening.

I have this energy in my frame, my bones resonate with something that I have to release somehow, whether it be through fighting, fucking, or whatever, if I don't, I may go crazy. Comes from too much time being prodded into roles that weren't a good release, at the most generous, these were the first steps of an only son into a career that he would never want nor understand- mercantilism.  Ah yes,  and I know about capitalism, and that one is supposed to put a hand over their heart when talking about it. But not where I was coming from.

I grew up around women.  Father was always off working, so I watched my mother and her sisters go about their lives, learning their interactions, how they related to one another, and then to my Father.  I felt out the roles that they played, giving me insights into human nature and relationships that came in handy later. Weakness, Da called it, being 'coddled.'  Fucking H, he said that about bathing more than once a month, that man had some strange ideas about what constituted masculinity.  For me, staying clean meant that the lasses were all the more fond of me, and that was what I aimed at; getting into their graces, whether they be good or not.  

And I wasn't bad looking, overall, actually, making the Mary Hicks; uptight women of the village, reconsider 'that boy'.  I learned that when the lord of the manor was away, several bedroom windows might be left open, though upon the husbands' return, I had best make myself scarce, or fend for myself.  

But one must remember something that the Soul never did: a mirror may be pretty, but it’s not much for conversation- unless you’re in a fairy tale.  It wasn't just my dashing looks that has made me so deadly, one has to be capable of backing up the threat with something notable and intimidating, Not that all-out-terror wouldn't be best.

**

I love cigarettes.  Drawing the smoke down into my lungs, savoring the barely tangible flavor on my tongue makes the sweet tang of blood even more delectable.  Especially pleasurable is the sensation of someone else’s smoke in my lungs.  To surprise and kill a smoker can be best defined as a perverted communion: two addicts coming together in the most intimate of embraces.  To have the fear and smoke mixed together in the blood blends into one of the most potent cocktails I’ve ever sampled.  That soul saw to it that we only got whiffs of our most treasured pastimes, at places in his life when he was too 'down and out' to hold me back all the way, and we shared nicotine in a rare moment of peaceful accord. 

The thought of how long I’d been confined in my cage while that lamed demon loomed in the shadows of 'his city.'  After cleaning out his closets, I'd set out to see what this town had to offer in the way of cuisine and tobacco products.  Standing over my latest meal, I drew on yet another cancer-stick and reflected on one of my countless vices.  To watch a corpse cool while lighting up was something I hadn’t done in much too long.  And a demon is nothing, if not indulgent of dangerous sins.

Speaking of mortal habits, as I relaxed, my most treasured addiction was striding down the street in my general direction; his moss and fir bark hair gleaming under the orange and yellow glow of the arthritic lamps illuminating the pavement below my vantage point.  His arms swung easily at his sides, head held straight, carriage proud and self-confident.  I had stalked many humans, drawn out the conclusion to a fine, vibrating hunger, but Lindsey had proved to be a difficult one, more so than I could have hoped.

**

    My pleasure at having an easy stroll vanished in the face of someone watching me for reasons unknown, not that hidden voyeurs were anything new in my line of work.  No, the part that made me the most uncomfortable was the fact that the shiver down my spine had been uncannily reminiscent of the feeling I used to get when Angel was observing me.  But that was impossible, I told myself as I buttoned my jacket and began the trek in the direction of my apartment- Angel and I hadn’t spoken since he had broken up the company meeting in a spectacular battle with Darla.  

The night afterwards, she had not returned to me, and then, frisson tripped down my back anew, and I remembered the reason for my unease- when Angel had followed me, my security forces had noted that his actions were  unmistakable from that of Angelus', and the slightly dangerous sensation behind me had smacked of that soulless bastard.  Not good when Angel was being pushed to his very limits of morality where Wolfram and Hart were concerned. 

I hurried home, my happiness replaced with a deep worry and a good dose of fear.  If Angelus had returned, then there was going to be trouble., and that was reducing the situation from a whale to a minnow.

**

His last apartment was as bare as when I'd last found it, with the addition of a late-working real estate agent who had the misfortune to keep talking as I took stock of the building.  Her voice was redistributed, along with the rest of her, over the whole of the flat- in a most tasty way, of course.  Then tongues of salmon red scrabbled for purchase against the line of the sky, all thanks to a careless match floating behind me.

Other possibilities went and flared up like tongues of mockery, and when I broke into the offices of the Record Keepers, I fear that I used methods less refined than one might have thought permissible.  But, not to worry, I got what I wanted- the location of the interfering human who had lusted and wiggled his way between myself and my deceased Sire.  From there it was the space of a mouse's breath before I was standing on his doorstep, inhaling the cornucopia of emotions that he sent off, an invitation if I ever smelled one.  Still, the barrier separating us was torment and delight at once.  

Shuddering, I laid a hand against the invisible barrier that separated me from my chosen treat.  With an unnecessary sigh, I let my face rest beside my hand, drawing in the most sinfully nourishing draughts of air.  For most of the undead, breathing is considered a waste of time, and is only used when the circumstances demand it- speech is a necessity, but breathing deadens the blood. Yet, even as he sat engaged in tasks ordinary enough to hasten sleep, as was their intention, my regard was held.

He slumped over an intimidating volume of vampiric lore, including the various writings of some little-known experts on vampire elimination.  Even a few of the more zealous members of respected religious organizations had entries in the large book.  I knew this because there were several copies of that volume; one of which resided in the library of my wayward staff- they had seen fit to deprive me of all the books, even though most of them were from my own personal collection.

Focus on the matter most important, I admonished myself, and waited for Lindsey to look up from his reading, instincts softened by city-life would still sense me waiting on the sill, and what I was looking to obtain from him.

***

The writings of prophets are migraine-inducing, at least in my experience, and trying to pore over a thick set of books detailing the End of Days, and the part that Angel would play was more than sufficient to bring down the throbbing of a headache onto me, my temples and neck were stuck with the discomfort, and no, the prickling along my nape was not pain, but another, more worrisome tingle- disturbing in that I had felt it earlier tonight. 

No, disturbing is okay, I like disturbing, I work for the Home Office, after all.  It's the violence thing that I can't handle.  My record in times of extremes hasn't been the greatest, though I have stayed mostly intact, putting a hand out to the beasts is always stupid, and I, exceptionally moronic fellow that I have shown myself to be, picked the one set of teeth out of the masses that called my bluff.  Goodness with a stride that would crush all standing in the doorway, few things are scarier.  But, I think that I've found the next level of 'Oops.'  

Angering a vampire is stupid, they are very possessive creatures by nature, all those bonds tied up in blood and years of the Hunt, and to shove one's objectives off the table is rarely simple.  My people, stepped it up a bit, and thought that they could manipulate the Fates into sundering the sole tie that kept a monster docile, They tugged him back from the brink a time or three, then thought it more amusing to let events proceed- and down a new highway paved through our neat little plans and schemes.  

Imprisonment wears at a mind, and the first thought upon breaking out from behind bars is finding a means of splintering all the glass and then grinding the shards up into a milkshake of rage, then force-feeding it to the responsible parties.  I speak from experience, as my throat spasms in reaction to what has arrived to stare at me from outside the , ready to mete out retribution most nefarious on my soft flesh.

**

He knows, it's tattooed all over his Armani coated body, fear, anger, at me, and then at Holland, poor, dear, dead Mr. Manners, and then a sprinkle of eagerness.  Yeah, he's read his tomes on 'the Scourge of Europe', knows what I can do, have done, and has to have wondered what it would be like to be on the other end of my teeth, without the verbal beatings, maybe opting for a real lashing instead.

**

Part 2/2

**

Children are a pain, no matter what breed they may be.

 I came to know that while the ranks of the undead are host to a great many creatures that confess themselves to be cruel and evil,  they are in truth too faint-hearted to really embrace their true natures.  I was different because I broke the rules I didn’t like, and didn’t care who I had to kill as a result.  I was a harsh Master when the situation warranted it, but I always took care of my own.  Too many Sires found the duties of parenting to be more than a relaxing and amusing hobby, and merely abandoned their Children like so much garbage.  Part of being a good vampire is taking some kind of responsibility for your offspring- even if that does mean killing them. 

The moment held itself in an arabesque of stillness, giving me an interval on which to reflect my path of destiny to this man.

Maybe a doctor might be able to give me some advice on how to get rid of the more disturbing memories that are making my hours less peaceful than I might like.  I didn’t remember any of it until The First Evil began to screw with my head.  I was barraged by the tortures that I had inflicted on others and that had been visited on me- to such a point as to make me nearly lose my sanity.  Angel was ready to fry himself like an egg on the sidewalk, but I just wanted to bury myself in Buffy’s heated center, and expunge those thoughts from my mind.  And if that damned soul of mine happened to fly the coop while I was in therapy, so much the better.

That bit of torment was more than I needed  to remember the Gypsy tart that got me into the whole world-saving mess.  I watched and bided my time as Angel suffered and panted after the Slayer like some lovesick puppy-dog.  When Faith shot me with the poisoned arrow was the moment when I became aware enough to exert some amount of control over my body again.  Angel was perfectly ready to die instead of drinking from Buffy, no matter how much he secretly desired her blood.  I gave him the merest nudge to encourage him, and the bliss was worth the guilt he put me through later.  To listen to him bitch and moan, Buffy had been drained by the evil vampire, and was rotting in the ground.

Jesus Christ, I was so sick of his shit that when the smarmy ass of a Mayor assaulted my sweet girl, it was a relief to be able to smack him around a bit.  The strength that Buffy gave me was coursing through my veins, and I was barely capable of keeping my hands off her during the last meeting of The Scooby Gang before the fight with the Mayor. She couldn’t tell though- in her Slayer mode, she considered the entire “Angel affair” a cut and dry thing of the past.

In her opinion, our little bonding session had evened out the scales.  I had broken her heart, she had saved my life, then I repaid the debt by working with her to defeat our mutual enemy.  Never mind how many times she “broke up” with me because of Slayer duties, Giles’ silent disapproval, or some absolutely dumb reaction to something beyond my control.  And I took it all in stride, giving her all the space she needed, never heaping guilt on her, as she did so well to me.  What she didn't think of, was that the execution of the last break up that made me both amused and angry took its roots from a plan that I found distinctly hilarious.

It was all her idea, my bright girl did have her flashes of genius, and that was certainly one of them.  Angel was a firm “no” in the matter, but Buffy campaigned with all the dedication of any political candidate, using every means necessary, blinking her big eyes, and giving such long and heartfelt speeches on the virtues of “duty” that I was nauseous.  So, as I knew he would, he relented, and we had a conference.  ‘Cause obviously, he couldn’t be the creature Buffy needed.  I was much restored from out Hellish adventure, and after several days’ worth of negotiations, he surrendered control of my body- albeit for a short interval.

I understood the terms of our agreement, and even when I wanted to shred the bonds, I had no choice but to enjoy my short span of freedom. That meant I couldn’t show Faith how I really felt about girls who couldn't even figure out what they wanted, and appealed to large demons.  She so needed a good counselor.  Such raw potential being confined by her various complexes, ach, made me want to give her a thorough shaking.  And I wish that I’d had enough time to figure out a good way to purge myself of that soul- but I had a mission to accomplish- no matter what else Angel may say about me, I did a swell job.  Faith didn’t see a hint of the Soul-boy in my eyes, and when I saw the reason for all the fuss, I was pretty disgusted.  A few books?  At least I had the finesse to get a statue, and a handsome one at that.

But the best part was getting to punch that chump, Xander- nosy little bugger, I was so goddamned sick of his ‘I sent you to Hell ‘cause I love Buffy, but let’s be buds now that you’re back,’ attitude.  What he didn’t realize later was that I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t thrilled with his omissions.  Angel would have never told the lad how much it irked him, but I think I made our point quite vividly. 

And when I crossed the Summers’ threshold sans the screeching and threats of one outraged Joyce Summers, I was so gleeful that I let myself flirt a bit with the old hag. In the tradition of Angelus the rake, I heaped on the ol’ charm, and snickered inwardly as her eyes glowed just a little  too brightly in response.  She and I both knew that, in terms of age, it would make more sense for me to be boffing the elder of the women, and for a few brief seconds, I let her have a taste of what kind of flattering gentleman Angelus could be. 

My girl would never have to worry that I’d turn to her mother- unless a set of extraordinary circumstances forced me to seek solace in the arms of an ex-hippie.  If that happened, I might even beat some sense into the spitfire.    For Joyce and I have some matters that stand like pillars between us that are not conducive to a good relationship. Her blind- spot where Buffy’s calling was concerned- I mean, how long should it take for someone with more intelligence than God gave a radish to figure out that their child is leading two very different lives?  Answer, not years.   And her casual ultimatum that made my lover leave her home.  Unforgivable.  To top that off nicely, the lecture she gave Angel just as he was beginning to accept the reality of living with a Slayer was enough to make me rattle the bars of my cage and howl with rage.  After that, I’d had more than enough.  I made it clear to Angel that if he didn’t get his ass out of town, I was going to break free and gut the bitch in a very creative manner.

So, wisely, we went to L.A. and had some fun there.  I loved being able to let go and beat the shit out of anyone that deserved it without being sent into time-out.  And when the opportunity did present itself, I took my liberty in both hands and sent Angel the bleeding heart heavenwards.  He was past due for an eternal retirement vacation at the Florida in the sky.  

To give Angel a bit of a break; he was pushed into my arms at the end, too beaten by Darla and the realizations of human nature to fight back.  I was the conclusion, and he welcomed my caresses, I took care of him better than anyone else could, and when I thought it right, sent him along for a good siesta.

But I am liberated now, and I don't think that I will be heading back to ol' SunnyHell anytime soon; the Slayer who governs over the Hellmouth has too much baggage right now, I want to start fresh  before attending to old 

**

I couldn't quite make out what he was doing, having opened the window, he stayed on his side of the barrier, and warmed me with eyes that defied all rules and seared from distances where nothing but fear should have lent me a temperature change.  And in watching him, I knew a few things that hadn't occurred so heavily in past ruminations on souls and or vampires.

He wasn’t normal.  Not that anyone that worked in L.A. was.  Everyone had some kind of quirk that made a switch flip, and convince them that this particular patch of demon-infested ground was the place to be, and moreover, where anyone who had a desire to make themselves immortal in either film or in life got down to business.  But he was a piece of work all right, and enough of one that if his name was whispered in the darker corners of the city, those shadows did their level best to exorcise the memory at the first opportunity. And that can be a difficult thing for a demon to do.  All of his stranger qualities would have filled several marathon sessions of ‘The Twilight Zone’.

And it came complete with a lengthy warning, disavowing all responsibility on the director’s part for any mental damage incurred while viewing the cross between a snuff  film and a Dionysus festival that comprised the montage that wrapped itself up in an uproar of leather and silk that made no effort to be tender when there were easier ways to reach goals.  

He was an artist of agony and then starbursts of whipped divinity. His fingers shaped violence into phrases, longing was crimson over his palms, the pain and need to be needed, wanted, loved, and Master all over the walls, drawn in fearful patterns of notes and sound, but few heard the sonata for what it was- a plea and a declaration of his nature, plain and voluptuous at the second of inception.

Menace without effort, he gave it off the same way some other men might give companions a whiff of Oldspice attitude.  And what made it so effective was his bearing.  Modesty is for those weaklings who have nothing going for them.  If one has what it takes, they should show it off, or else be content to stay in the curtains, never before them for applause and jeers alike.

Angel has, or rather, had a woeful lack of social skills; as if by pulling himself inwards, he might make things better, atoning through noninvolvement.  Safer that way, but nothing can survive as such a creature, not even the undead, especially not one that wishes to be immortal, for whatever reason.  Angelus does the opposite, he can be collected and remote, but at the same juncture, bring his fearful intimacy to the fore and force it down upon the humans he hunts and plays with.  Exposing that brutal side without warning.  Angelus doesn't hold back, not with humans, or anyone else.

“For the sake of propriety,” I began, my voice only remaining steady by the smallest of margins, “can we pretend that you’re interested in my choice of employers?"  

Amusement quirked those solemn lips for a second, then was gone.  "If you would be so kind as to give me a few moments of your time?"

Though his voice lilted, I knew, as the sky was blue and the sea deep, it was not a request, yet I remained calm.

Blanched like a crushed seashell, yes, but my composure would have been the envy of any of my coworkers; in the face of my death, again, I gave the necessary invitation, took unconcerned eyes off my visitor to plump a pillow or two, and searched about for something to drink.  At my back, the vampire approached, and I couldn't repress the urge to watch my death, or salvation come ever nearer.

As he moved, the ground seemed to withdraw in on itself for protection.  His footsteps echoed deep in the moonless corners of victims' minds, flaying self-importance into raw meat that had been ground and reworked so that it could function as most ordinary humans did daily.  

I was doing my best to stretch my lips into something in the same family as a welcoming smile. I hoped that my expression was convincing, because despite all of my inner berating, the sweat on my palms was still voting for a quick escape, as was the slide of moisture that even now had beaded in the crook of my neck, on my spine, and as he approached, that option seemed even more attractive.  

People have been shaking hands since the French Revolution.  It's an equality thing.  you don't bow, curtsey or kiss their hand.  You look them in the eye and shake their hand.  It's very democratic.  But democracy went running for the open window as Angelus took my hand, the fake one, the appendage that his weaker counterpart severed, and brought it to his lips, tasting the plastic, running his mouth over it as if he were testing for nerves, and I had to admit, though the connections had not been made active my my very capable surgeon, his touch was rousing something in the replacement flesh, a throbbing ache of cautious relief, and completion.  Benediction, the swaddling hold of one who would take care of things, make all better if given the opportunity.  Maybe I would be rent in punishment for insolence, or not, but I was under the hands of a being that would do everything so that I could never forget why I was even now putting one hand behind his head, and mapping his face with the other, living digits.

**

'Suus cuique mos. Suum cuique.  Meus mihi, suus cuique carus.  Mememto, terrigena.  Mememto, vita brevis.  Meus mihi, suus cuique carus.  Each has its own habits. Each its own. Mine to me, its own to each is dear.  Remember, life is earth-born. Remember, it is brief.  Mine to me, its own to each is dear.'

TBC