Fanfic: Oblivious (1/1)

[smokingmirror]

Title: Oblivious
Author: Avarice
Rating: PG
Pairing: Angelus/Spike, Angelus/Darla, Spike/Drusilla
Spoilers: Fool For Love/Darla
Summary: Angel reminisces over his unrequited feelings.
Word Count: 1063
Date First Posted: 2001
Date Revised - 12-05-2011
Beta: -
Awards: Softly, Softly (Best Subtle Fic) at Slashfan's Choice Awards.
Notes: Angel POV.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.

+ + +

"Everyone betrays you, that's not what eats you in the long winter's night..."

"Yeah? What does?"

"Missed opportunities..." - Dear Boy

+ + +

He never knew.

I'm quite positive there was no time in his life where he ever considered the possibility. It was alien to his former existence, and just never seemed an option to him at his Turning.

At least, not for him.

And he never knew.

But how could he? There was scarcely a moment when we were alone together. And when we were... We both lived in the shadows of our sires -- existing for their whims and amusement, whether childishly fractured, or lustfully dark.

The only difference being, he liked it.

He never knew.

I saw his unabashed pleasure in the kill, the decadence of his hunt. The way those eyes would lock with their prey, and goad resistance. Fate had brought his darkest, most hidden and buried nightmares to life.

(glorious)

I ached to taste his passion. To swallow his essence into myself and re-learn what had become -- for me -- something of an annoyance. Recapture the love, and the fire, and in so doing, make him mine.

He never knew.

I needed his companionship. The constant company of two women was driving me to distraction. And I thought -- foolishly -- that he would accept me as easily as his new life.

But our all too short times together were punctuated by whimsical baiting and hollow taunts. As with his former life, it was all about knowledge, and the only reason he tolerated the time spent with me was to learn the things Dru couldn't teach.

I was not blind, and could see this. The selfish being I was

(still)

was insulted. I made it difficult for him -- sometimes too difficult -- figuring he would relent eventually, even though I wanted him voluntarily.

It succeeded in hardening him towards me, sealing my name in his annals of hate.

I wanted to make a companion, I triumphed in making an enemy.

He never knew.

More than anything, I craved the tenderness and gentle deference that was to him, his sire's privilege alone. The promise of everlasting devotion flickered like flame in his eyes for her.

It was always extinguished for me.

(always)

He never knew.

I know he continued to write poetry, even after being borne to darkness. That side of his nature that so cared for the ones

(one)

important to him simply heightened his ruthless abandon in the kill. But he still wrote. In the wee hours of the morning, sometime between caressing Dru's still face in sleep, and the embers in the fireplace finally going cold, he would sit in the armchair and write.

I would steal time away from Darla's embrace when she rolled away from me to dream her dreams full of blood and pain, and I would watch.

He never knew.

I always could tell who he was writing about. When his sire was the muse -- as it often was -- the cold and handsomely cruel lines of his face softened to an expression that must have been quite common in his human years. He wrote of the perfection of the

(flawed)

innocence of a child in the gilded cage of a temptress. Of her dark tresses and faultless skin. Of her musical voice and pomegranate-stained lips.

Of Darla, he wrote of a cruelty unmatched by neither man nor beast. His mouth twisted into a sneer, and his eyes were those that bore grudging respect. His spirit was torn between hate and admiration. The dichotomy was not lost on him, that he was born to culture and needed the beast

(demon)

to set him free, while she was untamed before, and her dark gift educated her like nothing else had.

I always could tell when he wrote about me.

And he'll never know.

His face, always so animated, whether suffused with rage, desire, pleasure, disappointment became cool

(cold)

like a sepulchre. Not an emotion in those eyes, not an expression that face.

And he wrote. He wrote of me as a far-off figure. An authority with a boot firmly on his neck. Not to be trifled with, lest he bear the brunt of my wrath. Arrogance and pride were mine, and his contempt for me was great. He did not once believe that I had any care for him in the world.

He never knew.

I was the ultimate enemy, the father of his demented princess. For it was I who had the final power over his sire -- the one woman who held his heart in her milky hands. I could take her and break her as easily as I chose -- and in doing so -- break him.

It was true, and I cannot say I never did it. Out of spite, jealousy, or just boredom. The reasons never used to be as important as they are now.

He never knew.

It just never seemed the right time. Trite and hardly an excuse, but it is the only one I have. Waiting for the right moment, when he seemed receptive enough, when he was ready. Waiting forever, it seemed.

And then it came.

The one time... the one time he looked at me without malice...

(I'll give you first crack at her)

face flushed with success and pride...

(I guess that makes you one of us)

I was not ready.

He never knew.

Two decades of waiting for a missed opportunity.

He never knew.

The shivers his words caused.

He never knew.

The pleasure he denied himself.

He never knew.

The needle-like pains of longing he produced.

He never knew.

I kept his poems long after he discarded them, and have them still.

He never knew.

I can't ever tell him. Can't even see him. I avoid any opportunity where we cross paths, because it's better when I don't have to think about it. Because enough of my past is haunting me without adding his likeness to my ghosts.

Even though, he was never really gone.

So I'll hear stories of his antics. His wild behaviour, and latest hairstyle, cutting quip, and unrequited crush

(obsession)

but I won't do anything. It's not my place.

It never was.

He never knew.

I loved him.

And he never knew.

He still doesn't.

 

~finis