"Who needs sleep, well you're never gonna get it
Who needs sleep, tell me what's that for?
Who needs sleep, be happy with what you're getting
There's a guy who's been awake since the Second World War."
Barenaked
Ladies--"Who Needs Sleep?"
3:45 p.m.
Angel was exhausted. Enervating, bone-deep. couldn't-keep-his-eyes-open
tired. He barely had the energy to register the sound of Wesley's voice,
much less pay attention to what he was saying. Something about a Bladergast
demon, or an Asterblad demon, or blasting a demon in the ass--he was really
unclear on the whole situation at this point. He stared at Wes and
Wes' mouth opened and closed and noises came out, but beyond that Angel wasn't
following much.
"Angel, are you listening?" said Wes. He sounded
irritated.
Angel blinked. "Yeah. We're gonna find the
demon and blast its ass." It seemed a safe guess.
Wes rolled his eyes in disgust. "No," he said slowly,
enunciating carefully, as if he were speaking to a child. "We're going
to celebrate Cordelia's birthday by taking her out to dinner at Gaston Bastille."
"Oh," said Angel. That didn't have anything at all
to do with killing demons. And what kind of stupid name was that for
a restaurant, anyway? "Yeah. That sounds good. Do we have
any coffee?"
4:00 p.m.
Reservations were at 8:30, Wes had said, so when they
were done making plans, Angel headed upstairs to see if he could grab a nap
before time to go.
He stripped and climbed into bed. He hadn't had
a decent night's--or day's--sleep in two weeks. Not since he'd offered
to come back to Angel Investigations as an employee. He'd gotten so
used to the vast quiet of the hotel, and now there were other people in it
again.
It wasn't easy, being nocturnal in a diurnal society.
He'd been up most of last night tracking a slime demon through the sewers.
He'd found it, killed it, come back home, and went to bed freshly showered
and pretty damn tired at eight a.m.
An hour later, somebody had screamed downstairs.
He'd bolted awake. If he'd had a heartbeat, it would
have been galloping.
The scream had been Cordelia, and it had taken him a few
seconds to realize it had been a happy scream, not an, "I'm about to be eviscerated
by an evil supernatural creature," scream.
So he'd settled back to sleep.
Except Cordelia proceeded to talk non-stop to Wesley about
the fantastic pashmina she'd gotten from her aunt Edith for her birthday.
Angel didn't know what the hell a pashmina was, but he had figured, at that
point, that it was probably a small animal that was going to yip and bark
and keep him awake for the rest of the day. It hadn't, but Cordelia
had. Kept him awake the rest of the day, anyway. Not much yipping
or barking. Just talking. Incessantly.
So he hadn't slept much yesterday. Or the day before,
or the day before that...
Today was going to be different. He had four hours
until they had to leave for the restaurant, and he was damn well going to
spend them unconscious.
5:45 p.m.
Angel was flying. He loved flying dreams.
They were so cool. Except in this one he was flying naked, and all
the people on the ground were looking up, pointing at him and laughing.
It was still really cool to fly.
Then one of the observers said, loudly enough Angel could
hear, "Look at that guy flying. He's such a fake."
And Angel plummeted to the ground.
With a shout, he sat up straight in bed, arms lifted protectively,
ready for impact, but of course there was no impact. He was just in
his own familiar room, his own familiar bed.
He blinked, orienting himself. Flying. Naked.
"Fake." Fall. Hell, he didn't even need to look in the dream
dictionary to interpret that one.
He sank back into the bed. After 250 years, you'd
think his subconscious could be a little more imaginative.
6:30 p.m.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A heartbeat. The steady, pounding music of the flow
of blood.
Blood. Flowing and pounding and God but it would
taste so good--
Thumpity thumpity thump.
And, once again, Angel opened his eyes.
"So what the hell kinda place is this, anyway?"
Gunn's voice was perfectly clear to Angel's ears, even coming from two floors
below him. Maybe he should just give up and buy some earplugs.
"Am I gonna have to dress up? Cause I only got one
suit, and it's at the cleaners."
Angel pulled his pillow over his head. It didn't
help.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The noise, he now realized, was a basketball. It
sounded like Gunn was bouncing it off the reception counter. Over and
over.
And over.
And over.
"I don't believe a suit will be necessary," Wesley said.
"I'm certainly not wearing one."
"So, what, then? Like a sweater?"
"A nice sweater and trousers, I would think."
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Angel sat up in bed and screamed at the top of his lungs.
Silence fell abruptly downstairs.
"What in hell was that?" Gunn said after a moment.
"It sounded like Angel." Wes sounded concerned.
"Think we should go check on him?"
"No, we probably shouldn't. Undoubtedly he's having
a dream." He paused. "I don't think he's been sleeping well."
"Yeah, he's been a little crankier than usual lately."
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Angel fell back into the bed. He felt like he was
going to cry.
8 p.m.
Angel lay on a cloud. A big, puffy cloud like you'd
find in a cheesy interpretation of Heaven. It was soft and lovely and
cradled his body in soft loveliness.
So soft. So lovely.
Suddenly, there was a girl on the cloud. She was
gorgeous, little and blonde and utterly naked except for the wings sprouting
from her shoulder blades. She looked like Buffy. Or maybe she
looked like Darla. Angel wasn't sure.
"Hey," he said. "You're an angel."
She smiled and leaned toward him, her lips parting sensuously.
"Me, too," he went on, inanely. "I mean, I'm not
actually an angel. I'm actually a vampire. But my name's Angel.
Well, except that's not really my real name--"
She kissed him. Which he figured was a good idea,
because he was blathering like an idiot. He couldn't even be cool in
his own dreams. How pathetic was that?
He kissed her, long and deep, his hands closing around
her waist, and there was no sound at all except the soft whisper of her wings--
Which suddenly grew louder--
And louder--
Until they were bang bang banging together and Wesley's
voice shouted, "Angel! It's time to go!"
Angel opened his eyes.
"Angel!" Wesley called. "Get dressed! We have
to leave in five minutes!"
Five minutes. Angel sighed. It was going to
take him longer than that just to get rid of his hard-on.
8:45 p.m.
"Oh, this is the best! This is just the best ever!"
Cordelia was ecstatic over dinner, the restaurant, everything.
This was a good thing, Angel thought, so he didn't complain when she ordered
the most expensive things on the menu. She was still severely pissed
at him, and he didn't want to derail her when she was obviously so happy.
She wasn't gushing on him, though, even though he'd be
paying the bill. Instead, she gushed on Wes and Gunn.
"This place is new, isn't it? How did you find it?"
Her eyes slid sideways, just a little, just enough for Angel to take it as
acknowledgement. He smiled a little. Or at least he thought he
did. He was so exhausted he wasn't sure anything on his face had moved
at all.
"I have my sources," Wes said smugly.
"It's very nice," said Angel.
Cordelia almost looked at him again. Gunn did look
at him, with something approaching sympathy. Things had begun to smooth
out with Wes and Gunn, and for this Angel was grateful. He knew it
had a lot to do with his willingness to take on a subordinate role.
That kind of thing worked with men, apology-wise.
Not with Cordelia, though.
"You look nice tonight," he said suddenly.
Cordelia finally looked at him. It wasn't a friendly
look, but she said, grudgingly, "Thank you."
"Happy birthday."
"Thank you." Her brows arched, and he had the distinct
impression she expected him to say something else, but he had no idea what
that might be. So he smiled a little, and she rolled her eyes and looked
back at Wesley. "So, who exactly recommended this place?"
Well. Imagine that. Angel had screwed up yet
again.
He looked down at the table. He was so tired his
hands looked like they were moving but he was sure they weren't. He
stared at them.
Damn, that was weird.
"Angel?" Cordelia's voice cut into his reverie, and he
looked up at her blankly.
She made a face. "You're drooling."
10:30 p.m.
Oh, my God, how long can people eat? Appetizers,
salad, main course, coffee, dessert...it just went on forever.
Whatever happened to grab 'em, suck 'em dry, drop 'em
on the floor? It was so much faster.
"Are you sure you don't want anything, Angel?" Wes said.
They were all indulging in chocolate and cheesecake. Angel had had
some wine and a glass of water. He had a feeling he might have been
hungry if he hadn't been so tired.
"I'm good."
"You looked whipped, man," Gunn offered. He actually
sounded concerned.
"Yeah, I'm a little tired. I haven't been sleeping
well."
"Oh, my God!" said Cordelia. "It's Darla again,
isn't it? She's in your room again, and you're having those nasty wet
dreams, and you didn't tell us."
Angel bristled. "No, it isn't Darla. I just
can't sleep lately because people keep traipsing all over the lobby making
noise and bouncing basketballs and screaming at the top of their lungs about
their new pashminas from Aunt Edith."
Oh, shit. He'd said all that out loud. This
was not good.
Cordelia was staring at him, indignant. He swallowed
and hunched in his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible.
"What exactly is a pashmina, anyway?"
"It's a cashmere shawl," Wes said hastily. "I'm
very sorry, Angel. I had no idea our going about our normal business
would disturb you so much."
"I just got so used to being alone." In the hotel's
vast silence, nothing to disturb him but the creak of settling walls, the
occasional howl in the water pipes. "I should get some earplugs, or,
I don't know, maybe a fan or something. For white noise."
"That might be a very good idea," said Wes.
"Yeah," Cordelia said. "We can't just be quiet all
the time. We have a business to run." But she looked a little
apologetic. Didn't she? It was hard to tell; she had turned her
attention back to her dessert.
Angel looked at her, sincere, wishing she would look back,
but she didn't. "I know," he said gently, and she glanced up, barely,
not meeting his eyes. "We'll work it out, don't worry."
"Yeah," said Cordelia, but she still didn't look at him.
11 p.m.
They left the restaurant, and Angel led the way to the
car. When he got there, though, he stared at it, rattling the keys
in his hand. Then he tossed them to Wesley.
"You drive."
"Man!" said Gunn. "I wanna drive!"
"Shotgun!" said Cordelia.
"Damn!" Sulking, Gunn climbed into the back of the
convertible, followed by Angel, who didn't mind riding in the back as long
as he didn't have to sit next to Cordelia. He leaned back in the seat
as Wes started the car.
"So, was it a good birthday?" Wesley asked Cordelia.
"It was great. Awesome. You're the best, Wes."
She looked back over her shoulder. "You, too, Gunn."
She didn't say anything to Angel, but he was too exhausted
to feel bad about it. He closed his eyes, and was asleep before they
pulled out of the parking lot.
MIDNIGHT
The silence woke him. For a moment, he was disoriented,
not sure where he was. Blinking a few times, he brought his surroundings
into focus.
He was still in the car, stretched out in the back seat.
He was alone. Wes had parked the car behind the hotel, outside the
garden area, where it was quiet. And, more importantly, where the car
would be out of the sun, once morning came.
He shifted, eyes drifting shut. Something soft brushed
his hands. A cashmere shawl--Cordelia's new pashmina--lay over his
shoulders.
He smiled. It was brand new, but she'd had it on
at least once; it smelled like her. Tucking his nose into the soft
folds, he drew in her smell.
He closed his eyes, and slept until noon.
END.
