you know, you can always talk to me. (from angel to conor,)
there's a thousand year old cavity in his chest, and he doesn't know how to fill it. deep inside blooms the need for everything all at once: life, death, craving, despising… wanting. god, he wants. he wants his father to urge him like this, to hound, to strive to connect. he wants to confess the things rotting in his core, the disease which coursed through him since the womb. but the desires never vocalise, because he feels he doesn't deserve the solace. "talk to you? you? and what, you'll give me some fatherly advice? maybe afterwards, you can teach me to play catch, and i'll tell you about my first crush." he scoffs, the sound climbing up his haggard rib-cage to rest in the cool air between them. he grasps at the receptionist desk with white knuckles, like if he lets go, he'll spiral into the depths of his self-made prison. and this time, no one will fish him out.
"or, lets talk about that girl i killed... will that make you feel useful? will you be able to sleep, knowing you're doing your duty as the responsible father, trying to help his fucked up son? how i let cordelia⸻" not cordelia. just someone else out to get you, to use and discard you when they're finished. PERHAPS YOU NEVER KNEW THE VISION-GIRL. he's tired of hating, of blaming, when angel's been true to his word. but conor francis doesn't know who he is, if he's not daniel's flesh, raised on the tale of angelus. (is that why you descended those stairs and came here? lingered like a black cat in search of a home, rather than staying in your room? you wanted @paralyziingfears to seek you out. you knew he'd follow. you're cornered, smothered by his undying love, and you crave it so desperately.) the hotel is quiet, touched by the witching hour; a grave contrast to a few short weeks prior when it was bursting with community, with promise of a healed tomorrow.
angel's voice is soft, while conor's is piercing, begging for aid. sarcasm drips into his tone, and for a moment, he looks like a regular teenager, egging his dad on for fun. that mirage scarcely lasts. "i know: we'll talk about how the whole fucking world was blinded by jasmine! how everyone, even you, felt her. in their souls, in their hearts… except for me." THE ONE LEFT BEHIND. unworthy to grasp complete and utter serenity. once prophesied for glory, now a hollow shell of the boy he failed to be. conor grows stunned and frozen by his own helplessness, (the cursed and the damned: HIS WHORE MOTHER AND DEVIL FATHER⸺) and suddenly, his face grows downcast. shoulders no longer pulled taut, breath relaxes, eyes void of accusatory fixations.
his heart thumps madly, a wild thing with no direction: it forces the question out before he can retreat. "why was i the only one who saw the truth?" help me, dad. help me understand. you let me go once... HOLD ME TIGHTER THIS TIME. he turns around, slowly, hands lowered into fists; a striking parallel to that feral child with devices strapped to his body, ready to blow it all to hell. "what's so wrong with me that i couldn't be part of something... good?" his cold bites to the bone, any remnants of warmth discovered in holtz, in jasmine, in cordelia, has died⸺ he can't comprehend why angel doesn't give up, too. it's infuriating as it is compelling. in an instant, his chin raises, features schooling back into neutrality, any show of vulnerability vanishing; he appears years beyond, opposed to a kid just needing someone to hold them.
arms fold across his chest, frustration setting in, but he makes no effort to move. "forget it. don't think i wanna know." why i was born with poison in my blood. why i came into this place with a doomed fate. "don't think you do, either. cause then you'd have to admit i wasn't worth saving. and that would really throw a wedge into your 'helping the helpless' bullshit, right?"
