Bring me a dream (Angel)

[WESTON BRODERICK]

There were times when Wes was lying awake late at night plagued with days of sleeplessness, when all he could think of was that fucking movie—that one dumbass quote, actually—and it just floated there, swirling around his head like leftover smoke.

“ When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep…and you're never really awake.”

A copy of a copy of a copy. That was all the dorm room was as Wes tossed and turned, eyes shutting and opening periodically as he stared at the ceiling, then the wall, then the ceiling, then the floor, then the other end of the bed, then the ceiling again. If he closed his eyes for too long, too, there were noises. Not as though he was drifting into a dream or anything, of course, for Wes had never experienced more than a daydream. Not that he could remember, anyhow. It was a sort of floating state, somewhere between restless and just plain comatose, like a living, breathing vegetable. Damn Xander had it so easy. All he had to do was flip on his iPod, close his eyes, and he was out like a switch. Was it that easy for everyone?

True, it would have been hard for anyone to sleep on a night like this. Just over twenty-four hours ago, he’d been in Angel’s room. She’d been crying. He hated when Angel cried. And then, of course, as was wearily predictable, he’d been unable to do what she needed him to do and she’d…snapped. But that was a nasty word. A horrible understatement of something he didn’t want to deal with but couldn’t seem to forget, either, with the way his chest still held scabs from where her fingernails and drawn blood, and his neck was covered in a constant black-and-blue perfect silhouette of Angel’s tiny hands as she’d locked them around him and squeezed, so much so that he’d begun to black out.

If he slept, he’d forget it. It had to be that simple. Naturally, that was why he couldn’t, either.

“ When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep...and you're never really awake.”

Groaning loudly in annoyance at the world, Wes flipped over onto his side, wincing as the movement stretched the scratched skin on his chest uncomfortably. Kicking the covers half off his jean-clad legs (what were the point in pajama bottoms, after all, when he hardly slept anyhow? It was too cold for just boxers), Wes pulled the flat pillow over his head, bending it so as to cover his ears.

“When you have insomnia…When you have…asleep…awake…
Say ‘Bye, Bye,’ Boy…”

[/size]

Wes snapped his eyes wide, jerking his entire body to the other side as the voice popped out of nowhere, seeming to echo so violently through his head for a moment that he very nearly thought it was inside him. Of course, that couldn’t be it. Because it was with Angel. Somewhere. The thought was nauseating.

Deep breath escaping his lips, Wes rolled back over to face the wall, legs stretched far out on both sides of the bed as he maintained something between a fetal position and spread-eagled face plant. He squeezed his eyes shut sharply, well aware counting no amount of imaginary sleep could possibly make this night pass by any faster.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

OUTFIT OF THE PRETTIEST JEEPERS CREEPER YOU'VE EVER SEEN!

She had stayed in her room that day. It was such a strange feeling, the shame that had overcome her when she woke up the night before from a strangely induced sleep. But it was a well deserved shame, most certainly. Angel would never forget that day, not ever. It'd haunt her like the chained up ghost in A Christmas Carol, only there was no moral- unless you count her possibly being insane. For the life of her, Angel tried to remember. But it was all blackness, all dark. The last thing she could remember was the phone call from her Dad, the moment of fear because she couldn't breath. And then nothing. The next thing their was... it was horrible. Angel wished it had just stayed black forever, than to carry that memory with her for the rest of her days.

She had awoken around half past midnight. There was Wes, perched at the corner of her bed. Upon looking at her, there was a moment of fear before seeing that she was safe. There were these horrible bruises staining his neck and face, a dark and cloudy purple and black spotting his pale flesh. His shirt was torn open, and down his chest were freshly scabbed scratches. five perfect lines torn right down to his belly button. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were rimmed red. Before she could ask him what the hell happened, before she could even stir up indignation at who ever had attacked her Wes, Angel had looked around her room. Or what remained of it. Posters were gone, her computer totaled, her little friend's homes were destroyed. And her friends... Oh God. Gregor was flatted, Banana George was gutted, and Lottie- her poor, darling, Lottie- was stabbed and torn into pieces. As her breath grew shallow in her grief, Angel was aware of her own pain. Her feet, the soles, were so sore. Her muscles were tired. Her nails were torn down, the nails ripped off down near the quick. But what told it all were her wrists... Her wrists were bruised. Not from defensive wounds, not from being attacked. From being restrained, from someone- Wes- stopping her from attacking.

The friends hadn't needed words. All she had to do was shake her head, her brown eyes filling with confused tears, that Wes understood she knew nothing. All he had to do was hold her, and to shush in her hair, and rock her gently that Angel understood that he was not angry. He should, of course. He should be furious. He should never want to speak to her again.

It took awhile, but Angel beat him down, made him tell her what happened. The play-by-play was horrific. The voice, the strength, the name. Boogie... Even if Wes could forgive her, Angel never could forgive herself. They cleaned the dorm together, salvaging what could be salvaged and throwing out what could not. Her Jack took care of the corpses, putting them in a biscuit tin with the promise to bury them and tell her where. Angel was grateful. She would not have been able to.

So she had grown reclusive for the day, as she mourned her dead darlings and contemplated the future she had with this infection she had. The day had been spent laying in bed, crying off and on... But when night came, after she dragged herself to the shower, she tried to sleep. It came, easily enough, but now the dreams were filled with awful, terrible, dreams. She had been plagued with night terrors, especially as a child. But they were nothing like what she saw now, absolutely nothing. Visions of her, but not herself. A horrible creature with fangs and claws, black soulless eyes, and nothing inside but spiders and roaches and scorpions. Things the world saw no beauty in, but she did, bastardized. And she watched as this creature that infected her body go after everyone and anyone she loved, and laughing the horrible giggle Wes had described.

Starting awake, Angel had to catch her breath and stop her tears. No, no, no. It wasn't just a dream. It was a vision. A horrible vision that she could never allow to happen.

Grabbing a flashlight, Angel rose from her bed, careful not to awaken her roommate- who had been so kind as to ignore the destruction of their room and remain so very pleasant with Angel. Of course, Angel was not dressed to be running around the halls of Baum currently. But honestly, when was she? She wore a large blue cornflower blue shirt, and white leopard booty shorts. On her feet she wore hamburger slippers, and the jewelry she had not bothered take off that day. The little eye make up she wore was put out of habit earlier that day, and smeared by her shower. She crept out of the girls wing, over to the boys, searching for Wes and Xander's door. It was good that Wes shared a room with a fellow misfit. Lucky, in fact.

Finding the door, she opened it slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. Through the half moon out the window, it offered a small bit of light to the boys' room. In one bed was Xander, who snored pleasantly with the sounds of his iPod on the go. Good for him. Certainly Ripley tired him out well enough through the day. And there was Jack, who's back was to the door. Nimble, she hopped on across, slipping easily into the bed, nestling next to him. Her face nuzzled between his shoulders, and her arm wrapped around his waist. "It's just me..." She whispered, eyes watching the little freckles he had on his back. "I couldn't sleep... Bad dreams." Already her voice sounded stressed, ready to burst into tears, but she pushed them back. Pride was definitely the worst of Angel Dihanie's sins. "I'll go though, if you want. I'd understand." Despite the little bit of pride that remained within her, Angel's tone kept a certain defeated tone. Ready to be shunned, ready for Jack to come to his damn senses.

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Wes heard the door open before he could decide to roll back over. It creaked loudly, like an old man’s disgruntled joint, and he couldn’t help but frown slightly at the disturbance, not that he was getting anywhere with the whole “rest” bit. Probably Tramp, sneaking in for a late-night rendezvous or something. He’d leave them to it, just as long as they left.

Still, as the door squeaked shut and Wes began to hear footsteps, there appeared a furrow in his brow, for he recognized them quite distinctly, despite their muffling by what obviously had to be slippers or some sort. To not know them would have been ludicrous; certainly, he’d have been unable to claim friendship for the past decade. They were familiar footsteps; the kind that never ceased to bring a slight smile to his lips, no matter what had happened the day, week, or hours pervious. Maybe it was pathetic. Maybe it was obsessive, and maybe it was more than a bit crazy, especially given the bruises and scratches and just-forming scars he now donned. Maybe, though, he didn’t care.

Silent and still as he felt a tiny body slide into bed with him, Wes held his breath. Obviously, he was just dreaming. That was what they felt like, after all, right? Real. In a dream, he’d be able to feel her breath on his skin as she nuzzled him, and the sweet smell of her would tickle his tongue and she’d feel warm, warmer than the hottest cup of soup could ever make someone feel, and it’d spread from the inside out and fill him completely, because her warm skin next to him would mean she was alright, and that was all he ever cared about, anyway.

But of course, she couldn’t be here. If she was coming, she’d have told him first. Not because it was Angel’s way, to plan things, or his to be busy, but because he’d called her already. Called and texted and even knocked on her door during the day, but all without answer. Consequently, he’d worried. The hours after he’d left her dorm yesterday (and truly, he hadn’t wanted to at all, but she’d made him, practically shoved him out the door after he’d made her promise it’d be okay for him to return) had ticked by slowly, filled with a gnawing, gnashing in his stomach that had nothing and everything to do with the now-cleaned wounds scabbing there. Silence, too, had occupied them. Silence of the sort which he hated, filled with a pressing, agonizingly tangible weight called memory.

He’d forgiven her, of course. It hadn’t been her fault. Something went…wrong. All it took was a look in her eyes when she’d awoken to know that. He’d forgiven her sooner than he could blink, and gone right back to where he’d left off upon entering the room hours before, holding her close, kissing her hair and telling her it would all be okay, because that was what he did.

And it would. Be okay. If they were together, then it didn’t much matter. Together, and everything would always be okay at its worst.

Then, of course, this couldn’t be a product of his imagination. The girl’s arm wrapped around him felt very much solid, far more real than anything in the dream world he so longed to visit possibly could. And then there was her voice, which was so very genuine, so true that he couldn’t help but open his eyes.

Thankfully, mercifully, the words were still there. He smiled. “Just me.” As though “just” had ever belonged in front of her name.

Wes rolled over carefully to face her, holding his breath as the scabs stretched and his sore muscles protested. He smiled slightly for a moment, though a little frown crossed his face at the suggestion that he might want her gone. Surely, she’d never believe such a thing.

“Of course you can stay,” he whispered with a gentle voice, nose nuzzling hers slightly. “You know you can come in here whenever.” Head pulling back a bit, Wes’s eyes flickered over hers. “Nothing’s changed, Sal…You don’t have to tell me, though, if you don’t want to.”

He had a fairly good idea as to what they’d be about, anyhow. Surely, if he could sleep, his would be much the same.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

Angel knew Jack would be nice about it. He's the only boy in the world who could be strangled, beaten, seduced, then punished for being a good guy, and be okay with it. On one hand, Angel was touched by the devotion, because she knew that if the shoe was on the other foot, she'd do the same for him. But, honestly, what did that say about them? It couldn't be healthy!

Still, her misgivings aside, she nuzzled his nose back, hungry for the affection like a beaten child. But his last words... that nothing changed. She had to sigh at that. "Everything has changed, Jack." She mumbled, voice tired. The ill placed lighting of the moon out his window spot lighted the claw marks, and she gazed at the marks guiltily. "You can pretend it hasn't, but it has. Me trying to kill you is definitely a change..." Her lip trembled, but she sucked it back in. "So don't be all worried... anything I get I deserved." Her level of self loathing was incredible, at this moment in time.

No, he'd seen her cry enough. She wouldn't make him endure more.

Yet, she couldn't stop her hand from reaching to his chest, each finger touching near the offending scratch it had committed. Her fingers traced down, eyes welling a little she went down, knowing the flesh would still be tender. "God... these are going to scar, aren't they?" Her own fingers were bandaged on the tips, nails shredded from the abuse they received. Yet, oddly she was numb to her physical pain. Aware, but why should she care. She deserved worse. Her brown eyes went to Wes's face, glad that the swelling on his face seemed to have gone down a bit. It was true, he had inordinately fragile skin. As children, one of his main excuses to avoid rough housing- though in hindsight, Angel seemed to have always managed to convince him- was because his Mother would worry about the bruises. But this fact did little to ease her guilt. It was her finger prints all over him.

Evidence of her crime.

His neck still looked in horrible condition. Her fingers grazed the marks gently. "I'm sorry, Jack... I promise, I'm never going to let this happen again. I will do whatever I have to do, I swear to God." Her voice was tired, but full of conviction. Her determination was always a force to be reckon with, yet anything else she had ever considered important before now seemed so much less. Nothing was more important than finding a way to not let this thing ever touch anyone- especially Weston Broderick- ever again.

Leaning forward, Angel kissed the bruised flesh gingerly, wanting to ease his pain in anyway she could. "I know why you're forgiving me, Wes... I've always known... And I'm sorry. You know that, right? I'm so sorry I never said it back, because you didn't have to say it aloud." She was tired, it was true, but it did not make her words less sincere. Laying the kisses along his neck, she finally rested them on his Adam's apple, snuggled in to hide her shame. If he could forgive this, he'd never forgive her for what she planned to do next.

But that didn't matter right now!

Right now she just wanted Jack to be happy. Just one night of them being Jack and Sally. His voice echoed in her ear: 'Two against the world, always and forever.' It's what he told her the day of her Mother's funeral, and what she said to him the day his Father left. Whenever someone picked on the other, or one of them got hurt or yelled at. And it was true. Even when they were apart, they were together.

Pulling her face up, she pressed her nose back against his, stroking his unblemished cheek gently. "You're always mine, and I'm always yours. Okay, Weston?" Gently, Angel finally gave into what Wes always wanted. What she always wanted. She kissed him, purely herself, trying to force the big, bad, Boogie from her mind. Wes had always made the monsters go away...

She just never expected the monsters to be real.

[WESTON BRODERICK]

How could she say that? “Everything’s changed.” As if that was the point. Like she didn’t know what he meant, or she hadn’t listened to him at all over the past decade. Of course everything had changed. Everything always changed. People left and people came and time ticked and the world spun, but none of it ever mattered because it was always them, just the two of them—Jack and Sally, Weston Broderick and Angel Dihanie, whichever—and the world and all the horrible, awful, tragic things in it that never seemed quite so dark when they were together. At least not to him.

Still, she was right. In the same way Angel was always right, she spoke the truth now. And in a way, he wanted to hate her for it—not that he’d be able to, of course. Or perhaps not the fact she’d said it; maybe he just wanted to hate the truth of it all. Because she was right. Things were different now; if she thought they were, then they would be, no matter how much Wes begged and pleaded and told her it didn’t have to be different. He’d loved her then and he’d loved her now and he’d love her tomorrow and the day after, too. Scars didn’t matter. Everyone had them.

He swallowed. Watching her with black eyes that had grown sad, he reached his hand out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, speaking in a voice so soft it might as well have been down. “Don’t talk like that…”

His hand lingered there, cupping her face for a moment before he brought it back down, finger tracing delicately over her cheek as he stared into her dark, deep brown eyes and felt his heart clench. He was silent. A small, involuntary wince escaped him as she touched the raw skin on his chest, and he jerked his hand back slightly. Immediately, he swallowed, determined to cover up the surprising pain he felt at being touched there. But then, they were only a day old. Of course they would be tender. It didn’t help that he’d been lying on top them minutes before, however; surely it was more that than anything. They weren’t so bad. Just cuts. They’d heal, and yes, they’d probably scar.

He nodded slightly, eyes glancing once down to Angel’s fingers and back to her eyes.

Wes held his breath as her fingers moved to his neck, although it wasn’t in any way out of fear. This was Angel, here. “You don’t have to apologize…” his voice was hoarse as he pushed back the water that was beginning to brim ever so slightly in his vision. He continued with slight confidence. “It won’t. I can stop…it…now.”

He thought so, anyway. His guess was as good as any, but at least now there was a point to start at.

Again, Wes felt his breath keep in his throat as she leaned forward to kiss him. He closed his eyes against the touch of her warm lips against his bruised and tender skin. Carefully, he listened to her words and found they hurt as much as they helped.

“Just stop saying you’re sorry. Please. It doesn’t matter…” his voice shook faintly as he processed her words, watched her with sad, deeply empathetic eyes when she pulled her lips away from his purpled skin.

He loved her. Like the sun loved the moon and the moon moved the tide, he’d love her until the world stopped spinning and time stopped ticking and all the horrible, terrible things in the world took over. And still then, he thought to himself, he’d probably feel for her more deeply than words or pictures could ever convey.

He was sixteen. People could tell him that all they wanted, but it wouldn’t change anything. He’d be nineteen, eventually, and so would she, and he’d love her then. Twenty, thirty—it didn’t make much of a difference.

Wes nodded at her words, small smile on his full lips. “Always.”

He kissed her back gently, hand moving its way to curl in her hair as he held her close and let his lips play across hers. He closed his eyes and kissed her deeply.
Reverently, for Weston Broderick loved Angel Dihanie the way most men loved only dreams.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

It was an incredible relief to just give in. In a way, it seemed like this was what was always meant to happen. Maybe this was the reason she had never been homesick, despite missing her brother and Daddy. Maybe.. She hadn't planned this, two years ago. When they made the pact to be each others first, it was not intended for them to fall in love. But they did. Had he been in love then? Or did his fondness grow after, in time? It seemed pointless to wonder at this point to be honest. Though she kissed him, she remembered what she had to do. She would break their pact to not let their first break their heart, and it killed Angel even more that she was doing it.

But it was the right thing to do, right? Angel was always hindering him, hurting him. He could be the damn class president or something. Valedictorian! He could be getting scholarships for his music talents, not wasting away in detention with her! He did so with such an intense sense of duty. Hope. Hope guides him. It's what got him through the day and especially through the night, if Angel knew Weston at all. And she prided herself on the fact that she did. The hope that after she was gone from his sight, it would not be the last time that he looked upon her. But it had to be! It just had to be! After that hope, that promise, that oath was broken, he'd find new ones.

And new girls to make them with.

Angel felt her heart break in her chest, lips folding over his delicately, tears streaming slowly from her eyes. But, she took comfort, because he did say always. He did! And that meant that she could have other men, and he could have other women, but when it came down to it they'd be each others forever. In their hearts, they were their firsts. And nothing, not time, or distance, or even God damn psychotic little monsters that live in the depths of someones mind, would take that from them.

She broke the kiss for a moment to compose herself. This was not a moment to be mourned, it was a moment to celebrate. The first action belonging to Angel that was done without selfishness. It was all for her Jack, all for a chance that Wes might be happy. When she looked up, she finally said it aloud, with words that could not be misconstrued or confused for something else. "I love you, Weston Broderick." A treasure for him to savor. She could only hope he'd look back on it fondly.

And so they made love. Angel had always found that to be such sentimental terminology, but she now understood it. It had been careful and tender, their lips rarely breaking. She had taken the lead, settling on top of him, not wanting to agitate his wounds by making him work. Her hair formed a curtain around their faces, shielding their soft murmurs and gasps and moans from the world, keeping them each others most beloved secrets. Though it wasn't longer than a half hour, they both had the comfort of relief. Neither bothered with dressing, as it seemed unnecessary for the moment. She just laid their, snuggled against his chest, relishing in the current safety she felt.

Tonight was theirs. He can be free tomorrow.

"Ripley's going to say pics or it didn't happen... I would have, but I was distracted..." Looking p to him, Angel gave a teasing smirk, wanting him to have a taste of the good old days. Two days ago had been those good old days, and yet they seemed like forever. But she could do this. She could give him this.

It didn't occur to her that this was probably hurting him, more than helping.

Leaning forward, Angel kissed him lips gently, committing his special flavor to memory forever.

[WESTON BRODERICK]

He hated when she cried. More even than he hated when she said things didn’t matter, or acted like they didn’t, or pretended she was anything but good for him. Tears were cold, and they left a slight stinging sensation when they touched the small cut on his chin when they slid from her face to his as they kissed. Still, he didn’t pause to wipe them away. This was enough, surely, for now.

She broke the kiss, and for a moment, he frowned. His brow furrowed and dark, deep eyes searched hers for sign of what it was he’d done wrong, for any indication of what had started the tears. Whatever he could do to dry them, of course, he would. Bruises and scabs and scars mattered little when Sally was in distress. After all, what was Jack good for if not to mend the patches?

He bit his lip when she spoke. For a moment, the words seemed clouded, as though spoken through some foggy haze of wistfulness constructed in his own mind—he had, after all, imagined her speaking those same words to him. The same tone, perhaps even the same place; everything minus the tears the same. But then, that was what made it real. Two seconds ago, she’d been crying. A small, grateful smile spread over his lips and he felt his heart jump for a fraction of a second before he responded. The words came out easily, for she already knew. He knew too—it was the one promise to her he’d never regret breaking, quite possibly as long as he lived.

“I love you too, Angel.” It was a whisper, weighed down by unspoken words of the past decade.

It was love that they made, certainly, careful and tender and cautious and wonderful.

Wes’s right arm draped loosely over Angel’s back, fingers playing in her long, dark hair as he stared at the ceiling, faint smile on his lips as his other hand rested behind his head on the pillow, breathing slowing with every second that passed. So that, then, was what he’d been missing. Two years was surely too long. He looked down at her when she spoke, a tiny chuckle escaping his lips. “I think she’ll survive…”

He brought his head up off the pillow to kiss her again, propping himself up on his elbow despite the stretching of the scabs. He couldn’t feel them now, anyway. Any pain he could have felt from them was gone, faded away with the dull ache he’d felt in trying unsuccessfully to sleep earlier; she was here now, after all, and he’d never wanted anything more than this. Lips pulling slowly away from hers after a moment, Wes pushed another small strand of hair back behind Angel’s ear before speaking, eyes flickering warmly over hers. “Do you still want to sleep…?” He nuzzled her nose gently, offering her another light kiss before pulling back, waiting patiently for her response.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

Sleep?

How could she sleep?

Why tempt the disappointment of a dream that could not compare to this current reality? Or worse, tempt nightmares that would taint this memory for her? No, she didn't want to sleep. Not tonight, when their remaining time seemed so little. "No, I'm fine." She knew about Wes's insomnia, as she knew every bit of him. She knew when it started, years and years ago, when his dead beat Father left. Insomnia via trauma. Angel had heard their parents discuss it, after one of Wes's failed therapy sessions his Mother had insisted on. Wes went to sleep, and his Father had been there, and then he woke up, and Thomas was gone. Slept meant change.

Did that mean she was going to mess up his reality by leaving? Was she going to further traumatize her best friend?

NO NO NO!

She was helping him.

Saving him.

"Do you remember that day you moved in next door to me?" Angel asked, her smile becoming nostalgic. Of course he remembered. Angel found too much enjoyment in the story to let it go. "When I gave you a kiss, and you freaked out. And then I shoved you, cause I thought you weren't being cool, bro." He run on sentence carried on, as she spoke in a loud whisper that permeated the darkness. In her memory she recalled a little her, with a pitchy and excited falsetto voice, claiming to the already dour boy, that she would like to kiss him. And Weston, oh young Weston. He was inquisitive, sure, but never in the way of child like wonder. It was more scientific, more he just wanted to know.

Play time had been such a chore, in the beginning. She would climb the tree in Wes's back yard, and proclaim that they were pirates. No, he'd contradict. That wasn't a boat, that was an Oak. The were kindergarteners. Not pirates. Not even Spongebob could teach him the powers of Imaginaaaaaaaaaaation. Though, after his loyalty set in, he would indulge her. He'd say the lines she gave him to say, and watch her with his constantly curious and investigative eyes. Perhaps their friendship was based on the fact that after a decade, Angel hadn't stopped trying to convince him they were pirates. Or cowboys, or doctors, or army men. What have you.

"Your Mom didn't like my games. She would have wrapped you in bubble wrap if not for my Dad I think." She grinned, sitting up to twist his dark hair gently between her fingers. "She didn't like how I turned her games into my games... Remember the sugar cookies?" That had been so long ago. Red food dye, and such an indignant Wes. "I told you I wanted to help... I was, you know. I was trying to get you to come out of your shell. I figured anger was something.... Even then you were angry for just a moment..." The memory was so long ago, clouded with time and retellings. Her complete memory was tarnished, though she remembered wiping a red dye smile on Wes's face, because he looked so angry. She had ruined his perfect cookies, which were so pristine, and such a nice creamy off white color. "I think that was the first time I had ever really been sorry for anything..."

First. Certainly not the last.

[WESTON BRODERICK]

In a way, he was relieved. He wouldn’t have minded, of course, if she’d been tired and wanted to rest her eyes; but then, there was something different in it, when he couldn’t join her in sleep. Wouldn’t join her. Whatever it was, she’d close her eyes and he wouldn’t; he’d lie there, still with closed eyes and vain attempts to count enough sheep, cows, horses, or numbers to drift off.

And if she was sleeping, he couldn’t hear her voice.

A small smile crossed Wes’s lips as he flickered his gaze over her. Of course he remembered. How could he not? She was the best thing about the move. The best thing about his childhood, really, were he to venture so far. He hadn’t wanted to change houses, hadn’t known why his mother had packed all his belongings into boxes or why large, burly men had come and taken them into a big orange truck labeled “U-Haul” while he and his parents piled into the family’s little Saturn and drove in front. That was all he’d asked, too: “Why?” It was, for an incredibly long time, his favorite word. Still was, in a way, when Angel wasn’t the one telling him things. He didn’t like to question her any more. Not unless he had to.

“Of course,” he murmured, eyes brightening with the memory. Stupid kid, he’d been. “You ruined my pants, remember? Got them all muddy, when you pushed me into it…” He hadn’t cared, of course. Well, perhaps a little—he hadn’t known her yet, after all. But still, it was always his mother who fretted more about such things and still did. She’d never liked Angel as much as he did. Tolerated her, of course, because it was what good neighbors did and she had such lovely parents—they’d been close, the Brodericks and the Dihanies, when both sets of parents were around and even after, when just the mother of one and father of another were left. It was only because of her guardians that Angel was ever redeemed, in Wes’s mom’s eyes.

He’d tried to explain that it wasn’t a big deal, when he got older. They didn’t hurt, the bumps and bruises he got while playing with her and only her. But she knew when he winced. He had delicate skin, Weston, fair and susceptible to even the slightest purple tinge.

What would she say, if she saw him now?
He didn’t want to think about it.

“I never would’ve let her,” he chuckled a little bit, voice soft even by his standards as they spoke in such close darkness.

He nodded. What had prompted this bout of nostalgia, Wes had no idea. He couldn’t say he minded. Any moment spent with Angel was a moment made better, even if they were moments spent talking about the past. He didn’t mind the past, when it was mentioned as her past, too. But then, he didn’t mind much anything so long as she was with him, close and safe and warm.

There was a time, however, when he had minded. A small, breathy laugh escaped his lips at the memory. “How could I forget? You completely destroyed them…” he nuzzled her again, voice chiding even in its whispered form. For a moment, he was silent. Brown eyes watched hers and he felt his chest grow warm, as though some invisible force had come and wrapped a blanket around it, and it alone.

His pale fingers traced their way gently over her lips and he looked at her, brow furrowing slightly, voice gentle and tender. “Why?” of course, he’d been angry at the time. Livid, for a span of about 2.4 seconds. “Looking back, I think I like them better that way. Plain’s boring…don’t you think?”

Drawing his fingers away, he leaned forward to kiss her lightly once more, little smile on his lips as they met hers. Yes, this was better than dreaming could ever be. She was here, after all, with him in a manner so completely different from yesterday it was almost unnatural. But he didn’t mind, of course. This he would remember, the look in her eyes and the feel of her skin, in a way people who slept and dreamed could only pretend to imagine.

[ANGEL DIHANIE]

Angel did like that he was joining her in this moment of nostalgia. It was a good moment, intimate, shared only with them. No one else could touch it, no one else could even come close. Was it fair to her other friends, her closeness with Wes? Did Ripley ever get jealous that they had their little inside jokes, inside looks, and secrets that were only there's? Had she put together that they had had a moment years ago, full of awkwardness and excitement. And, yes, only a moment, bless his heart, that he apologized profusely for and blushed so deeply. She had handled that with tact that was not known for Angel, a gentle carefulness that was out of her nature. Merely a little giggle and an insurance that 'That's what's s'pose to happen, Jack.' Did anyone know? Her Dad? He had probably assumed, by this point, as he had become a bit cool to Wes as he went from boy to a strapping young lad. Wes's Mom? Again, probably. Certainly the thought that Angel had corrupted her poor, sensitive, Weston Samuel had crossed the woman's mind in more way than one.

And in more ways than one it was true.

What had kept him so set on this course? Weston always seemed to know things, even as a child. One of their favorite games as children was to exchange questions. Wes had been amused by what answers Angel would pull out of thin air, Angel was intrigued by how smart he seemed. Had he known? Had he seen something in her eyes when she assured him that he had done good, that night in her bedroom?

Interrupting her endless sea of questions, Wes kissed her tenderly. Like how lovers do in movies. It was a shame to think that the course of action that she was planning to take would not really have to happen if there were only the smallest of changes. If he was angry and wouldn't speak to her, but grew to forgive her over time. Oh, she'd be sad and she'd cry. Angel had been upset by his anger when she ruined his cookies, back when they were tykes, even though it had been her intention. But his anger faded, and he forgave her, and all was well. She'd throw apologies at his feet and hope he accepted them, instead of squash them to the ground. Was it too much to hope for? Yes, apparently.

Weston Broderick was far too impractically practical, that was it. He knew he'd forgive her eventually, so he just skipped the middle man. A true unconditional love, that had left healthy behind long ago. But he was soft, and safe, and warm. "You're really beautiful, you know that Wes." She said, face looking a little grim but equable. "Don't say I am back, even if it's what you want to say, cause I want to talk." Taking his chin, Angel gave him the most serious look her impish face could muster, looking at him with her deep ochre eyes. "I want you to promise you'll always remember me, just like this. Nice and soft and pretty and... Just not that thing. Okay? I don't want you to ever think of that thing, because I swear it will never hurt you again. I won't let it Jack. I love you too much, and... There's nothing more terrible for me than for something to happen to you. So when you think back to high school when you're all old and smelly and senile, don't forget this, right now. Okay? It's important. Just don't forget this. Because you're the best thing that has ever been in my life, Wes. I won't ever love anyone like how I do you. Not ever, Wes." She spoke with conviction, and though her eyes teared, there was no quiver to her voice. Even if he broke the promise and hated her when she left- and she knew she would deserve, she still hoped this wouldn't be a list of regrets in her Weston's life.

[WESTON BRODERICK]

But she was beautiful.
She was a calm sea on a summer night. She was the morning’s first tide just as she was the sunset, and the way the noon sky filtered through the trees in a forest of redwoods and painted a speckled picture on the blackened, damp forest floor. She was the first sunrise of spring, stretched wide and bleeding over the pale morning sky, and she was the sound of the waves that came crashing against the rocks at eleven, and the sound of the screen door creaking shut at midnight on a Thursday because that was when the sky was clearest and the roof was most inviting.

He’d opened his mouth to tell her all these things—with just two words and a look, mind you—when she stopped him, and he halted his speech, as Wes was prone to do whenever Angel asked him to stop anything. Still, his brow furrowed. His dark eyes held hers as she spoke, and he found his throat tightening a bit at her speech, wondering why on earth this would ever be warranted. Of course he’d remember her. Always. He’d meant it, all those years ago when he’d told her he’d never leave her side; that was what love did, after all, knotted people together. And if Weston didn’t love Angel, he didn’t want to know what the word meant at all. If it meant he had to leave her, he wanted no part of the business.

He watched her eyes tear. Watched, and didn’t move, for he was enraptured by her words and the undeniable weight they carried. Angel didn’t talk like this. Not when they were kids, not ever. He was the deep one, the one that thought about tomorrow and the day after. She was so presently minded, so eager to be here, now, right this second, doing all the things at once. That, of course, was what he loved. And he loved this Angel too, no doubt about it. But she frightened him. Not because of yesterday, and not because of what might happen tomorrow, but because here, now, right this second, she was different and it terrified him.

Silent for a few moments, he did the only thing he could think to do as her words settled in over his shouldering and on his scabbed chest. He nodded. Of course, they’d be together when they were old and senile. And they’d hold hands in their rocking chairs on the porch and together they’d talk about this night, and how much they loved each other then and how much they still loved each other now, on death’s door. She didn’t need to tell him to forget yesterday’s Angel. He already had—or would have, were it not for the scratches and bruises.

“You know I love you, Angel,” he spoke softly, in a voice threatening to grow hoarse with effort not to crack. “More than anything. But you don’t have to talk like that—you think one bad thing’s gonna ruin it all? I love you, and I’m right here. You don’t have to worry, okay? Just stay close…” he leaned forward to kiss her again, eyelashes brushing against her cheek as he did so. When he pulled away, he found himself swallowing hard, speaking earnestly and gently as he tucked another stray strand of hair behind her ear, eyes flickering over hers as his thumb played softly over her lips. “Two against the world, always and forever. Remember?”