Die On Me

A friend jokingly told me that he would like Lindsey-written-by-me for Christmas. Who was I not to grant that wish? I do enjoy writing lawyer boy. I wrote this for Christmas '03, before seeing S5 of AtS.

Die On Me
For Fred.

I enter the bar without looking around. I stopped caring a long time ago about the scenery at old Ned's. It's what having to pay attention to every-fucking-thing else does to you. There's a moment when you've gotta stop. Sit back and enjoy a beer to the sound of whatever old tune the juke box is playing. What better place to do it than Ned's?

Sure, it's full of demons. I'm just glad they don't discriminate 'cause I'm human – they have the best beer here, a demonic brew that a friend of Ned's cousin makes. Anyway, I'm pretty sure I qualify as evil enough to get a life-long invite at Ned's. Some things I've done… Those guys eat kittens? Big deal. After their games of poker they go back home and sit down with a box of tissues in front of Port Charles, or kiss their kids good night, or go through their stamp collection again. They're not evil. They don't have any plan to take over the world or send it to hell, because that might just mean a disruption in the broadcast of their favorite TV show. Most of them don't even hurt humans, not unless they have to.

Well, there are always troublemakers, among which the eternal vampires, but word has gotten around that I'm off limits. Good thing, too, 'cause I paid good money to get that big magical mojo protecting me. Can't be too careful when you happen to be me.

I drop on my usual stool and Ned places a beer in front of me without a word. I can feel his green, pupilless eyes on me anyway. Ned and I have this understanding – he doesn't play sympathetic bartender guy unless I initiate the conversation. We made that deal when I held a broken bottle to his neck – I'd been having a real bad day and the last thing I needed was a demon pretending he cared and I could share and it would all get fucking better afterwards.

Point is, Ned didn't have much of a choice in making said deal. That was three years ago, give or take a couple of months. Since then, he and I developed this – understanding of each other. Much better than a deal. "Don't ask," I grumble, and we both pretend it doesn't give him leave to.

"Tough day?" he enquires off-handedly, wiping a glass.

I take a gulp of the beer. Fresh, bitter, thick, I'd have said a hint of whiskey in it but Ned assured me that it was actually some kind of demon alcohol called G'nol and that no, I really didn't want to know what exactly G'nol was. Not like I care, anyway. 'Slong as it tastes alright. "You could say that," I agree grudgingly. "Or you could say it was a fucking hell of a bad day."

"Ha," Ned lets out as if it explained everything, and I bet he would be looking at me through half-closed eyelids if he had any.

"Yeah. Ha."

He goes on a bit with his pretense of wiping glasses, and I go on with my pretense of not wanting to talk about it. It's become a well-honed routine.

"Work?"

"Sorta."

Ned leans forward on the counter, and I'm pretty sure he'd have an eyebrow raised at me, if he had any. He's all sleek and silvery, with those light green eyes and small pointy teeth. He might appear scary to someone who's not, well, me, but he's part of those guys who, sure, have disgusting feeding habits and mating rituals – don't ask – but aren't really all that bad when you compare them to some humans I could point out to you, starting with me. "Sorta?"

Yeah, that's an unusual answer. Usually we play a game of yes or no until he's tackled the issue, or until I've downed enough beers to be ready to volunteer information. "Previous work kinda sorta," I elaborate in a drawl.

"You mean, back when you were…"

"Employed at Wolfram & Hart, yeah."

That's a good periphrasis for saying 'back when I was an evil bastard'. Back when I didn't give a damn – wrong. Back then I already had to be cautious about everything. And I did give a few damns after all, no matter how much I tried to deny it and to convince myself and everybody else otherwise. That's what landed me here, after all. Why couldn't I just not care?

"What happened?"

I look up from my empty glass at Ned. I feel so empty all of a sudden. Like I was again trying to pretend I didn't care, that it was a bad day like any other and that eventually I would tell Ned and get drunk and it would be okay, but now the prospect of saying it out loud is too much and my emotions shut down, all of them, to spare me the embarrassment of a total breakdown in front of Ned's patrons. Or maybe just in front of Ned. Probably mostly in front of me. I'm so fucking afraid of discovering how much this affects me.

Ned must have sensed my change of mood, or maybe not, but point is he replaces my empty glass with a full one. I drain it in long gulps, but the bitterness of the drink finds no counterpart in my heart. I'm empty.

"Someone died."

"Someone you knew?"

I nod.

"A friend?"

A hollow, unamused chuckle breaks past my lips.

"I'm taking that as a no."

I nod again.

Why is my hand trembling around the glass? I let go of it and bring it to my lap, clasping both hands together tightly enough for it to hurt, but at least that stops the trembling. Ned is waiting silently for me to say more. Is there anymore to add though? I don't know. I just don't fucking know.

"Why does it matter?"

I look up at Ned. Most of the time it's kinda hard to figure out what's going through his mind, since his facial expressions look so different from what I'm used to seeing on human features. But there's no mistaking his concern now. Over the years, we've grown to be buddies, I guess. Kinda sad. Both for him and me. "It doesn't."

Ned looks ready to challenge that answer, but wisely closes his mouth. It doesn't fucking matter. Why would it? "Was he an enemy then?"

I don't know whether I want Ned to let it be or not. I don't know anything anymore. "At times. Yeah."

"But it's no cause for celebration." He asserts this as if it were fucking logical, but it isn't. I should be happy – some part of me should be. I've tried numerous times to get him dead – bastard chopped my hand off, made my life a hell, he deserved for me to try and get him dusted. So what if it's not my goal in life anymore? What if I stopped trying years ago? What if I'm supposed to have made my peace with who I used to be back then? Some part of me should still be remotely happy. I spread my hands on the counter, flattening them on it tightly so they still don't tremble. I look at them. My hands.

"I'm gonna head home," I hear myself saying, right before I drop a few coins on the counter and turn around.

Ned rushes around the counter and catches up with me as I'm halfway to the exit. "I don't think it's such a good idea, Mac," he says as he grabs my arm.

I shove him away, that short of a snarl. "I'm going."

He's sprawled on the floor and the whole bar has gone silent. Every eye is on me. What do I care? What do I care if Ned was just worried about me, what do I care if now they all think I'm even more of a lunatic than I let on? I feel so fucking empty. I storm out.

Maybe I don't feel so empty anymore. Maybe I feel furious instead. Dead. He's fucking dead! He had no right to die on me. He was supposed to stay eternally young and beautiful and strong and righteous and unwavering and saving innocents and everything I couldn't be, wouldn't be, couldn't be even if I tried. He was supposed to come and taunt me when I died, 'cause that's what he and I do. What we did. He was supposed to be there forever!

Fucking hell, Angel, you had no right to die on me.

~~ fin ~~