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Title: Pretty When You Lie
Author: Mirax
Rating: PG
Length: 779 words
Summary: It's been 50 years since Fred's death, and Angel feels bitter and resentful towards Illyria, especially for the times she pretends to be Fred.
Notes: Thanks to Kumi for the beta, please ask before archiving.
Feedback: mirax @ dark-shines.net

Fifty years, to the day. But it's the sort of anniversary he wishes he were unable to remember. The kind of failure that he'd like to forget.

He still remembers the mud-covered slip of a girl, the one that hid out in the caves of Pylea. The one that turned soft smiles upon his humanish exterior and didn't flinch at the demon that had forced its way out.

Brave, sweet Fred, and he marvels at how fading memories make her perfect in every way.

Or maybe it's just guilt. Fifty years' worth, all piled up, tearing at him from the inside out. Hollow, so incredibly hollow, and the ghosts of smiles, adoring gazes, and soft touches aren't enough to fill him up.

He still doesn't have a clue as to what he should've done differently. There's a list ten thousand miles long, and despite how hard he's tried, it's impossible to trace back to its beginnings.

Couldn't leave her in Pylea. Didn't want to go home. Couldn't--wouldn't--trade her for Connor.

But he did. Someone else's daughter for his son.

Her parents eventually forgave. He thinks. Maybe it was just an act, to placate his perpetually troubled soul. Not that it ever had a chance in hell of working.

He wonders if Fred could ever do that. Forgive.

Is there even enough left of her to do that? Bits and pieces of a soul floating somewhere, whispering words that he can't hear? He still can't believe that she's gone.

Or won't believe, rather. He sees ghosts of her, reflections and shadows in Illyria's eyes, the corners of her mouth, the softer tones of her voice when she's talking to herself and thinks no one is listening.

Then again, he could just be making it up. So hard to tell, when Illyria plays the game. It took him the longest time to catch on, and despite the fact that now that he knows, he can't quite bring himself to tell her to stop.

She borrows smiles that aren't hers, and laughs that are too high and clear and free of the dark things that normally taint the sounds that come from her throat. Her eyes are soft sometimes, icy blue melting into a warmer, darker color.

Paints her lips red and loses the armor, replacing it with flimsy bits of fabric that pass for dresses, light and airy, covered in the most ridiculous patterns of tiny little flowers.

It hurts, God it hurts.

She doesn't smell like Fred. Doesn't smell at all. Not even that faint aroma of death that both the oldest and youngest vampires sometimes have, just…nothing.

Just a former goddess in an empty shell, with the painted-on face of what was once somebody's daughter. Almost-lover. Friend.

Then Angel reaches that indefinable breaking point, that last straw that he didn't even know he was down to; he's angry, so incredibly angry, and he just wants her to stop.

Wraps his hands around a slender, milky white throat, choking a creature that doesn't breathe. And he doesn't scream, doesn't yell, but the effect's still the same and that much worse, when he tells her to stop in that deceptively calm tone of voice of his.

To stop the almost fond looks, to stop using that gentle, girlish voice that's almost water-like in its rhythms. To stop with the soft lips and the sway of hips that sends the hem of her dress swinging, clinging to her thighs as it brushes them.

To stop because it's taken him half a century for it to finally sink in, but he gets it now. Understands at last that Fred's really gone. And no amount of role-playing and no number of games is ever going to bring her back.

Illyria freezes, brown eyes icing over in an almost literal kind of way, as faint pink and yellow flowers on a white background melt, then harden into armor.

Each word she speaks is clipped and precise, spaced evenly from its colleagues. Her fingers dig deep into his flesh as she attempts to remove his hands from her throat; he's forgotten how strong she is, and it's a struggle not to cry out as she draws the smallest amount of blood.

She pulls free, steps back, putting a few feet between them.

Anger and hurt flicker between her eyes and the rest of her face, still, so very much like Fred, and Angel reconsiders the whole screaming and yelling thing.

It's the hurt that digs deepest; he's betraying Fred if he continues to play, Illyria if he stops. And he wishes, prays even, not to care.

But he does, and that's why he leaves.

FIN.