Who Needs Sleep?

"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.

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