RATING: PG-13.
SUMMARY: Written as a response to the LJ Loving Angel 69 Angel/Spike “I Will Not Fade Away” Ficathon Challenge (details above)
WARNING: No smut. Some angst
DISCLAIMER: Not my fun bunnies <sob>
AUTHOR NOTE: This will eventually become a series, but I don’t have enough time before the posting date to write what I want. And it would be about 10 times longer. The title is from Nina Simone’s Angel of the Morning. The headings for each part are Zen Buddhist meditation sayings. And I’ll let you carry on reading now…
The Challenge: The final episode of Angel left us all hanging, the credits rolling just as the battle began. What happened during and/or afterwards? Angel lost all of his friends, and is consumed with grief. What a perfect opportunity for Spike to pick up the pieces…
Below, there are 30 song lyrics, each pertaining to a day in the month of September. Some are dark, some are more positive. We are looking for 30 writers to sign up for a day, write a fic themed around the lyric and the post-Not Fade Away challenge above and post it.
Lyrics : ’In the memory you’ll find me / Eyes burning up / The darkness holding me tightly / Until the sun rises up’ ~ Forgotten by Linkin Park
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
‘Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while a great wind is bearing me across the sky.’
Spike let his head fall gently back against the bathtub. The bitterly cold porcelain was a sudden contrast to the almost uncomfortably hot water.
His life was so confusing now. Moments like the one he’d just had didn’t make it any easier.
It had been so easy all those years ago. He only had two purposes in his life - to feed and to keep Dru happy. Trying to make her better after Prague, he’d breezed into Sunnydale. Everything had changed in pretty short order.
He’d met his match in that Slayer. He could have handled the continual ass-kicking, knowing that in the end he’d win. He’d always done so, been proud that he’d bagged himself two.
However, she got inside his head, turned him good, let him think he wanted a soul for her. Angel hadn’t helped either; just made him think he could be a real boy one day, Jiminy bleedin’ Cricket.
Sod wishing upon a bloody star, he didn’t really care about any damn prophecy. He didn’t care about much any longer.
He didn’t know why he’d carried on afterwards. It had just been him and Angel left, and at the time he couldn’t forgive him. Since then, he’d drifted from place to place. Never staying too long, never getting to know anyone, and certainly never letting anyone get close. Only helping out where he could.
He’d learnt his lesson, though. If he couldn’t call them food, he surely couldn’t call them friends.
He’d found that his rep had been lost in history. Truth be told, it had started back when he was chipped. He fought fledges now and then who thought William the Bloody and Angelus were scary-fairy tales made up to frighten them into line.
Even if his reputation had faded, his fighting skills had not. There was rarely anyone left afterwards to help spread the truth. Like his whole life, it was both a blessing and a curse.
After working his way eastwards for a while, he’d had a sudden hankering for California once again. Without knowing why, he turned around and headed back.
Back to Sunnydale – or what was left. He’d found himself standing at the edge of the crater. It was a weird feeling, remembering how he felt when he was burning up in the middle of it. His life had all fallen into place at the time; it had all made sense.
Trouble with epiphanies was that they were too sudden. His life certainly didn’t make sense anymore.
He circled around the crater, heading for the cemetery that he knew had escaped Sunnydale’s destruction. He was glad it had, he really didn’t know what he’d feel if it had gone. Eventually he came to the heavy iron gates, pushed them open, and walked slowly in. He knew his way from here with his eyes shut.
No one else knew, but he’d often come to sit and chat. He had really liked her, she was good people. When she was alive, she’d made him hot chocolate that would tempt seraphim. More important, she’d listened to him. It had helped him even when she was gone. He’d looked after Dawn as much for her sake as for Buffy’s, if not more.
Finding her grave, he sat down next to it, tucking his knees under his chin. Lost for a moment, he started to talk to the empty air.
Sitting there, he felt as if he was back before it all went so wrong. He could almost hear Joyce telling him to act his age. Agreeing it would be hard, but he needed to forgive so he could move on. That people changed.
Just like them - she’d started off threatening him with an axe; they’d ended up bonding over Passions.
Maybe, he thought, it was time for him to see Angel again. It could be time now to see what he would have to say for himself.
‘When moved to complain about others, remember that karma is endless and it’s loving that leads to love.’
Once he decided to see Angel, it was surprisingly easy to find him. He’d driven down to LA. That was where he’d last seen him, so it was hopefully the easiest place to pick up his trail.
He’d headed towards the Hyperion first. Even now, the memories were still raw. He hadn’t known Angel’s team long; but, fool that he was, he’d let them straight into his too-large, too-soft heart. For a dead, useless thing, it still caused him far too many problems.
He paused outside the doors, unsure that he was doing the right thing.
A pain down his side changed his mind. The early morning sun was just rising, and a beam had caught him. Wrenching the door open, he ran to safety inside.
Or what he’d thought was safety. Seeing the lobby practically unchanged took him back to that day, months ago.
Spike had carried Gunn’s body inside. Then he’d gone back out to pull Angel in, before the sun could succeed where the dragon had failed.
Angel had been silent, almost catatonic, unwilling to look at Gunn. He’d dropped down onto the seating in the middle of the lobby. Spike hadn’t been exactly sure what had happened outside.
One moment Illyria had been there, fighting alongside them. Then she’d seen Gunn fall. The next thing he knew, she wasn’t there. Neither were the demons. He didn’t want to analyse it. He was just grateful he was still around.
Spike moved over to Angel, and put a hand on his shoulder. Angel flinched, and moved away from his touch.
Spike felt a sudden burst of anger. Damn it, he was getting tired of Angel’s continuous rejection, of his pushing him away. When would he ever make sense?
Angel had explained it everything to him earlier. He’d fallen back into their early days, calling him ‘a stor’, his darling. Just as Angelus had done, back in the day, before that bitch Darla made him stop.
He’d told him he’d only behaved the way he did because he wanted to protect him. That he couldn’t let anyone know how much Spike meant to him. Friend, childe, brother, anam cara.
Now they were the only two left, and he was still keeping him at arm’s length.
Spike felt like grabbing him, shaking him hard until he came to his senses. Instead, he backed away, ending up against the counter. He kept his anger in check, and folded his arms around his chest; willing his resentment down.
He stared at Angel. His skin seemed stretched tight, the lips rigid. Only his eyes showed any emotion, contradicting the immobility of his face. But no single emotion could describe that expression. Within those dark brown depths seemed to burn not only loss, but anger, grief and self-loathing.
Or were they just a mirror, reflecting his feelings?
Desperate for some kind of sound to break the painful silence, Spike absently began to drum his fingers on the counter. Angel’s head spun round.
“Stop that.” He ordered through clenched teeth.
“Make me.”
Angel sprung forward, his fist upraised, only to bring it smashing down on Spike’s hand. Angel’s fist held tightly onto Spike’s hand, his body drooping down over it. Blood from the cuts on his head covered that of Gunn’s which had dried on Spike’s hand.
He straightened his back; but his head stayed bent downwards. He wouldn’t look at Spike.
“Please talk to me, Angel.”
He hadn’t been able to stop the note of desperation in his voice. However, Angel hadn’t spoken another word. He’d just made for the stairs. Spike watched him as he disappeared from view.
He’d be damned if he was going to follow him again, to beg him to open up. It had never worked yet.
He washed the blood off his hands. The tears mixed with the rusty-colored water. Rubbing at his damp eyes, he walked over to the seating Angel had just vacated. He’d curled up, desperately tired, willing sleep to come.
He tried to shut out the images of his friends that filled his mind. How happy Wes had looked with Fred before…
He concentrated on the smell of Angel that lingered on the seats. Whatever he thought of Angel right now, that smell was family… reassuring and comforting. Finally, welcome sleep overwhelmed him.
When he awoke, it was turning dark again outside. Spike had got up, stretched out the cricks from his uncomfortable sleeping position and picked up Gunn’s body. Angel’s car was still outside the hotel, so he decided to take it.
He’d headed towards what was left of Sunnydale. He knew just where he was going to leave Gunn – right next to Joyce. For some reason he felt secure here. Some strange part of him wanted to make sure that Gunn was safe.
He hadn’t been able to protect him when he was alive. This was the best he could do now he was gone.
He made short work of digging the grave, and was soon standing over newly replaced soil. He thought that he should say a few words. It was only proper.
“You stupid git, should’ve said no.”
He turned, pulling his duster close to fight the sudden chill he felt, and left.
‘To find your way, you must close your eyes and walk in the dark.’
Standing in the lobby now, he felt that his world was empty, terrifyingly empty. What if he never found Angel? He pushed back down the absurd panic that surged up at that thought.
Angel had always come through. He’d always fought against his own demons and come out stronger.
Then again, Angel had never before let so many humans in that close to his heart. Spike knew that he regretted each and every despicable act he’d done as Angelus. How would he have felt knowing that he’d been the reason his friends had died?
Spike cursed himself for leaving, for running away. There had been times lately he’d felt like kissing sunlight to end it all. He should have been here, making sure that Angel didn’t do just that.
He found himself retracing the steps that Angel had taken when he’d last seen him. He knew that he’d been heading towards his room. He’d never been here before that night, but Spike knew where to go.
Even now, Angel’s scent hung heavily in the air, ingrained into the very fabric of the building. Spike found himself outside what he knew was Angel’s room.
Steeling himself against whatever he would find in there, he pushed the door open.
Stepping in, he released the unnecessary breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The room was empty except for the bed and some furniture. There was nothing in there to remind him of Angel. Yet the whole emptiness of it all somehow did.
Feeling tiredness overtake him, he laid down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Finally, his eyelids just became too heavy, and he drifted off into darkness.
As always, those eyes haunted his dreams.
He’d hated the dead look that had so often been directed towards him during those months at Wolfram and Hart. So different to the passion and bloodlust that animated those eyes when they’d first hunted together.
Even later on, in Sunnydale, he’d known Angel was lying as he’d held the whelp’s neck out to him. He’d blustered, and acted as if nothing had ever changed; but just one glance at the eyes had told Spike everything.
Now all he saw was the look in those eyes the last time he’d seen them. So lost, screaming silently for help. He had seen himself in Angel’s eyes, and he’d just turned and fled.
Waking, Spike looked at his watch. It was only midday, but he could sleep no longer. Walking back down to the lobby he came to a decision. He found a directory and pulled out his cell phone.
He was not Angel’s Childe for nothing. It had suited him at the time in Sunnydale to let everyone believe that he was low enough to accept money for information. They’d never realized that it was just another form of entertainment to him.
Really, he was quite well off. Not as rich as Angel, but then he’d never quite had his luck. Yes, the origins of his wealth were a bit dubious. Nevertheless, it had been invested wisely for years, and compound interest worked its magic for the undead just as well as it did for the living. Especially over a hundred years.
He got the services reconnected quickly. Once that was sorted out, he set himself to the task in hand.
Finding Angel.
He started by trawling the demon bars. No one knew where Angel was, but most thought he was still in LA. He’d dropped out of sight, shunning contact with both the human and demon worlds. Occasionally he’d surface in reports of reckless fights in dank, dark alleys.
Spike couldn’t help but smile sadly at this irony. Angel had expected his vampiric life to end in an alley, the same way it had begun.
After realizing that, Spike spent each night waiting.
Tonight, he’d struck lucky.
He knew that eventually Angel would have to come back to this alley. Despite the pain, maybe because of it, he would have to return.
The rain poured down as the storm thundered. Spike hid in the shadows, waiting. His mind cast back to that night. At first, he thought it was his imagination, seeing Angel run towards the chain-link fence.
He’d replayed that moment so many times recently.
This time, Angel just clung onto the fence, eyes screwed tightly shut. As if he was afraid to open them, to see who really wouldn’t be there again.
Spike stepped out of the shadows, closer to Angel. Stamping out his cigarette, he leant over towards him, and said just one word.
“Boo.”
Angel’s eyes flew open in surprise, full of disbelief. Clutching at Spike, he crumpled to the floor, suddenly deflated.
Spike knelt by him. Clearly, Angel hadn’t been looking after himself. He looked worse than Spike had ever seen him, even back in China.
“Gonna be okay now. Gonna look after you. Cairdeas, Grá, Dílseacht....”
He repeated the litany that Angelus had whispered like a caress to him years back. Friendship, love, loyalty…
Angel looked up at him, choked back a sob, quietly saying, “Cronaím thú.”
Spike helped him to his feet.
“Yeah, missed you too, daft sod.”
Spike was worried about him. He’d told himself repeatedly that he’d come to give him a piece of his mind.
Then he’d seen him. Suddenly he was back there again. The same unsure fledging who’d helped bandage him up after Darla’s more violent episodes.
What a fool. He’d been afraid of that one kind word, one kind look. The one that would make him love him just as much as he ever had.
No, Angel needed him now. He had never needed him. That made him fall even worse than he thought he could.
He walked Angel up to his bedroom, falling easily back into the old patterns. He sat him down on the bed, and gently took his coat and shirt off. He needed to see just how bad things were.
Spike half expected him to pull away, to hide himself. Instead, Angel just let him carry on.
Reflexively, he drew in a sharp breath. Angel had never been on the slight side. Now his ribs stood out in stark relief. He was almost as thin as Spike had ever been at his very worst.
“Been feeding at all?” He asked, running his fingers over the cold skin.
Angel’s head hung lower.
“When the hunger was bad...” He whispered down into his chest.
Spike hated that he still had the power to shatter him. He’d never wanted to see him this broken.
He got up from the bed, and went into the bathroom. He ran a bath full of almost scalding water, lowering himself into it. He wanted to feel anything but the cold fear that consumed him.
After a while, the tears came. Tears for their friends. Tears for himself. Tears for Angel.
‘When I awake in the morning I listen to those I love, especially to things they don’t say.’
Spike shifted uncomfortably in the chair, careful not to make any noise. Angel had been mostly silent, replying to his questions with short, simple answers. He’d slowly drunk the blood Spike had given him, and then fallen asleep.
Human blood would have been better for him. Spike instinctively knew that he wouldn’t have drunk it. For the first couple of months after the fight, human blood had made even him sick. He knew that as bad as he still felt about things, this was as nothing compared to Angel.
He looked over at him, stretched out rigidly on the bed.
His mind flew back to the first Christmas their deviant little family had spent together. They were houseguests of a “recently departed” merchant and his family.
Dru had gone into raptures over the sweet and tasty carol singers, but he had been fascinated by the wonderful glass ornaments on the Christmas tree in the parlor. There was one, in particular, that caught the candle light and flashed brilliantly. It had looked substantial enough, but just one knock had splintered it into innumerable pieces.
Looking at Angel now reminded him of that decoration. One wrong word, one wrong action, and he felt he might lose him forever. He could not do that; he could not lose him again.
How could he reach him? They were just two blinded men, grasping in the dark for some meaning. Could he stand at the edge of that abyss with him, holding him back? Would they fall together, into that welcoming darkness?
He didn’t know all the answers. In fact, he didn’t know any. All he knew was that he would, he must, try. Angel might have been vital once to the fate of the world, that wasn’t important now. What mattered was that he was central to Spike’s existence.
If he lost him now, he would go out and meet the sunrise.
He didn’t want to fall asleep. He was terrified that he would open his eyes and the room would once again be empty. Swallowing his fear of what might happen if Angel woke up back to normal, unlikely as that was, he knew he had to be nearer him.
He took off his boots and lay down on the bed next to Angel, above the covers. Nestling into the welcoming coolness of the other body, he quickly fell asleep.
Only to be woken by screams of pain and fear. Angel was pitching about wildly on the bed, his hands clasped tightly over his eyes. Spike was frozen; this reminded him of the night terrors that Angelus had.
Just Angelus had always denied that there were things that frightened even him.
He could only try what he had done in the past. Wait, and stay out of the way of those vicious hands. He couldn’t imagine what Angel was seeing in those dreams, but he knew that to touch him at that moment would only seem to be a threat.
He scooted down to the end of the bed, huddled into a ball, and started to talk. Just a soft, gentle voice that talked about nothing, recited poetry, and whispered endearments. Anything that might eventually reach into that troubled mind and calm it.
An eternity later, Angel quietened. His hands were still over his eyes, but they were no longer white with strain. Spike jumped silently off the end of the bed and walked gently round to the side.
“Sire, it’s me.”
A low, feral snarl answered him.
“It’s William. It’s me.”
Angel lowered his hands, and opened his eyes. Despite the human face he wore, the yellow eyes betrayed the animal within him. He sat up and drew himself back against the pillows.
Spike couldn’t stand to see him like this. His being caught between one extreme and the other. Neither able to give in totally to the demon and expel his feelings through violence. Nor to be human and rationalize them, work through them.
Knowing that Angel was caught between states, Spike decided to risk it. He sat on the edge of the bed and laid his head against Angel’s up-drawn legs. He purred; the sound rumbling low in his throat. At times like this, he’d found that the more animalistic he behaved, the better it was.
He felt the other vampire’s body relax slightly, and he moved closer to him. He laid his head on Angel’s chest and waited, still purring. After a few minutes, he felt Angel’s strong hand gently pet his head, stroking his hair softly.
“It’s okay, kitten, I’m back.”
He couldn’t help the tear that rolled down his cheek at this tender voice. Back with him, maybe, but not back to normal yet. For the first time since the night their world fell apart, Spike felt some small hope.
END
Gaelic expressions used in this
story:
cronaím thú....I
miss you
Anam Cara....Soul Friend (soul
mate)
A stor - Darling
Cairdeas, Grá, Dílseacht....Friendship,
Love, Loyalty