I watched my Childe sleep from the arched doorway of my bedroom. He was curled up in a fetal position at the very edge of the bed, the covers pulled tight around him. Under those covers, he was fully clothed, even his boots were still on his feet. He had refused to take anything off in favor of the pair of shorts I offered him.
That worried me.
Even though I shouldn't care.
I had held him as he cried. I remember my mother called them "hot tears" -- tears that were shed for every reason and no reason at all that came from deep inside. And then I had held him for awhile after he had stopped, providing comfort and protection to him within my embrace, at the same time reassuring myself that he was really still there and not dust as I had been told.
When he had finally raised his eyes after stepping away, every one of his two hundred plus years was reflected in the frightfully dull blue orbs.
That worried me, too.
And angered me.
Not that I already wasn't beyond furious. Buffy had called soon after my beautiful boy fell into an emotionally exhausted sleep. After our initial awkwardness, she had explained what had happened to the best of her knowledge, and of her plan to let everyone think Spike was dust in order to protect him as she had promised.
I love her.
Only she would make a promise to protect a soulless vampire for no other reason than because of what she felt. Spike had tried to kill her. He had tried to kill her friends. He had tried to kill me at one point in time. But still she helped him when she could have staked him.
For that, I love her.
Despite the fact that I shouldn't care about Spike.
A note was propped on the night-stand for him, telling him that I went to work and would return. Another note was taped to the elevator grate and stairwell door upstairs, telling Cordelia and Doyle that I had a visitor and to not go downstairs while I was out. I did not name my visitor.
No one needed to know about my Childe.
No one needed to know that I cared.
The ride to Sunnydale was uneventful. The sun beat down upon my blacked-out windshield, taunting me. The radio played its gentle tunes. The highway was blessedly traffic free.
Nobody knew I was coming, and no one would know that I had been there.
Except for the dead.
But dead men don't talk.
I've reached that point where you get so angry, you're calm again. It's an interesting feeling. Everything is crisp and clear, any movements that I make are smooth and graceful. I cut my hand on a sharp piece of metal when I entered the tunnels below Sunnydale and I felt no pain. Every molecule that encompassed my being was focused on one thing and one thing only.
Death.
And I was the Angel of it.
I really like my name.
It wasn't too difficult to find out exactly who had hurt my Childe. The news of the underground facility beneath the university had spread like wildfire through the non-human community. I didn't even have to bloody anyone up to get the information. I just did one of the things that I do best.
I lurked.
That's why I wear black all the time. Well, that and Buffy once told me I looked good in black, and seeing as how I loved her and wanted to look good for her...
I see her now, patrolling. She looks somewhat tired and a little worn around the edges. Not that she isn't still beautiful. Cliched as it sounds, she looks like sunshine, and to me that means a lot. I don't follow her, although my heart still calls for her, because I have something much more important to do.
When you break someone's bones, it sounds like you're making popcorn. Except popcorn doesn't scream. But that's just a minor technicality.
Not everything has red blood. Humans do. Obviously so do vampires then, and other demons that possess human bodies. But not all blood is red. There is also green and blue and black and a sort of purple color that reminded me of that horrific dinosaur that I saw some kid screaming about in a store one night.
The human large intestine really is five feet long and makes a pretty good jump rope.
Eyeballs, however, can not be used to effectively play marbles.
I love you, my Childe.
Spike was sitting up in bed when I got home, the covers kicked to the end of the bed, his forehead resting on his arms, which were around his bent knees, the soles of his boots flat on the sheets.
I'm going to have to remember to change those.
I tried to make noise as I approached him. I sat down beside his feet on the edge of the bed and put my cleaned hand on his arm.
He flinched.
The phone rang.
He flinched again.
Maybe death was too good for them.