~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When Spike woke up he wasn't sure where he was or how long he'd
been asleep. He was still alone, but one look out the small, round window
in the backseat told him that the van had moved. There was no campsite,
no barbeque pit, no fornicating vampires or witches. But there was a Payless
Shoe Source. And, interestingly enough, a Gap. Also a Walgreen's, and an
Old Navy, and a Hobby Lobby. They were at a strip mall.
All the lights were off, of course, but none of the windows were broken
so apparently the place hadn't been looted yet. He wondered if Angel and
Willow had driven him here, or if the van had been stolen by marauding
demons whilst he slept. He wasn't sure if it really made that much difference.
He curled back onto the mattress, unsure how he'd managed to fall asleep
at all. He couldn't imagine it. How long had he been out? He remembered
vague threads of dreams, all unpleasant, but he also remembered thrashing
on the sheets, frustrated and unhappy and seemingly too tense to get any
rest.
Eventually he heard voices approaching. Willow and Angel. He hoped they
wouldn't notice he was awake. Didn't want to talk to either of them, particularly.
"Spike, look what we got!" Willow said as she climbed back to him, and
she sounded so insanely excited that he couldn't be bothered to pretend.
He sat up and regarded her curiously. The van started moving again.
She had many bags, and she was turning on the overhead light to show
him what was inside. He guessed the contents of at least one of them before
she even sat down. It was here now, without a doubt. The scent was so strong,
it overpowered everything in the van. Spike supposed that was probably
a blessing. The last thing he wanted was to smell the evidence of her latest
coupling with Angel. He hadn't seen it, and he hadn't heard it, and it
was still possible to pretend it hadn't happened at all. Almost possible
to convince himself it really hadn't. And that was enough to keep him marginally
sane. For the moment.
In any case, that was almost definitely why they'd stopped again. So,
that explained the Walgreen's bag.
But there were also bags from Old Navy, and one from a place called
"Botanical Therapy". He couldn't imagine what would be in there.
"Clothes!" she announced proudly, almost manically, and began removing
items from the Old Navy bags. It was then he noticed she'd changed from
her pink scrubs to a blue and white striped sweater, and a pair of artificially
faded jeans. She was still wearing the orange sneakers, which still didn't
match (he couldn't imagine what in the world they possibly *could* match)
but she looked fairly normal. Closer to normal than she'd looked even before
the apocalypse, in fact.
She held up several articles of clothing for his perusal: Pair of black
jeans, couple of black t-shirts, brown turtleneck, and, best of all, a
long leather coat. Everything looked about the right size, and it seemed
she'd paid more mind to his personal style than her own when shopping for
them.
"Willow, this is...neat. Thank you."
His scrub pants were stiff in the crotch area. Very unpleasant reminder
of what had happened in the front seat earlier. Yes, it was definitely
an appreciated gesture.
He wanted to duck behind the lame little privacy curtain they'd set
up in the very back of the van and change into his new duds right away,
but she was still sitting there looking at him. Smiling brightly and folding
up his new wardrobe and...waiting. For something. He didn't have anything
to offer though, so he just looked back. Blankly.
Eventually she rose to her knees and reached up to switch the light
off, leaving them in the dim, blue glow of the lava lamp. Then she sat
on the mattress, but not very close to him.
"You know," she said. "I'm really glad you're here."
He had no idea how to respond to that, or why she might have said it.
Made him feel terribly guilty. He'd failed her, hadn't he. The weight of
that failure- latest in a long line- was crushing.
"Not that I'm glad any of us are here," she amended, when her peculiar
pronouncement was met with a baffled silence. "Just that, you know, I'm
glad it's you. I mean...I wouldn't have anyone to talk to otherwise." She
lowered her voice to a whisper for the last part, even though Angel had
blessedly turned on some music.
"Willow, I'm..." Oh, God, he really didn't want to talk about this.
Didn't want to think about it. Just wanted to pull the sheet over his head
and ignore it all till it went away. But that hadn't worked when he was
human, when the boys at school had tormented him, and it hadn't worked
with Angelus when he was in a foul mood, and it sure as fuck wasn't going
to work here, where the bullies were with him all the time. In his head.
"I'm sorry," he said. "About what happened before. Or...didn't happen.
It-"
"No, no," she interrupted. "Don't apologize. I should apologize. I'm
sorry. I shouldn't have...assumed, and...pushed. It's okay if you don't
want-"
"Want? No, no, it's not...I want. I'm wanting."
She tilted her head curiously, like what he was saying was inconceivable.
He supposed it probably was, to a remotely normal person.
"I just...well, there are...issues," he offered lamely.
Her eyes widened and she leaned closer. Whispered, "With Angel, you
mean?"
He nodded, because that was a part of it. Oh yes, a big part, but it
was also the part that was the most difficult to explain. His feelings
for Angel were more complex than any he'd ever had- more confused even
than the mottled mess of love and hatred he'd had with Buffy. He hadn't
quite realized that until very recently, but there it was. He couldn't
adequately express how he felt about Angel, what the "issues" were. They
were legion, and nearly defied words.
"There's that," he said. "But also, there's just me. I'm sort of...broken,
you see."
"Broken? You mean like..." She made a strange, vaguely obscene hand
gesture, and he figured she was trying to gesticulate her way around the
word impotence.
"No, no," he said. "Not physically. It's... complicated."
"Is it a soul thing?" she asked. He looked intensely at her, hoping
she'd see how very much he didn't want to talk about this. Whatever she
saw, it caused her eyes to grow impossibly larger and her mouth to slip
softly open.
"I've done a lot of terrible things," he said. But that was stupid.
So indistinct and understated it was practically meaningless. "To women,"
he added, a bit too loud for their hushed conversation.
"You mean like...what happened with Buffy?"
"For example."
He didn't know how much Willow knew about that particular instance,
but the specifics weren't very important.
"Well, Spike..." she started, and he knew what was coming. Knew it before
the words started spewing mechanically from her mouth. "I've done a lot
of terrible things, too. And I *had* a soul. You're different now." Or
something like that. He hardly listened. It hardly mattered. He'd heard
it from her before, and it didn't apply here.
"You don't understand, Willow."
"Don't understand what?" she asked, irritated. "Guilt? Hello? Been there,
burnt the T-shirt to a crisp with evil magic."
"No, that's not..." He had to turn away from her then, and cover his
face with his hands. Didn't want her to see. How could he let her see?
She would hate him if she knew. If she really understood that it wasn't
the demon that almost violated Buffy on that immaculate bathroom floor,
but the man- the man named William who'd been kicked in the teeth by one
woman too many, who was full of a sickening, foul hatred for every last
one of them, even...no, *especially* the ones he loved- if she truly knew
him she would surely loathe him through and through. As well she should.
She reached out to touch his arm- gentle fingers wrapping around his
flesh- and he didn't hate her. Of course he didn't. But he had. She'd been
happy in Angel's arms, and he'd hated her then.
"I trust you," she whispered. It was like hot wires throbbing through
his body. Terror and embarrassment and distaste. And love.
Christ, he was fucked.
He took her hand in both of his and squeezed. She rested her head on
his shoulder. They stayed like that for awhile, saying nothing, and the
van kept moving.
~~~
Some time later Angel called for him up front. He needed navigation
help. Willow was sleeping by then, curled in a fetal position with a pillow
pressed to her abdomen. Spike left her side reluctantly.
He climbed into the passenger seat and read blandly from the map- told
Angel the quickest way to get through Illinois to Kentucky, and hoped that
was all that was required of him. He didn't much feel like sucking dick.
They drove in silence for some time, and Spike watched the road unfold
before them like an endless, twisting maze. They were the rats, and somewhere
a hunk of cheese was waiting for them. At least, that's what Willow and
Angel seemed to think, and maybe they were right. Willow's cheese was getting
back home, and Angel's cheese was saving the bloody world, and both those
things seemed somehow more attainable than Spike's pitiful, nameless desires.
Eventually Angel mumbled something that sounded like "history" and Spike
turned his gaze towards the hulking bane of his existence. His fingers
were tight on the wheel and he was grimacing.
"What did you say?" Spike asked.
Angel sighed disgustedly, like repeating himself was the most outrageous
request he'd ever received.
"I said I'm sorry," he snapped. Then, calmer, "I'm sorry, Will."
"What for?"
"For... a lot."
Spike shrugged. Weren't they all?
He was surprised when Angel continued.
"I don't want it to be like this. I don't want..." He paused and rubbed
his eyes, obviously struggling with his words, and Spike realized he wasn't
just moaning about regret and repentance. He was apologizing. To Spike.
This was a first. "If you wanna be angry with me, that's okay. That's good.
Anger keeps you going. But this...it's not...right."
"What's not?"
"I hate seeing you like this, boy. It's not-"
"M'not your boy," Spike grumbled, and instantly regretted it when he
saw Angel's face fall sadly in response.
Regretted it even more when he quietly said, "Don't like seeing you
so unhappy."
Which, on the one hand, was an utterly absurd thing to say. Who among
them could claim anything resembling happiness right now? But on the other
hand, Spike knew that his unhappiness stemmed from a different, more deeply
rooted source. The immediate circumstances were almost irrelevant. And
he understood what Angel was trying to say, and how hard it was for him
to say it, and he remembered why the love was there. Even felt it growing
a bit.
"Not your fault," he said, even though it sort of was.
"I just...I'm so fucking proud of you, Spike. Did you know that?"
Angel's voice had gotten low and gravelly, almost as though he were
about to weep, and Spike felt something like firecrackers exploding in
his chest. No, he didn't know that. Didn't know it or understand it at
all, but god, it felt astounding.
"What you've done," he went on. "It's so...unbelievable. It shames me,
Spike. I can't even..." He drifted off and sniffled, and Spike felt a twinge
of panic. He *was* crying. Fucking Angel. Fucking crying. How utterly terrifying
and strange. He wanted it to stop.
How did he make it stop? What was he supposed to say to all of this?
He looked around for something distracting to talk about, but there was
nothing. Empty road. Van the same as ever. Angel was wearing new clothes
but "Like your sweater" didn't seem pressing enough to disrupt the flow
of conversation that drastically.
He didn't have to fret about it for long, though. Angel wasn't very
happy about the situation either, and he amended it quickly. He wiped his
face with a balled up fist and cleared his throat.
"Anyway," he said, back to his usual even tone. "This is stupid. All
this competition and fighting and...it's just a waste of time and we shouldn't
be doing it."
Right, then. It's not good so make it better. Angel was so simple minded
sometimes, to think a hundred and twenty years of history could just be
wiped away with a single request. Ordinarily Spike would have been irritated
with it, but now he found it almost endearing.
Still didn't know what to say, though, so he commenced staring blankly
out the window. This seemed to irritate Angel. He made some exasperated
sighing noises and shifted around in his seat. Spike knew he should be
responding to this virtual outpouring of emotion and perhaps even affection,
but he was at a loss. Didn't trust himself to give voice to his genuine
feelings on the matter because it would probably turn out very embarrassing
for them both.
"What can I do, Spike?" he asked, after a long stretch of silence. "What
would make this better for you?"
God, it just kept getting weirder. Unfortunately the only answer Spike
could come up with was "Make me someone else," but he didn't say it because
it was the most absurdly self-pitying thing he'd ever thought. And also,
impossible.
"I'd like to fuck you," he blurted out, because it was the second thing
to pop into his mind, and it seemed slightly more possible and maybe a
little bit shocking.
They glanced at each other, Spike's eyes full of challenge and Angel's
sparkling with mirth, and a current of need passed between them, so strong
that Spike felt it in his toes. Angel wanted it too. That was unexpected.
"You would ask for that," he said. "Of all the things in the world..."
"Well?"
"Yeah," Angel nodded. "That's fine. What else?"
"Else?"
He didn't realize he got more than one. This was like rubbing a genie.
Or however that went. But he had no idea what to ask for. Making wishes
required a knowledge that Spike was lacking. What did he want? What would
make him better?
What could he possibly ask of Angel?
Stop shagging the girl
Listen to what I say
Don't tell me what to do
Take care of me
Love me back
Love me back fiercely enough to make everything else disappear
need me claim me punish me
Teach me how to be like you
"Um, it'd be kinda nice to know where the hell you think we're going,"
he finally settled on, because it had been bothering him for some time
and it was so much easier than all the rest.
Angel shook his head. "You don't need to know that. It won't help you."
"Right, then. You know so much about what'll help me why don't you just
do it, 'stead of bothering to ask me what I want?"
"Spike..."
Wanker. Arrogant fucking ponce. Didn't matter that Spike was asking
the wrong questions. It was his right to ask them. Genies weren't supposed
to argue with fucking wishes.
Silence fell again, for so long Spike began to wonder if he'd imagined
the entire conversation. But then...
"We're going," Angel said, finally. "To find my son."