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On Me - Chapter 2
He clearly can’t wait to
get away from me, so now I get a chance to sit here and brood. What’s new? But
I do get a chance to think things over. How is ‘this’ going to work, whatever
‘this’ is? I can’t work out how I feel about this new creature, this ‘Spike’.
He is different from Will in so many ways, but then, of course, I’m not Angelus,
so we are both new. Both trying to find a place we can be together without trying
to fuck, torture, or kill each other. A place where we need to work together
to kill a demon and then go our separate ways. A few days, that’s all. I can
cope with a few days, can’t I? I coped with Cordelia in my apartment for one
night, didn’t I? And nothing could be worse than that. Even Spike! He’s back;
he’s not carrying anything, just hands thrust into his pockets as before. Where’s
he been?
“I
thought you were getting your stuff!”
“I
have.”
“Oh.” Where?
Ha! That threw him. What does he think: that I’m like him, needing a fucking
Sherpa to travel with every time I leave home. Fags, Duster, Docs, jeans, T-shirt,
CDs, beer, and I’m good to go. Travel light, no commitments. That’s me. No ties.
Yeah,
no life more like. Everyone I’ve
ever known died or pissed off and left me.
I jump over the door, hunker down in the seat, feet up on the dash, (that’ll
piss him off guaranteed), then fish out my bottle of JD, screw off the top,
long swallow, and I’m ready to roll. Don’t want to go to LA with this git, but
I guess it beats staying in Sunnyhell, and I’m kinda thinking of Angel with
that Taran Demon, and I’m kinda thinking that this might be more fun than I
thought, and I’m kinda thinking that maybe this is the perfect revenge for me
handed to me on a plate, and isn’t Angel just gonna hate it....
“Come on then, poof .... whatya staring at? Let's roll.”
So here we are, traveling together for the first time
in over one hundred years. Funny, we’ve never even sat in a car together before.
Things change. We’ve changed. As the melodic sounds of Bach ease out over the
warm night air, I’m wondering... “Turn this fucking shit off, Angel.”
My
CD is rudely ejected from the player.
“You’ve
gotta get a fucking life, mate. Get
some decent sounds.”
He fishes in some deep recess of his duster, brings up a CD and puts it into
the machine. Surprisingly, a soft rock ballard starts to play.
“That’s not your usual stuff, Spike... growing up at last then?”
Oh shit. Oh, well done, Angel. As the words leave my mouth, I remember. I remember
a night coming back to the factory, my balls so painful from a well-placed slayer
kick that I thought they were going to fall off! So full of rage and hate, and
I remember, god, I don’t want to remember this. I remember finding Spike lying
in front of the fire, his hated wheelchair cast off to one side, listening to
his awful music and... oh god… let me not remember... and me deliberately snapping
every disk in front of him and throwing each one on the fire. Every one... years
of CDs collected (stolen) snapped and thrown on the fire. In cold deliberate
hate. Nothing else I did to him in that factory proved more, that I was not
the Angelus he had once loved. Nothing broke his spirit more than that cold,
senseless, betrayal.
And I remember it now and, of course, so does he. He turns to me and fixes me
with those cold, blue eyes. I expect screaming and ranting, but I get a quiet,
measured, calm voice.
“Funny
that, mate. Lost me old ones.”
He turns back to the player, punches rewind to start that track again, and turns
to face out into the night. God, will we ever be able to make this temporary
alliance work? There is just too much history waiting to trip us up. Every conversation
we start, every thing we see will plunge us back to the past, back into memories
that neither of us seem able, or willing, to cope with.
The music starts again and, of course, another memory surface,s and I wonder
just how much times have changed and will he... I start to silently count...
five, four, three, two, one… yes, there he goes. Over one hundred years, and
Spike is still singing along to his music, quietly, unconsciously. I don’t think
he even knows he does it. I relax and just revel in that beautiful voice. I
always loved his singing . Pissed Darla off no end though. She hated the human
still in Will, hated that he had retained such a zest for human habits; singing,
eating, drinking, laughing. But Angelus.. .me, I must stop this schizophrenic
splitting of him from me: it’s me; it’s always me... but I, would never punish
him for singing, loving that voice as it drifted through all the houses we lived
in, drifted through all our years together. Oh God, I can’t believe it; he is
singing perfect harmony to the singer on the track; it’s so beautiful. I relax
back and just enjoy the moment: my beautiful car (I love this car), the warm
Californian night, just cruising along, Spike peaceful for once... and suddenly
the lyrics of the song hit me….
As I’m lying in my
bed
Thoughts running
through my head
And I feel that love
is dead
I’m loving Angels
instead
And through it all she
offers me protection
A little love and
affection
Whether I’m right or
wrong
And down the waterfall
Wherever life may take
me
I know that it won’t
break me
I’m loving Angels
instead
I’ve never heard this before; it’s beautiful and, oh God... did Spike just change
the words there? I could have sworn he sang, ‘He offers me protection... I’m
loving Angel instead.’
This is the bloody bollocks this is. Cruising along in Angel’s car (I fucking
love this car), Robbie on the CD, a bottle of JD disappearing down my neck,
just enough to stay in that place where everything seems better and everything
I think seems profound, and the music just drifts over me. Oh, fucking hell,
have I been singing along? Now that’s embarrassing. What a wuss. Hardly the
Big Bad thing to do. And holy shit, WHICH lyrics was I singing: Robbie’s or
my altered version? Christ, pleease say I haven’t been singing about loving
Angel. Cus then I would have to impale myself on this bottle of JD. Can glass
stake a vamp? Dunno, feel like trying though.
Damn, he’s stopped singing. I miss his voice already.
Basically, I think I just want all my senses engrossed with Spike. I want to
hear him, see him, smell him, touch him... ah, better not go down that line
of thinking. Can’t stop now though... I’m picturing just brushing my hand over
the very noticeable bulge in his jeans. Would I be able to feel the tip of his
cock pressing up? I would scratch a nail over it, making him shiver....
“I
wanna stop.”
God,
I am so caught up in that image of my hand on Spike’s cock, I literally jump
when he speaks.
“We
are not stopping, Spike.”
“Yes
we fucking are. I need supplies.”
“More alcohol you mean,” I say, glancing down at his now empty bottle.
“Yeah,
something wrong with that, mate?” I
hate this holier-than-though Angel shit. He
makes me feel even more like a loser than I already do.
I know I’m a sad chip-freak, having to ask for every thing, like a
bloody kid.
“Just stop all right, Angel.”
As we need gas anyway, I relent, and pull in at the next
stop. As I’m getting out, Spike sticks his hand out at me.
“Come
on then, mate.”
“What?”
He
glares at me.
“Are you fucking stupid, Angel?" - SHIT, I HATE THIS - "I can’t ‘acquire’ my
own stuff these days, in case you’ve forgotten. Yeah, mate, chipped, can’t do
the grrrrr thing any more.” I flash my fangs at him for a split second, then
back into normal mode. “I need money, as I’m coming to LA to kill a demon for
you, you can bloody well pay me. Now, in advance.”
I learnt many years ago that sometimes it’s better just
to give into Spike. I know all the experts say you shouldn’t, that ‘no’ should
mean ‘no’, but, fuck it, they aren’t living with Spike. I start to sort some
notes from my pocket, but he grabs the entire lot and stomps off towards the
shop.
I fill up, pay, and wait for him. When he gets back, his arms are full. Oh,
ye Gods, what has he got? More whisky, more cigarettes, and what looks like
the entire store of candy. Sweet, sticky, brightly-coloured muck.
He seems more cheerful though, and the atmosphere has noticeably lightened as
we start to move off again.
Yeah, this is the bloody bollocks all right, one hundred percent the life. I’m
happy now: lots of candy washed down by booze. I close my eyes, lean back in
my seat and just let all the tension of the past few weeks seep out of me. I
can feel the distance starting to grow between me and Sunny-effing-dale. Between
me and the slayer and her annoying little gang of children. This seems like
moving on at last, although I know its only an illusion; it’s just a temporary
respite, and I’ll have to go back soon. Nowhere else to go. Bloody good film
that, Officer and a Ho. I’ve got nowhere else to go. Yeah, mate, that’s me.
Can’t feed, can’t steal, sure as hell can’t get a regular job. CV – Big bad
demon killing machine. Shit, know I’ll have to go back if only to get fed. Don’t
ruin the mood, think about something else, keep drinking.
He seems much happier suddenly, munching his candy and
sipping (gulping), his drink. Just how many bottles has he had tonight? Maybe
we can have some peace for the rest of the trip, no more bad memories.
“Angel.”
“Hmm?”
The last hour has been so peaceful. If it hadn’t have been for the constant
movement of his hand to his lips with candy, cigarettes, or drink - and sometimes
all three at once - I’d have thought he was asleep, so still has he been. And
I’ve been mesmerized just watching those slim fingers out of the corner of my
eye, watching as his tongue comes out to lick them off when they are sticky.
God, he is SO sensual. He’s an oral enticement. I started to picture those fingers
moving over to my pants, stroking my incredibly hard cock through the leather,
opening up my fly. Picturing those lips and that tongue coming down to delicately
blow and lick the tip of my cock where that tiny bead of precum has formed,
starting to...
“ANGEL!”
Shit. “What now, Spike?”
“Angel,
I wanna stop.”
“NO!
I am NOT stopping again.”
“Angel,
I really need to stop. NOW.”
“Shit, Spike, it's getting really boring, this obsession you seem to have with
annoying the hell out of me. We are not....
“Blahhhhhhh”
Oh, Mother of God and all that is Holy, Spike has just vomited all over himself,
the seat and the dashboard. Oh God.
I
swerve to the side of the road and jump out.
“You
fucking arsehole, Spike, look at my fucking car.
I do NOT believe you just did that.
How much drink did you have tonight?”
I look over at him; he seems to be sitting there in a state of shock. Shit.
Just sitting there with second hand drink and candy dripping off him.
And suddenly, I’m taken back over one hundred years to a dark road somewhere
in England and Will, huddled in the corner of a coach, looking about as sick
and green as a vampire could look. How could I have forgotten this knowledge?
Spike
gets incredibly travel sick!
And I let him buy all that candy; I let him drink all that booze. Hell, I even
paid for it!
But this is not England, and he’s not Will, and I can’t take this Spike in my
arms as I used to do with Will and take his mind off feeling sick by licking
slowly over his closed eyes, cooling his forehead with my tongue, sliding my
hand into his britches and stroking his ever-hard cock 'til he groaned for a
different reason, whispering in his ear what rewards he would get if he managed
to get to our destination without throwing up. He always gave into the pleasure
and the attention I was giving him, his mind totally distracted from the swaying
of the coach.
“Spike.”
Wow,
my voice is almost calm here, good control, Angel.
“Spike,
get out of the car.”
I walk round to his side and open the door. He steps out, still in a state of
shock, and I start to strip off his clothes.
“Hey,
sod off wanker! Leave me the fuck
alone.” I am NOT going to
cry.
“You
can’t go all the way to LA covered in puke, Spike, get out of that stuff.”
“Sod
off!”
“Strip!”
“What
part of sod off don’t you understand?”
“Strip!”
“NOOOO! Angel, stop it. Angel! Angel, I don’t bloody have any other clothes,
OK. Satisfied?”
Oh shit, can life get any fuckin’ worse? I’ve up-chucked all over myself and
precious one's car, and now I have to admit that all I own is the clothes I
stand up in. Jesus. PLEASE... someone STAKE me! NO MORE OF THIS SHIT!
“Spike, calm down. Here, I have some sweats in the trunk; you can borrow them.”
He hands me some worn-out sweat pants, and I guess I’ve no option but to take
them. Even I draw the line at sitting in alcohol puke all night. I strip off
my T-shirt and jeans and climb gratefully into the pants. They’re only about
three sizes too big, but they’ll do.
God, I can’t believe how thin he is. In this light, he
looks positively skeletal, every sinew defined. I can’t take my eyes off that
beautiful body. As he bends over to kick off his Docs, I have to physically
prevent myself from stretching out a hand to lay it on the small of his perfectly
formed back.
“You can’t go the rest of the way in just pants, take this, too.”
Bloody hell! He is actually taking off his own shirt to give to me, leaving
just a T-shirt underneath. I take the warm silk in my hands and, as I put it
on, I can smell that unique essence that is Angelus. I could close my eyes;
in any place, at any time, if I smelt that smell - sort of like sweet, but bitter
chocolate, like wine, like good things, like comfort, like love - if I smelt
that anywhere, I would think of Angel. And suddenly, the intimacy of this situation
hits me. The two of us, standing here along side the road, me in his clothes
for God’s sake. I look at him and take a deep, unnecessary breath.
“Sorry about the car, mate.”
Well, that’s a first. In one hundred and twenty six years,
I’ve never heard Will, or Spike, apologise for anything. Ever. Perhaps there
is still hope for us to find some sort of friendship from the detritus of our
lives. If he can change this much, perhaps we can find common ground to meet
again as equals. Who knows? There’s not much of this trip left now, and then
a demon to find and kill, and then he returns to his life in Sunnydale with
his new friends. Will he want to renew our friendship? He clearly doesn’t need
me anymore in this life he has carved single-handed for himself.
I throw an old tarp over the seat for him – it's real handy being a demon killer
sometimes; it’s amazing what I can find in this car for keeping demon gunk off
the seats - throw his disgusting clothes into the trunk, and climb into the
driver’s seat again. And all I really want is to reach out and stroke my finger
down those incredible cheekbones, to take his slim, fragile form in my arms
and keep him safe from harm, to kiss him 'til he forgets to be sad, to love
him 'til he stays mine forever. But I know that none of that will ever happen,
and that Will is as effectively lost from me as if I had never come back from
Hell. And, in a way, this is worse than Hell; this is being close to something
you desperately want and can’t have. Salvation offered, only to be denied. The
endless wanting and endless desire for this man I can’t have anymore.
This is not the Angelus I remember in any incarnation. Either Angelus I knew
would have ripped my lungs out for vomiting on something that was his. But Angel
has been kinda OK about it. Shit, all right, he’s been incredible about it.
Even given me his clothes to wear, and I know Angel: greater love hath no man
than Angel gives you one of his precious silk shirts. But, of course, it’s not
love. Not anymore. Any chance we had of a reconciliation was literally blown
away tonight on a blitz of alcohol and sugar. You can’t love a loser like me,
can you Angel? Let’s just get this trip out of the way, kill this demon, and
let me return to the hell that is my life.
“Come on, Mate, I’m beginning to feel like left over road-kill here – need to
sleep, need to lie down, can we just go already?”
I reluctantly drag my mind back from the feel of Spike’s
skin, the smell of Spike’s hair, the sound of Spike’s moaning, and pull back
out onto the road. The atmosphere in the car has changed. The quiet, easy companionship
we almost had before the up-chuck incident has gone. Spike seems very tense
again; he’s twitching at the hem of the shirt, digging those awful black nails
again, biting at the edge of one thumb. He seems to have something on his mind.
Maybe I should say something, try and break the ice.
“I
phoned ahead earlier, so Cordy and Wes will be there when we get in.
They can get your clothes sorted out for you, while we get you cleaned
up.”
I glance across at him. That doesn’t seem to have helped much. When I turn back
to watch the road, I sense his eyes fastened on my face. Is he trying to read
something there? What does he want? He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking
for, because he turns away to stare out into the darkness. He’s quiet for a
while, but then I hear the faintest sound over the noise of the engine. And
I can’t believe it, but I think it’s Spike. And I can’t believe it, but I think
that Spike is crying.
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