|
Midas
AUTHOR: Jennie
EMAIL: Jenexell_fic@yahoo.co.uk
DISCLAIMER:
All stuff BtVS and A:ts belong to joss and co. I’m not making any money
from this so don’t bother suing me.
RATING: R
for graphically disturbing imagery.
SPOILERS: general up to the end of both series.
DISTRIBUTION:
My Site www.livingindreams.co.uk/whisper
You want it? Take it! Just tell me where!
SUMMARY: Post
NFA - If silence was golden then Angel truly had the Midas touch.
PAIRING:
S/A
Feedback:
PLEASE.
Part One
November 2004
Spike slipped into the room with barely a sound. Stealth
was something he’d perfected over the last hundred and twenty odd years
although he wasn’t really the type to enjoy sneaking around. He much
preferred crashing into places, large, loud and in your face; he’d done
enough hiding before he’d died. But he wouldn’t even think of bursting in
with a cacophony of sound now, not into this place. Not into this sanctuary
of silence he’d painstakingly erected.
He moved over to the kitchen, his socked feet light as
feathers on the bare wood floors. He’d left his boots in the car; they
crunched the gravel outside, made the floorboards squeak and groan. His
hands felt cramped and stiff from carrying the bags from the car, but he
set them down gently on the kitchen counter, trying to avoid any kind of
rustle. As soon as the bags were down Spike let out a long breath and
flexed his hands, turning them upwards so he could examine the black lines
that clawed out from barely healed scars on his wrists. A little less black
today, a little more pink. He was healing; slowly.
Looking down into the bags, he scratched his head.
Enough blood to last another night. There was no refrigerator here, no
microwave, and no stove. He made a blood run everyday; it was a small price
to pay for perfect silence, and it wouldn’t be forever. He hoped. He could
remember noise, cheer and singing, but it all seemed like a life time away.
So he held onto that hope more tightly than he had any other in his long
existence. The hope that one day the silence would end, and that when it
did, he wouldn’t be alone in the noise. Six months was long enough.
***************************************
May 20th
2004
“WEEEEEEE ARE THE CHAMPIONS AGAAAAAAAAAAIN!!! WEEEEE’LL
KEEP ON FIGHTING TIIIIILLLLL THE END!!!!”
Spike threw open the doors to the Hyperion with a
flourish, strutting inside and spinning round in circles, arms outstretched
singing at the top of his voice.
“WEEEEEEE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!!!!! WEEEE ARE THE
CHAMPIONS!!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOO TIME FOR LOOOOOOOOOOSERS!!!! COZ WEEEEEEEEE
ARE THE CHAMPIOOOOOOONS! OF THE WORLD!!!!!”
Angel laughed as he followed him in, a giddy smile on
his face. Illyria followed a short way behind, her expression
disdainful.
Spike crowed gleefully and jumped up on the counter.
“HA!!! That’ll teach ’em to mess with William the Bloody!! William the
Bloody Marvellous!”
“William the bloody up himself more like it.” Angel
laughed again.
“Oi! None of that! You’ll kill the buzz! WE WON!”
“That we did,” Angel nodded then his lips twitched as he
failed to contain his own mirth. He walked over to the counter and leaned
his back against it as Spike jumped down and copied his position. “We
really did, didn’t we?”
“Well let me see… you’re not dust, I’m not dust, Blue’s…
does she go dust?” Angel shrugged, so Spike continued. “We’re alive and
they’re not, so I’d say we won. Plus, dragon? Very dead.”
Angel’s grin turned self satisfied. “Very, very dead.”
“You over estimate yourselves, Vampires.”
Both vampires turned to Illyria in surprise; they’d
forgotten she was there.
“Ok I’ll bite. How exactly do we overestimate ourselves?”
Spike snapped.
“You have lost half your number and the wolf ram and
hart will send others. They have gained much power here; they will not give
it up easily.” The smiles slipped from their faces as Illyria spoke, the
truth crashing down on them. Wesley and Gunn, both gone. Then as if reading their minds, or
maybe just seeing the grief on their faces she spoke again. “There is no
point to this petty celebration. I must search elsewhere to find relief for
my grief.”
And with that she turned around and walked out of the
door.
As the door clicked shut Angel seemed to lose control of
his legs and he slid to the floor. Spike blinked a couple of times before
he too seemed to run out of the requisite energy to remain on his feet and
joined Angel on the floor.
“They’re all gone.” Angel said finally.
Spike said nothing just stared blankly ahead.
“I can’t believe…”
“Yeah…” Spike sighed.
“We should… We need to get cleaned up, and… we need a
plan.” Angel said, starting off vaguely then gaining some determination. He
nodded firmly and hauled himself to his feet, turning to face Spike and
offering him a hand.
Spike drew a deep breath and took Angel’s hand,
labouring to his feet. Looking at Angel he nodded, his face set then he
spoke.
“Could use a drink too.”
***
It took a while but Angel finally found a bottle of
Finest Irish single malt he’d hidden away a couple of years before. Spike
rolled his eyes, but agreed to wait while Angel also found two unbroken
glasses in the kitchen.
Sat on the dirty red couch below the main office window,
they drank the first glass in silence. Then as Angel filled the second
glass, Spike spoke.
“So…”
Angel tossed back his drink and poured another.
“Did you know you’re bleeding all over my couch?”
“Yeah, actually I did. Figured it wouldn’t show… red
n’all.”
Angel didn’t reply just stood up and went into the
office. He came back a minute later with a large first aid box.
“Take your shirt off and turn around.”
Spike downed his drink then Angel’s before complying.
Angel stood there for a moment just staring at Spike’s shirtless back.
Three long claw gashes from right shoulder blade to left hip, deep and
bleeding freely. He took a deep breath through his nose. Thoughts unbidden
and unwelcome stirring in cages long ago sealed and chained.
He settled himself on the couch behind Spike, placing
the first aid kit that looked more like a mobile surgery than a place to
store band aids, on the coffee table. He pulled a few things out; sutures,
bandages, gauze, tape and an ointment for bruising Cordelia had sworn by
and now more than ever he wanted to believe in because not doing so was one
delusion shattered too many.
He poured himself a drink and drank it before he
started. He had the strangest premonition that he’d need it.
“OW! Bloody 'ell! Hey Mengala, how about not tryin'
to pull my ass up through my shoulder, yeah?"
Angel snorted and clipped the end of the suture.
“Stop being a baby Spike.”
Spike grit his teeth but kept quiet. Eventually
Angel pulled back and surveyed his handy work. “There, you’re done.”
“What the hell were you using back there? A
knitting needle and tow rope?” Spike hissed, pulling his shoulder round to
look. Angel swatted his hands away with a stern glare.
“Stop it, you’ll pull the stitches.”
Spike pulled a face. “Last time I let you patch me up.”
“God, do you ever stop whining?”
“Don’t know? Do you ever stop being a total
fucktard?”
“I’m not a…” Angel exclaimed then frowned. “What
the hell is a fucktard?”
“Cross between a fuckwit and a retard,” Spike
said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He’d been distracted by a stain on
the front of Angel’s shirt. “What about you? You need anything patched?”
“No.” Angel said a little too quickly for Spike’s
liking.
“Yeah, OK Angelus, let’s get you off your cross
for a minute and take a look shall we?” he started to pull at Angel’s
shirt, until eventually the older vampire relented with a sigh and pulled
it over his head.
“See… no stitches required.” Angel huffed,
grabbing his shirt back from Spike.
Spike just stared. It was true, there were no
stitches required. There were signs of injury, serious injury, but they
were healing. Healing fast, too fast. “You been nibbling on slayers without
telling me or something mate?”
Angel looked embarrassed. Embarrassed and guilty.
Spike’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“If the words Wolfram and Hart and Special stock
cross your lips I will beat you within an inch of your life,” Spike
murmured threateningly as he remembered the blood stock Harmony had let
slip existed.
“Ummm… it’s not what you think.” Angel cringed.
“I’m listening.”
Angel sighed. “While I was fighting Hamilton…”
“And you can stop right there. You drank from the
offspring of the senior partners?” Spike enunciated slowly. Angel nodded.
“Can I call you a fucktard again now? Or can we skip that bit mate? Bloody
hell… oh bloody hell. You know what? I’m going to call you a fucktard
anyway.”
“Spike…”
“No… No, I need a minute here mate, coz this is
serious. We’re talking about you drinkin’ from someone who is in essence,
the child of Satan. That’s… well dumb. Probably the dumbest thing you have
ever done.”
“It got me through the fight,” Angel pointed out.
“True… But let me put it another way. You have a
habit of drinking from things that are the exact opposite of what you are
and in doing so getting monumentally screwed. Case in point, one gypsy
girl.”
“Spike, it’s not like the senior partners could
give me another soul,” Angel sighed.
“No… but they could use this to take yours away.”
Angel snorted. “They wouldn’t bother, they just
want me dead.”
Spike rubbed his eyes tiredly. “My ’ead hurts.
This is all a bit much ya know?”
Angel nodded pouring and drinking three shots in
a row. Spike grabbed the bottle from him and chugged a few long swallows
straight from it.
“How long’s it been since we came in ’ere?” Spike
asked after watching Angel look at the bottle for a few minutes.
“Two hours? Maybe three? Sun’s coming up.” Angel
replied looking up at the windows.
“We alright here?” Spike asked, following his
gaze.
“Sun doesn’t actually make it into the lobby
much; too many other buildings around.”
“Handy.” Spike muttered then waved the bottle at
Angel. “You got any more of this stuff? This one’s dead.”
A few Minutes later they were spread out on a
couch each, two bottles of whisky on the table and a bottle each in hand.
After ten minutes of silent intense drinking Angel pushed himself onto his
side so he could see Spike on the other couch. Then he sighed and looked up
at the ceiling. “I feel like I should be doing something.”
“Like what?” Spike asked, propping himself on his
elbow.
“I don’t know… I just feel like… half of me is
switched off. That I’m not really here.”
“Know what you mean… nothing seems real.”
“Can vampires suffer from shock?”
“Dunno… I know this is the first time in over
hundred years I’m not spittin’
mad at you.”
“That’s… oddly comforting.” Angel replied. Then
he frowned. “You know… I never stopped… thinking about you… and Dru and
Penn. I was angry at Darla for a really long time, but I couldn’t help
worrying about you. What you were doing, how you were, if you were ok.”
“You had a funny way of showin’ it mate. Every
time we met in the last century you’ve tried to kill me.”
“I didn’t try to kill you on the submarine.”
“No… I’m not wrong. I distinctly remember being
thrown out in the middle of the ocean two hours from sunrise.”
“I knew you’d make land. And see, I was right.”
“I couldn’t swim, Angelus.”
“Oh… sorry.” Angel cringed. He hadn’t known that.
“Why didn’t I know that?”
“Because you never asked?” Spike offered but
without any kind of malice. “Just a thought, but what’s with the sharing
all of a sudden?”
“I just… Thought you should know… you know,”
Angel stumbled.
“And this sudden desire to share before our
impending demise didn’t strike you yesterday? You know, that other day we
knew was our last.”
Angel couldn’t actually find an answer to that.
Spike could have read a lot into the silence, but
instead he just seemed to bypass it. “It would have been nice to know…
dunno why… I think I would have preferred that to…”
Angel looked over at the blond. “To what?... What
did you do yesterday?”
Spike groaned. “I went to an open mike night at a
biker bar and read poetry.”
Angel blinked. That had been something deeply
personal. He looked back at the ceiling. “I went to see my son.”
“And oddly enough, you saying you have a son does
not surprise me.” Spike said with genuine confusion rather than sarcasm. He
thought about it and then said. “The super brat. The one who got a hard on
for blue. He’s your son.”
“You knew?” Angel asked in shock.
“No… I just feel like I should have. It makes
sense… I remember thinking that he looked like you, smelt like you… then he
had Darla’s eyes. She is the mum right?”
“Yeah… this is weird.”
“You think it’s weird? I’ve just worked out I
knew you had a son and I’m not surprised.” Spike huffed. “You got any other
little tit bits you feel like sharing?”
“Err no? You?”
Spike thought about it and then he said. “I
didn’t get my soul on purpose. I went to get the chip out.”
Angel took a minute to digest this information.
“Do you regret it? The soul?”
Spike frowned. “Sometimes. Sometimes I forget you
know? Forget how much things can hurt now. Then I regret it.”
Angel nodded. There was a feeling in the air.
Like now as they languished in numbness it was the time to let out all the
little secrets that had been niggling at them. All the little hurts and
lies and distorted truths.
Angel took a deep breath. “I tried to get rid of
mine once. It’s kinda how Connor happened.”
“Lucky you it didn’t work,” Spike observed. He
felt it too, the safety net of ambivalence. “Just before the soul… I tried
to rape Buffy.”
Angel pursed his lips; he felt like he should be
reacting to that, but couldn’t actually bring himself to exert the effort.
Instead he asked softly. “What happened?
Spike glared at a particularly offensive crack in
the ceiling. “She fought me off. I left town.”
Then the confessions just came. Torrents of
little things and the occasional big thing. Indiscretions overlooked,
motives embellished. Self glorifications exaggerated in their constant
battle of one-up-man-ship. A constant stream of words eased along by strong
spirits and empty souls. Still the numbness prevailed. That was until Angel
said three words that sent Spike reeling.
“I missed you.”
“What?!?”
Angel sighed; he was more than a little drunk
now, but no less sincere. “I missed you. All these years, I missed you.
Missed what we used to have.”
“What we had was a dirty little affair you were
too ashamed to acknowledge,” Spike spat. Something other than numbness was
starting to burn, but he wasn’t sure yet if it wasn’t just Dutch courage.
“You can’t forgive that can you?” Angel
whispered.
“I don’t know.” Spike sighed. “Give me a reason,
doesn’t matter if it’s a lie just give me a reason why you never
acknowledged me, not then, and not now.”
Angel nodded wearily. “Then is easy. Darla would
have killed you. Not because she was jealous, she just hated homosexuals,
even if they were vampires. Now… would you have wanted me to? Really? You
said it once yourself, you outgrew me.”
Spike’s lips pursed. “I think I said surpassed.”
Angel shrugged. “Same result in the end. And for the
record I was never ashamed of you, even after my soul, I was always proud
of you. You can hate me all you like, Spike, you can deny that I’m even
your sire.” He shot Spike a pointed look. “We’ve seen more of each other in
the last decade than we did the hundred years that came before and in that
time you’ve tried to kill me more times than I can count. Almost succeeded
three times. You’ve become a trusted friend and ally of people I tried
desperately just to connect to. Every time we’ve spoken, you’ve belittled,
insulted and undermined me. You’ve slept with the only woman I’ve ever
loved and you’ve rubbed that fact in my face everyday you’ve been here in
LA. You stole my mission, my hope and my belief in myself, just to prove
you were better than me when I could have just told you. You left me with
just my pride and my pride wouldn’t let me tell you. And now… it doesn’t
even matter anymore.”
Spike closed his eyes and let the words rattle around
his head for a moment. The fledgling that exists in every vampire bounced
around the corners of his mind in excited glee at the praise yet cowered
slightly at the knowledge of having slighted its sire. The master in him
scoffed scornfully and the man… the man bit his tongue until everyone else
had shut up.
After a few minutes, Spike took a pull on his bottle and
sagged back onto his couch. Angel seemed to have folded inwards after his
long speech and was laid out on his couch his own bottle held in the crook
of his arm, his forehead pinched between thumb and forefinger like he was
trying to squeeze out a headache. It started with a huff, and then Spike
found himself letting out a series of huffing bursts that could have been
laughter between incredulous shakes of the head.
“Great,” Angel sighed, pulling his hand down across his
face. “Can’t you take anything seriously?”
“Didn’t you ever wonder why?” Spike asked in a quietly
disbelieving voice before releasing another burst of huffs and taking
another long drink.
Angel sighed wearily and scratched the back of his head.
“Why what?”
“Why I hated you. Why I did all those things. Why I
could.”
“I’m not an idiot; I know why you hate me, Spike” Angel
replied.
“I used to worship you,” Spike said bluntly. Angel
rolled his head to the side so he could see the blond; he couldn’t help but
notice how tired he looked, but he could imagine that he looked much the
same. Spike swung his feet up on the coffee table and titled his head back
so he was staring at the ceiling. “I used to think like you’d hung the
bloody moon. I wanted to be just like you. And you… I never knew where I
was with you. One minute you were pullin’ me into dark allies to screw me
’gainst a wall, next you make like you’d willin’ly tread in dog shit if it
got you away from me quicker.”
“That’s not true,” Angel interjected quietly but firmly.
Spike snorted. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But I
deserved more from you. I deserved a little respect. If you couldn’t treat
me like a lover, you should have at least treated me like someone you could
stand.”
“It tore me apart,” Angel admitted. “Knowing what she’d
do to both of us if she found out. It made me so angry. And sometimes I
hated you for it, because…”
“Because?” Spike prodded.
Angel took a deep breath. “Because Darla always taught
me that Vampires couldn’t love, but you could and… every time you walked
into a room I couldn’t even look at you in case she found out that I could
too.”
Spike’s jaw clenched as he continued his in depth study
of the ceiling. There was another decidedly offensive crack a little to the
left and he glared at it.
“Who started these tiresome games we play?” He whispered
solemnly.
Angel, who had also taken up a study of the ceiling,
sighed. “I don’t know, Will.”
Spike’s head snapped down to look at Angel, his brow
marked with a frown. It had been a lifetime at least since Angel had called
him that. He got unsteadily to his feet and moved round to the other couch,
studiously ignoring that Angel was just as studiously ignoring his
approach. Then before the older vampire had time to object, he was
straddling his lap.
“Wha…!?” Angel started in surprise, but Spike put a
finger to his lips.
“No, it’s my turn.”
Angel pursed his lips and watched him silently.
“The thing is mate, I’m so angry at you most of the time
I can barely stand the sight of you. I’m sick of it. Sick and tired of
fighting you and playing these silly games we play because we’re both too
stupid to give them up.” He paused, taking a shallow breath through his
nose. “You should have told me all this stuff a hundred odd years ago and
maybe I should have spoken up sooner, but we didn’t and now we’re here. The
world as we know it is gone, Angelus. We’re dead men walkin’ and I don’t
mean coz we’re vampires. If that second wave comes we won’t be standing at
the end of it. We were lucky last night, we had Blue and Gunn and you
playin’ Popeye with Hamilton brand spinach. It’s just us now, just us
against the worst the worst can send.” Spike glanced away from Angel’s face
and sighed tiredly. “And the scariest part is… I really don’t care. I’m
tired of it, all of it.”
Spike went to move off Angel but he sat up, a hand on
Spike’s thigh keeping the other vampire from moving. Once he was sitting,
he raised his hands to Spike’s face and cupped his cheek. When he spoke his
words were whispered but gut wrenchingly heartfelt. “I’m just as tired as
you are, Spike. I’m tired of fighting, tired of hurting, tired of living.
But I don’t want to die not knowing…”
“Not knowing what?” Spike whispered back, their faces
only inches apart, the gap getting smaller without either consciously
meaning it to.
“If you’ll let me do this.”
Spike chose that moment to forget how to breathe.
Angel’s lips were just how he remembered them but with none of the
harshness that had come before. His hands groped for Angel’s shoulders then
crawled his fingers up to tangle in the soft downy hair at the nape of the
older Vampire’s neck. The kiss deepened, neither willing to break the
contact and both grateful that they didn’t need to breathe.
Angel’s hands were doing some wandering of their own, skirting
around his injured back and coming to rest on his waist, caressing and
kneading the skin. Spike began to push Angel back down onto the couch and
Angel let himself be guided. A small act of surrender that had monumental
significance to them both.
This was it, their first and last time together in a
century. Their first and last meeting as equals. As Angel’s hands started
to claw at the waist band of Spike’s jeans, the blond broke the kiss and
reared up. They were both still shirtless from earlier and Spike took a
second to rake his gaze down the perfect chest that had changed so little
in over a hundred years.
“What are we doing?”
Angel looked up at him and Spike moaned. He’d seen those
eyes determined, hateful, angry, and lust glazed, but he’d never seen them
as they were now. They shone with love and trust and pride, but they were
dulled by desperate fear and hopelessness. He was seeing his sire at his most vulnerable. The
battle and their confessions had stripped them both bare and now as he looked
into Angel’s eyes he knew he was seeing a mirror of his own. The past no
longer mattered and there was no future.
Angel reached up and pulled him down so their lips were
barely touching. “Does it matter?”
“No,” Spike whispered in reply. When their lips met
again they both knew the time for words had passed; all that was left was
need and no words could ever articulate the desperate need to drive away
the fear of tomorrow that was suffocating them today. They rolled,
forgetting the narrow couch they’d been precariously perched on. Spike’s
back hit the floor and he hissed, arching into Angel to escape the pain.
Angel’s arm shot out, violent moving the coffee table out of their way and
they were rolling again, Spike regaining control and finding himself lying
between Angel’s thighs.
Hands moved frantically as their lips and tongues
continued to duel. They broke only briefly as pants were shed hastily, but
even that tiny moment of time seemed too much and they pounced on each
other as soon as they were free.
Spike trailed kisses along Angels jaw and throat, pausing to lick
and nibble. Angel ached helplessly below him, his hand clinging to Spike as
he surrendered to the skilful mouth of his youngest and dearest childe.
Spike continued to journey lower, feeling Angel’s need
dragging along his stomach as his lips trailed across soft skin. His lips
closed around a pert nipple making Angel buck up into him. Angel moaned
loudly as lips changed to teeth that tugged then a cool tongue that
soothed. Spike began to feel high on the power he now had. He knew this
surrender had not been of his own making but came from Angel’s utter
defeat, but he didn’t feel he’d been robbed of its personal import. Had he
been anyone else, perhaps even Buffy, Angel would have kept his masks, but
for him, for Spike, he had let his defences down.
“Spike please.”
Spike let go of the nipple he had been torturing and
looked up. Angel laid spread below him, a banquet to be devoured, his head
thrown back, his chest rising in sharp pants. He knew, without doubt, he
could do whatever he wanted to Angel now and Angel would let him. Again the
three major parts of his self splintered in different directions at that
revelation. The fledgling watched on curiously, unsure and confused, weeping
slightly at seeing its fallen god. The master crowed and cheered; revelling
in its victory and salivating at the thoughts of what it could now do with
its newfound power. And the man… the man begged he not take advantage of
such vulnerability.
***************************************
Part 2
November 2004
Spike sighed and pressed his forehead to the cool wood
of one of the kitchen cabinets, his hands lying flat on the counter. He was
half tempted to bang his head against the cabinet repeatedly to dispel the
images that were now floating around his mind, but that would cause noise
and noise was something that couldn’t exist here.
The trouble was that a tiny niggling voice in his head
told him that he had taken
advantage that night. It wasn’t about who topped whom, although breaking
that small part of vampire lore he was sure was going to come and bite him
in the ass one day, no it was that he’d let it happen at all. What had
happened between them was so very human; they’d been two frightened men
trying to take comfort in the familiar as their worlds crumbled around
them, but he couldn’t help but wonder, what if. What if he hadn’t let it
happen? Would he have been awake and aware enough to stop what happened
later? If he’d been able to act sooner, could he have saved Angel?
No, there was no point to this speculation. He hadn’t
been and what had come after had happened. He’d woken to find Angel
writhing in agony, his face lying in a pool of black vomit. The stench had
been horrific, like rot and burnt flesh. He’d tried to feed Angel his own
blood, they’d come too far the night before for him to lose Angel now. But
the dark vampire hadn’t been able to hold anything down.
That went on for hours until Angel finally fell
unconscious. When he woke he seemed groggy but better and they’d both
thought it was over. Angel had, rather hoarsely explained what he thought
was wrong. Hamilton’s blood. Spike couldn’t help but agree; he doubted even
a vampire could stomach the blood of something born of the senior partners.
He’d ranted then, let rip with a stream of verbal abuse. At Angel for his
stupidity, at the powers for being so fucking screwed up, at the partners
for existing and humanity for needing people like him and Angel to fight
their battles. Angel had listened with a kind of tired, fond tolerance.
That’s what Spike remembered; Angel just sitting there watching him rant
and rave and not once even attempting to argue or intervene.
How he wished Angel had argued back, But wishing was
fruitless, he had things he needed to do.
He needed a drink, something with caffeine; his life may
be silent, but it was exhausting. There was a camping stove and kettle in
the small lean-to outside, but there was something he had to do before he
could make a cuppa and relax for the night.
He considered calling out but there was little point so
he moved from the kitchen out into the small living room. He didn’t need to
speak; he could see there was no one here. He moved on, through a narrow
door and into a bedroom, the only bedroom in the tiny log cabin. There was
a small sound, just on the edge of hearing, like someone trying to choke up
something very, very quietly. So the bathroom it was, and plastering on a
braver face than he felt, Spike moved to stand against the door frame.
Angel leant over the sink, his hands braced on either
side. His face was screwed up with pain and his too thin body would tense,
shudder and finally a trickle of black fluid would dribble from his mouth
and into the sink. Spike watched this cycle through twice before he stepped
into the room, running his hand carefully up Angel’s back.
His fingers brushed over the bandages that covered open
sores, and between them the patches of once perfect flawless skin was
clammy and marred with a lattice work of evil looking black lines. Spike
couldn’t remember when he’d started to call the effects of Hamilton’s blood
the “rot”, but the name was incredibly accurate. Angel was rotting away
before his eyes.
Sometimes he couldn’t believe how naive they’d been.
They’d both honestly thought that once Angel had expelled the vile blood
from his system that everything would get better. It hadn’t, instead it got
far worse. It started with the sore throat not clearing up, then coughing,
nosebleeds, stomach pain, headaches and ear ache. He’d joked, actually
joked, that Hamilton had given Angel flu. Angel hadn’t found it that funny,
but then he’d known even then that it was worse than it seemed. Hamilton’s
blood had left its mark. It was like a virus, first contact burnt and
corroded the flesh, and then the infection set in.
It started in his stomach, and from there it spread to
his throat, lungs, mouth and ears. There were three days between throat and
ears. Spike could clearly remember that, because when it reached the throat
Angel stopped talking, and when it reached his ears his world became built
around silence. Silence because even the slightest noise was agony, because
even a whisper caused pain. Even the back ground sounds of LA had been too
much and Spike had taken Angel and fled.
They’d fled here, to this tiny mountain cabin in the
middle of nowhere, where even the wildlife was sparse and the nearest town
was an hour drive away.
Angel had sagged visibly at the first touch of Spike’s
hand on his back and the blonde continued his soothing ministrations until
Angel’s shoulders tensed as a clear signal he should step back. He hated
to, but Spike moved away. Angel straightened with some effort; standing
upright it was even clearer how much weight he’d lost through this whole
ordeal. His sweat pants, that once fitted him perfectly, now had the draw
string pulled so tight to keep them on that the extra length of cord hung
to mid thigh.
Angel fished under the sink and came back up with a
large bottle spray of anti-bacterial cleaning fluid. Spike wasn’t sure how
much good it would do, but didn’t complain at buying a new bottle of the
concentrate and mixing up the solution nearly every week. It was just one
of the things he did now; like using surgical gloves if Angel was in too
much of a state to clean himself up and making sure he kept his and Angel’s
mugs separate. Small, probably useless efforts to keep Angel’s sanity,
because Angel blamed himself enough.
***************************************
July 2004
Spike leant against the door frame of their small
bedroom and watched Angel sleep, rubbing his sore wrist absently as he did.
He looked peaceful just lying there, like he hadn’t a care in the world,
like he wasn’t… dying.
As Spike watched him he couldn’t help but feel like he’d
let Angel down. For a little while it really looked like he’d been slowing
the progress of the rot down, possibly even reversed some of the damage.
Just two weeks ago Angel had hoarsely said his name, although he’d twitched
and cringed at the sound.
Childe’s blood, nowhere near as potent as Sire’s blood
true, but the blood of family always had healing properties and Angel
couldn’t stomach anything else. The first time he’d fed him pig after they
got to the cabin, Angel had taken a violent turn for the worse, so they’d
stuck with his blood. But despite its healing qualities, Angel had spent
most of his time drifting in and out of sleep, barely awake when he was
awake, and fidgeting almost deliriously when he was asleep. It had worn
them both out, and maybe that was why everything got worse.
Spike sighed and glanced at his wrist. He’d been
scratching again. Angry red welts surrounded the torn skin from where the
bites hadn’t been healing, and below that, black clawed its angry lines
through every vein and capillary between mid forearm and palm. His feeding
Angel may have helped Angel recover some, but in return, the infection had
spread to him.
And now he was torn, feeling selfish and mean because
he’d seen this more than a week ago, and he’d been weaning Angel back onto
pigs blood ever since. Without his blood, Angel was increasingly more aware
and awake, no longer slipping in and out of what Spike had hoped was
healing sleep. Not that Angel being more awake was a problem, it was just
that it was easier to do things, and therefore make noise, when he was
asleep.
And now there was a bigger problem. Over this last ten
days, Spike had noticed a decline in feeling in his hands, so much so he
was getting clumsy. But he couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t just fatigue, so
he had set himself up a little test.
Slipping out of the bedroom he moved to the kitchen and
grabbed a carrier bag from the counter before moving to the front door and
out onto the porch. Placing the carrier bag on the small table he sat down
and carefully pulled out three boxes of a dozen eggs. Now, he’d had a good
night sleep last night for once, and if it was fatigue then this little
challenge should be no problem at all.
***
Angel woke to the sound of something smashing outside.
He shuddered and rolled into the spot he hoped Spike would be. The
occasional animal interrupted their perfect isolation, and as much as he
hated the neediness of the act, he could find small comfort in curling into
Spike until the noises passed. Only this time, Spike wasn’t there.
Panic raged through his system and he scrambled clumsily
from the bed. Stumbling through the living room he reached the front door
and huffed a relieved breath. Spike was still there, he hadn’t left.
To his own continuing shame, over the last weeks the
fear that Spike would leave had become almost unbearable. Not that he would
blame him for going, not even Drusilla had been as much of a burden to the
blond. Angel knew that he was now totally and utterly dependant on Spike,
but that wasn’t the main driving force behind the fear.
Before the soul he’d fallen in love with William for his
fire and determination, his startling looks and wickedly provocative mind,
now, both with souls, he’d fallen all over again. But this time he wasn’t
afraid to show it, to try and communicate with every look and touch how
much the blond meant to him. He only hoped one day he could tell him, properly;
that he would one day fight off whatever it was that was ravaging his body
and tell him all the things his pride hadn’t let him say over the last
century and he hadn’t been able to express before his voice had been lost
to him. His only solace was that Spike seemed to know, that he returned
each small smile or caress with one of his own in a mutual show of silent
understanding.
If Spike left now, he didn’t think he’d be strong enough
to fight at all.
Standing in the cabin’s doorway, an amused smile crossed
his face as he watched Spike. The younger vampire didn’t seem to know he
was there and just as well, because whatever he was doing, whatever game he
had invented to while away the long silent ours was sure to embarrass him
when he realised he was being watched. Just standing here watching Spike’s
single minded determination was enough to chase all the pain from his
ailing body and Angel felt like he could just stop the world right in that
moment and keep it. Spike sitting on the porch, taking an egg from the box
with extreme care and holding it over a bag until it broke, his brow
furrowed in concentration. By god he wished he had a camera or a pencil and
paper to capture this innocent moment.
But the innocence didn’t last. With a soft curse as the next
egg broke, Spike snarled and wiped his hand on his jeans before reaching
for an egg with his other hand. As he raised his arm Angel choked and
stumbled back against the door, his eyes fixed on the damaged wrist. Spike
froze and very slowly looked up to where Angel stood looking down at him in
horror.
Angel couldn’t believe his eyes; his jaw trembled as a
myriad of emotions crashed through him. Spike was infected, he’d infected
Spike. Not only had he forced the role of carer on this rampant free spirit,
but now he was killing him as well. He didn’t need to look down to know
that the lines on Spike’s wrist were like the ones that crawled all across
his own body, every vein and artery in his torso, arms and neck blackened
and swollen. He couldn’t take his eyes away from Spike’s wrist anyway.
Spike was infected, he’d infected Spike, and Spike hadn’t told him.
As Spike stood slowly, his face a mask of worry and
apology, a blinding flash of insight hit the sickly vampire. Spike had
known for some time. Betrayal, his of Spike, and Spike of him, anger and
hurt; desperate love and utter devastation warred for dominance. Spike was
reaching to him and he couldn’t bare the thought of touching him, couldn’t
see why Spike would want his touch anyway. As tears blurred his vision he
fled back into the house, desperate to escape everything that was going on.
He was tired, weak and couldn’t handle this, not right now.
Spike was quicker off the mark though. He’d seen Angel
ready to bolt and as he did shot after him. He could see every emotion on
the once stoic face and knew they matched his own. This was the last thing
Angel needed, and he’d hoped to keep it from him. It was a foolish hope,
and now all he wanted was to be able to tell him it would be alright, that
he didn’t blame him, and that it wasn’t his fault. But there could be no
words, and as he grabbed Angel and knocked him to the ground, all he could
do was hold him as the tears came. Silent sobs of utter heartache.
***************************************
Part Three
November 2004
Angel leant heavily on the sink with one hand as he
wiped round the basin using a cloth in the other. He could feel Spike
staring holes into his back, knew the blonde thought his efforts were
fruitless and pointless, but kept going anyway. Spike would think it was
pig headedness or maybe paranoia, but Spike didn’t know. He didn’t know
what the rot felt like, not really. Not the constant tearing pain through
every inch of skin, muscle and tissue. Not the fear.
Fear of what would fail next. Fear of his own body. Fear
of sound, movement and touch. Fear of complete dependence, and fear of
abandonment. Fear of losing what he had only just found again. Fear of
dying and what he knew lay beyond.
Fear like the night he’d found out Spike was infected.
Even back then, all of four months ago, seeing those lines on Spike’s skin
had been terrifying. The thought of Spike being chipped away at by this disease… it was horrifying. He
didn’t deserve that, not the pain or the weakness, not the nausea or the
slow persistent sensation of your own body failing you degrees. Even back
then the pain and the fear had been what he thought was unbearable. If only
he’d known then what he knew now.
So the next night he’d started this mission. Angel knew
he wasn’t capable of much, but he’d be damned if he’d let Spike suffer. He
knew he was selfish, knew that he should just make Spike leave, go out into
the world and find a cure for himself. After more than 250 years of
immortality, even the thought seemed alien. He was dying. And if he knew
nothing else, he knew that by not pushing Spike away then he would break
his heart when his body finally gave up. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t
bring himself to push away the comfort Spike’s mere presence brought. Some
days he really thought he could, tried hard to push him away. But it seemed
pigheaded stubbornness was something they shared, and Spike always stayed,
always rode out the storm. So Spike remained and would watch him die but he
would make sure he did not follow him.
He’d set to work. It was pretty clear where the
infection had spread from. Mouth and blood; everything that made contact
with either, could not make contact with Spike. He’d systematically bagged
and binned every mug and glass in the house that night, along with the
towels in the bathroom, the toothpaste, both their toothbrushes, and all
the spoons from the kitchen draws (Spike had fed him ice cream one night,
hoping it would ease his throat, but now he didn’t know which spoon he’d
used, so they all had to go.) When Spike had woken and joined him in the
kitchen, he’d watched first in disbelief and then tried to help. That night
the shame, fear and heartache had still been so strong that Angel hadn’t
been able to look at him. Instead he’d sent him into to town with a
carefully drawn out list. Disinfectant, surgical gloves, those little
yellow bio-hazard bags for medical waste, antiseptic wipes, new clothes,
hand and bath towels so they didn’t have to share, two new tubes of
toothpaste, two new toothbrushes, and new mugs for their blood.
Spike had hesitated on seeing the list, and then
shrugged in acceptance. When he’d leaned in to give him the by then
customary kiss before he headed into town, Angel had shied away. As he did,
he’d seen heartache that matched his own in the blonde’s face. Everything
had changed.
Angel paused for a second, hanging his head as he fought
against the tears. God, he wanted to cry; to curl up into a corner and sob
and wail and just let the damn rot take him be done with it! But he
wouldn’t, not now and not ever if he had any choice in it. He’d made a
decision and in the long run it had been the right one. At first it seemed
like bolting the stable door after the horse had bolted, but Spike’s wrists
had begun to heal. Whatever rot was in his wrists was localised and small,
and his body was fighting back. With each day he saw the black recede and
hoped he would be around to see it gone altogether. So yes, in the long run
he had been right, but the on a base, emotional and needy level, the
changes in their relationship made him long for simpler days.
After the fight, and until Spike had become infected
they had still been – to the best of their abilities – lovers. But now that
just wasn’t possible. It had been hard at first, resisting the urge to
touch and hold, to kiss and be kissed back. But the risk was too great, and
there could be no more intimacy between them than embraces, innocent
caresses and closed mouthed kisses. He imagined it was still a battle for
Spike; sometimes when he woke, he could feel Spike’s need pressing into him
and knew when he left the bed to go and make a cup of tea in the lean-to
outside, he’d gone to find a different form of relief to caffeine and milk.
Part of him wondered if Spike left the bed because he needed the distance
to conjure the beautiful and immortal ghosts from his mind to find that
relief, rather than the by looking at the decaying corpse laying in the bed
next to him. But the larger part of him was grateful. Grateful that even if
the images in Spike’s mind were of other times, or even other people, Spike
didn’t push the issue. That Spike left him to his pretence of sleep, and
never picked him up on it, that he always returned to their bed and wrapped
his arms around him to chase away the doubts. And that he hadn’t noticed
that Angel’s body was failing to the extent that even without the risk of
infection, he couldn’t be the lover he had promised to be after that first
passionate morning on the Hyperion floor.
Angel tiredly ran a hand over his face and tried to push
away the emotions which were begging to be released. He cringed as pain
shot through his ears as he sniffed. He needed to sort himself out before
he turned to face Spike, not that the blonde wouldn’t see all he’d been
thinking in just one look anyway. That was the one amazing thing that had
come from their silent life. Without the words that had always stood stark
and angry between them, Angel felt he actually knew Spike now. Not the
obscure mix of gentle poet and Buffy’s nemesis turned lover that he’d
thrown together in his mind in the months at Wolfram & Hart, but the
real Spike, the souled demon as he was now. And the same could be said in
reverse. Where once Spike seemed unable to pick up on even the most obvious
indicators to his mood, now he thought Spike could read him like a
book.
With a final shake of his shoulders, Angel turned and
faced Spike. The blonde watched his face for a moment before offering him a
small smile, which Angel gladly returned before reaching out his hand for Spike
to take. One look into those eyes and he felt lifted, loved and the weight
of depression that had been building since Spike had left for town earlier
slipped away.
Spike nodded and stepped forward, snagging Angel’s
fingers and pulling him into a hug. He’d watched the tense back as Angel
leant over the sink with concern, but knew better that to approach. To
Angel, the cleaning ritual was sacrosanct, and Spike knew to interrupt it
would send the frail vampire into a tizzy of concern and worry. So he’d
waited, and watched for the signal that let him know Angel felt he was safe
to be close to again. As he ran his hands up and down Angel’s back he could
feel the tremors coursing through his body. He got weaker every day;
standing took more effort, the pain in his rotting body less easy to hide.
Some days were better than others, like today, where Angel willingly got
out of bed and could stand his touch on his over sensitized skin, other
days feeding was an issue, or getting out of bed. Some days, Angel barely
woke at all.
Pulling back from the embrace, Spike nuzzled into the
slightly chemical smelling hand that came up to stroke his cheek. This was
a very good day it seemed. Open affection from Angel was a sign of a decent
mood and less pain. Oh he’d seen in the rigid posture and bowed head that
indicated Angel was deep into a brood, but Spike also knew that Angel’s
mood could turn on a dime. A sudden new jolt of pain could send him pin
wheeling into depression, while a look, a flower picked on the walk back to
the cabin or just the uncracking of a stiff joint could spin him in the
other direction.
Raising his hands, he took a second to mask the feelings
on what he was about to do and signed to Angel.
“How are you?”
Angel just shrugged. But off Spike’s stern look returned
to leaning against the sink before signing his reply.
“My back hurts”
Spike nodded. His lower back had been aching for days
now. And if it was bad enough for it to register above the constant
deterioration then it must be agony. He wished there was something he could
do, but all their experiments with pain killers had either made Angel
violently sick or just plain failed. But at least now Angel could tell him
what was wrong, even if he was helpless to help. It was the one good thing
that had come from what he considered his worst betrayal. Hot pokers for a
ring seemed like small fry compared to what he’d done the night the silence
had become too much to bear.
***************************************
July 2004
Spike huffed impatiently as he waited for the manager of
the town’s small bookstore to come back from the store room. It had been a
bad night, and the sun had only sunk below the horizon less than an hour
before. It seemed that everything that evening had conspired against him.
It had been a rough day. Angel hadn’t been able to
settle, keeping them both awake for hours. By the time he could smell dusk coming he’d been
exhausted and cranky. Thankfully though, Angel had finally slipped into
sleep.
But the evening just seemed to build on a bad day. First
as he’d been dressing, the zipper had broken on his jeans and he’d had to
bite the inside of his lip to stop from cursing and waking Angel. Then not
wanting to miss the stores in town, he’d been rushing and had dropped his
mug of blood in the kitchen. Vampire reflexes had stopped the cup reaching
the floor, but blood had still splattered all over and as he stood he’d
whacked his head into the counter.
Things had started to look marginally better as he’d
walked in just his socks from the house to the where he’d parked Angel’s
lovingly restored Plymouth (works and repairs paid for courtesy of Wolfram
& Hart). It was a nice night, and despite the gravel it wasn’t a bad
walk. The tunes on the radio had been mediocre on the trip into town, but
still there were a couple he knew all the words to, so he managed to vent a
little by singing along. But then the night from hell had returned full
force.
Getting out of the car, he’d yelped and dropped back
into his seat as sharp pain bit into the soles of his feet. Gravel from the
track from the cabin to the car had become hooked into the weave of his
socks, which were now, tightly laced into his boots. Twenty minutes wasted,
unlacing his boots, picking out the gravel, and re-lacing them again had
meant that he’d rushed into the butchers just as the store owner was about
to lock up. She’d been put out and surly as she served him, grumbling
constantly about irresponsible young people. Both comments only served to
fuel Spike’s ire, tending for Angel was in his opinion not something that
could be considered irresponsible behaviour, and he was feeling far from
young, each and every one of his one hundred and twenty four years hanging
round his neck like a lead weight.
The next stop was the bookstore. There was less of a
rush here, what he needed from the bookstore wasn’t all that urgent, well
not in comparison to blood, and it closed half an hour later than the
butchers. He’d had a number of books on order for some time, books that
could very well change their lives, and very much for the better. The only
problem was, the store manager couldn’t remember where he’d put them when
they arrived. And that lead to why he was standing at the counter,
contemplating how many different ways he knew how to kill someone with a
book.
Finally the manager came back and rang up the sale.
Spike gave a tense smile as he handed over the cash and stiffly walked
away, the handle of the carrier-bag squeezed tight in his clenched fist.
Throwing the bag on the backseat of the car next to the one from the
butchers, Spike slipped in behind the wheel, not bothering with the door
just vaulting over the side. With a squeal of tires he was headed back to
the cabin and hopefully to a restful evening curled up with Angel, going
over the books he’d just paid way too much for.
Parking the car once again a mile from the cabin, the
slow barefoot uphill march did nothing to improve Spike’s ever
deteriorating mood. By the time he pushed through the front door of the
cabin he was limping, a stray stone having caught him unaware, and he fumed
silently as he marched into the kitchen and dropped off the blood bags.
Turning to re-enter the living room he saw Angel watching him speculatively
from the couch, and a strange sense of foreboding trickled icily down his
spine.
He purposely straightened his shoulders, and with far
less tact than he would later like to remember, he thrust the package at
Angel and stood waiting for his response.
Angel carefully eyed the carrier-bag wrapped books that
had been unceremoniously thrust into his hands then back up at Spike.
Seeing a slight twitch in the blonde’s eye he quickly looked back down
again and pulled the bag away.
Spike watched Angel’s face carefully as he read the
covers. “Universal Sign Language for Beginners,” “Linguistics in Signing” “Dictionary of British Sign Language”
and a whole host of other titles that should in essence teach anyone how to
sign. But Angel kept looking down.
Spike’s jaw began to tick at the lack of response. It had been a hellish
day and a hellish night and the least Angel could do was acknowledge the
effort he’d put into making their lives a little easier. But still Angel
remained statue still on the couch.
When he did look up, Spike either couldn’t or wouldn’t interpret what he
saw. The look on Angel’s face was there for only a bare moment before he
shuttered. Carefully laying the books down on the couch, he stood and
stiffly walked away, entering the bedroom. As Spike picked up the tiny
sound of the lock sliding home his fragile hold on his temper snapped.
Hefting one of the heavier books from the couch he threw it with pin point
accuracy at the door, screaming out a shout of pure fury and frustration to
all and any who could hear.
“FucKING BITCH!!!”
Turning on his heel, his demon face to the fore as more
evidence of his complete loss of control, Spike stormed out into the night.
***
The Plymouth careened through the night, swerving all
over the road in tune with its driver’s fury. The roads were thankfully
empty as Spike disobeyed every rule of the road in his desperate flight
from his own rage. Yanking the car off the road and onto a dirt track, he
obliviously drove up towards a beauty spot he’d seen listed on the maps,
but would be deserted at this time of night. Finally coming to the end of
the track, the car skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust and Spike leapt out
before that dust had even begun to settle.
Pacing away from the car he suddenly spun and kicked the
wing mirror from the driver’s side.
“YOU FUCKING ARSEHOLE! YOU BLOODY MORONIC SELFISH
UPTIGHT GIT FACED WANK STAIN!” Throwing his head up to the sky he continued
his unheard tirade. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT FROM ME!!!??? HAVEN’T I BEEN
FUCKED ABOUT ENOUGH THIS CENTURY???!!! WHAT’S NEXT YOU WANKERS!!!??? HOW
ARE YOU GONNA PISS ON ME NEXT??? I SAVED THE FUCKING WORLD!!! I FOUGHT THE
BLEEDIN HORDES!!! I HOLD HIM! I BATHE HIM!! I FEED HIM!! WHAT THE HELL DO
YOU WANT!!!???... WELL I’VE HAD IT!!! THAT’S IT!! THIS FAR AND NO
FURTHER!!! YOU WANT A CHAMPION GO FIND SOMEONE ELSE COZ I’M DONE YOU HEAR!!
DONE!!!”
Sagging, Spike moved round to sit on the hood of the
Plymouth, but could only sit still for so long before he jumped up once
again, moving round to give one of the wheels a good kick. “I can’t bloody
do this anymore!” The hub came away with the third kick and rattled tinnily
on the ground. An insane giggle suddenly surged up and out as Spike watched
the disc with cat like eyes. “ooooh… bad Spike!!! Making SO… MUCH… NOISE!!!
Well who’s gonna stop me!!??”
Stepping back to take a run up, Spike leapt high in the
air, landing heavily on the hood of the Plymouth, denting the metal work.
“WELL??? I guess no one is!!!” Leaning over the wind shield, Spike pushed a
CD into the CD player he’d had installed a while back and turned the volume
to full.
Then as the music belted out of the car, Spike leapt
away and began to pace, kicking out at lose stones as he went.
“Just bleedin’ perfect. You do a bloke a favour and what
does he do? He fucking shits on you that’s what he does. What does he
expect me to do? Sit around and watch him brood for fuckin’ ever? Sorry
mate, but no. What the hell is his problem anyway?...”
So the stream of words continued, weeks of pent up
frustration leaking out in a constant flow of insults and accusation aimed
at every one he’d ever met and brought him to this point in his life. With
a final missed kick at a rock his shoulders lumped and the words trailed
off; finally exhausted from his cathartic rant. Wandering unsteadily back
towards the car he slumped down beside it, leaning back against the door
and let the tears come.
Desperate hiccupping sobs that hurt his head, and made
his thoughts tumble one on top of the other through his mind. Fears, hopes,
dreams and worries all pounding against each other in a jumble of pained
release. Every muscle every sinew in his body felt ready to just crumple
and fall. His head was heavy with pure exhaustion. As his eyes drooped and
he collapsed sideways to curl on the ground he found one clear thought in
his head.
These were tears shed for all he had lost, now regained…
…and was soon to lose again.
That final thought made him blink, and he sat upright
with a bolt. No, he would not lose again. Not this time, he was going to
put this right, whatever the hell it was and he wasn’t going to lose again.
Jumping to his feet he suddenly stopped stock still. The sky on the horizon
was turning pale orange, and the early dawn light was already making him
smoulder. Cursing as he hurriedly pulled the top up on Angel’s ancient car,
he scrambled inside and into the foot-well of the rear passenger seats. He
sighed and glared angrily at the roof of the car, but this time the anger
was directed solely at himself. He must have fallen asleep, and now he was
stuck out here for the rest of the day, trapped while Angel…
Angel, Jesus. What would Angel be thinking now? That he
had gone, that he wasn’t coming back? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to
work out that’s what kept Angel watching the door when he went into town
each night; the fear that he would just drive off one day and leave him
stranded and alone. God, he was such an idiot. All of this over a few lousy
books.
A few lousy books Angel hadn’t wanted…
A few lousy books Angel had looked so… betrayed? Hurt?
Devastated? At receiving.
Groaning, Spike grabbed the blanket from the back seat
and pulled it completely over himself; burying his head in the dark as
final realisation hit.
A few lousy books that Angel would see as him giving up
on any chance that he would get better. A few lousy books Angel would see
as something Spike had done to preoccupy him while they waited for him to
die.
***************************************
Part Four
November 2004.
Angel cocked his head to one side and studied the blonde
vampire in front of him. He knew the far away look in Spike’s eyes all too
well. Spike would spit feathers if he ever told him this, but without the
option of openly ranting, Spike had taken to getting lost in his memories,
otherwise known as brooding almost as much as he did. But this wasn’t just
any far away look, this one was special. Special because no matter how he
tried, Angel couldn’t get Spike to let go of what happened that night.
He couldn’t imagine how he must have looked to Spike
when the blonde had entered the cabin a little over an hour after sunset.
When Spike had screamed out as he left, the pain had made his knees buckle
and he’d fallen into one of the bedposts on their bed. Curled up on the
floor, blood flowing from a deep cut on his forehead, all he’d been able to
do was cry. All he could see in his mind was those books and want they
meant. He’d felt so lost, so desperately lost. Since the whole ordeal began
Spike had been his rock, his strength. While Spike kept smiling, kept
saying with glance and touch that everything would get better he’d
believed. But those books, those books meant Spike didn’t believe anymore
and if Spike didn’t believe how could he? He didn’t want to die, he didn’t
want to waste away to nothing but a putrid corpse that would eventually
give in and turn to dust. He didn’t want to go back to hell. But it looked
like he didn’t have a choice.
Realisation hit like a freight train. The finally
shattering of his denial and more painful tears had come, each hiccupped
sob bring more pain and smacking him in the head with more harsh reality.
He’d cried so hard he’d passed through the storm and out the other side in
a strange numb detachment. Uncurling from the floor he’d looked at the
blood like it was an alien substance, and then just as numbly, he’d cleaned
it up. Blood was bad, Blood could hurt Spike, and Blood had to be cleaned.
Numb, broken, surreal.
As he’d left the bedroom he’d found the books and he’d
just sat on the couch holding them for hours. It was only when the sun
began to rise that he realised time had passed at all and that’s when feeling
had returned. Not panic, not anger, just desolation. Spike was gone. Spike
wouldn’t be coming back. He was alone. It seemed slightly hysterical
looking back on it, but at time the thought had come to him that maybe if
he looked at the books, did what Spike had silently asked then Spike would
somehow know and come back. And as he read and studied the diagrams, the
real truth had hit him, and the tears had returned.
When Spike had slipped guiltily through the front door
of the cabin that evening, he’d found Angel on the couch, curled up around
one the books, his face stained with tears and blood. Even if they could
have spoken, there would have been no words that night as Spike had woken
and lead an emotionally drained Angel into the bathroom. Neither had
attempted eye contact as Spike had painstaking cleaned and dressed the
wound on his forehead and lead him to bed. Spike had sat with him until
Angel had fallen asleep, and only returned to the bed when the sun had
started to rise.
Angel had woken as soon as Spike had joined him in the
bed. When the blonde finally tipped over into restless sleep, Angel had
stiffly crawled out from under the covers and returned to the living room.
He’d found the books neatly piled back inside their carrier bag, sitting by
the front door. He knew Spike had planned on returning them, but he’d had
other ideas. He’d had so much to make up for.
Spike blamed himself, but Angel knew where the blame
really lay. He’d been selfish, hadn’t seen or wanted to see how everything
was effecting Spike. The
tension between them had been building for days since he’d found out Spike
was infected. Spike meanwhile had to deal with that, and all the extra
restrictions he’d put on their relationship.
Spike was a communicator, a highly social animal. Angel
was well aware that it was the biggest difference between them. But in his
total central focus he’d overlooked how his complete withdrawal from all
physical contact would remove the last vestiges of social interaction
between them. Spike had just been desperate to connect and he’d prevented
that. When that was combined with the stress of being a full time carer to
a less than co-operative patient he was surprised Spike hadn’t blown
sooner, or more dramatically.
But that night and long day had become the eye opener
that he really needed. It had drawn so much into sharp focus and made him
accept certain aspects of their relationship now.
When Spike woken with the sunset, he’d found Angel
sitting crossed legged on the bed in front of him. Angel had looked paler
than normal, drawn, and so very, very sad. He’d handed spike a book with
three pages marked with tiny scraps of paper and then when he’d been sure
he’d had Spike’s attention, rather shakily signed him a message.
Spike had just blinked and looked lost, but Angel had
nodded to the book. Angel had watched Spike scan the pages then nod,
opening his arms for him. Angel had gladly fallen into the embrace.
His first words in almost two months had been “Forgive
me”.
Angel blinked and frowned as a pointy finger poked him
in the shoulder. He looked down into Spike’s concerned face and realised
that he’d been miles away and While Spike had obviously shaken himself out
of his revelry some time ago, Angel had lost himself in his own.
“Stop it.” Spike signed with a mock frown. “Pillock”
A small smile quirked the corners of Angel’s lips. After
that night they’d spent many night just reading the books Spike had bought
and practicing, sometimes each sitting with a sign dictionary in hand,
holding slow, but in depth conversations. Then one night Spike had arrived
back at the cabin with another book. “The British Sign Language Dictionary
of Slang and Curses.” Obviously it wasn’t endorsed by any deaf association,
and Spike had made annotations and improved on it since then. Still, it was
fun to see Spike gesticulating wildly when he was annoyed. Angel couldn’t
help but think that who ever had painstakingly developed the language had
never considered that a 124 year old vampire would come up with a with a way
of saying “mother fucking son of a three legged German goat with herpes.”
And boy hadn’t that taken a while to translate.
Spike looked mildly affronted, knowing he was being
mocked in Angel’s head, but brushed it off when Angel leant down and kissed
his cheek, before slowly making his way back into the bedroom. Shaking his
head, Spike turned to follow, just in time to see Angel’s fatigue finally
catch up with him. As the taller Vampire’s knees Buckled he darted forward,
helping him back onto the bed. His concern grew as Angel struggled to lift
his legs onto the mattress, and carefully did it for him, settling himself
on the edge.
“How long have you been up?”
“A couple of hours” Angel replied with a shrug.
“You were in the bathroom all that time?” Spike
gesticulated with angered concern.
Angel just shot Spike his now quite common, ‘stop
mothering me’ expression, which made Spike soften and run a hand through
his hair.
“I worry.”
“I know” Angel signed back with a small smile, then he
nodded at Spike’s wrists. “How are they?”
Spike held his wrists out for inspection and Angel
tenderly took hold of his hands, running his thumbs up and down the black
lines. Letting go he nodded in satisfaction. “Less today.”
Spike nodded, and restrained himself from replying “more
today” as he looked at Angel’s chest. Instead he leant forward and pulled
up the edges of one of the bandages there. The white cloth was stained with shades of reddish
browns and black, and under it, a ragged sore looked festering and painful.
This had been a more recent development; the rot was eating its way to the
surface in places. Mostly where the skin was thin and delicate, but also
where the rot was more prominent inside. Angel’s back, chest and neck all
had them, as well as a few other places.
“These need changing”
Angel looked away. He was tired, he hadn’t lied to
Spike, he’d woken nauseous and had to stagger into the bathroom and there
he’d stayed until Spike had returned. Between Coughing, vomiting and just
having to stand for so long he was exhausted. Spasms of pain were shooting
up his legs and from his lower back. The thought of having his bandages
changed now almost made him cry.
Angel allowed his head to be turned as Spike cupped his
cheek. Neither of them liked this, it had become the most hated
repercussion of the Rot.
“Maybe later ok?” Spike offered sympathetically.
Angel nodded. “thank you.”
“Tea?” Spike smiled with a quirked eyebrow.
***************************************
Spike shifted on the couch and smiled when Angel head
butted his thigh gently in annoyance. The evening had progressed smoothly.
They’d moved into the living room, and after Spike had brought in two cups
of tea, they’d sat just chatting and practicing their signing. When Spike
had noticed Angel tiring, he’d got them both something to eat and then
they’d settled in for the rest of the night.
This was what made everything worth it, these moments.
Sitting on the couch, Angel curled up beside him with his head in his lap.
Sometimes they would read, sometimes only Spike read and Angel dozed. They
could spend hours like this. More often than not Angel would fall asleep,
like he was on the verge of doing now.
The night air was getting chilly, and Spike pulled a
soft wool throw from the back of the couch and draped it over Angel, his
smile turning to a silent chuckle as angel snagged a corner and pulled it
up around his shoulders to his chin. With an amused shake of his head,
Spike returned to his book which was resting on the armrest. He wished he
could purr, but knew it would spoil everything, so just revelled in the
warm feeling which was settling in his chest. It was in these moments that
he wasn’t Angel’s nurse and protector, but his lover and friend. It was
this peaceful comfort which kept him going, and every second of this time
reminded him why he stayed, why he lived through all the horror and
heartache… why he loved Angel.
Loved him enough to stay, loved him enough to give up on
the things in life that had seemed so important just a few months ago. And
he would still stay, even when these moments weren’t possible, because he
had his memories to hold on to. He wasn’t a fool, he knew that one day all
he would have at all were memories, but Angel needed him and he loved him
too much to let him down. He’d loved for more than a hundred years; he
didn’t think he even had the choice to stop now.
On his lap, he felt Angel stiffen. Spike frowned and
concentrated, trying to work out what could have brought on this change.
There was nothing even on the edge of his hearing that would affect Angel
this way, but when he sniffed the he felt his insides freeze.
Damp air, and a tinny smell that could only mean…
A flash of white light lit the curtains from outside and
Angel sat upright with a jolt. Spike caught Angel’s eye and they just
stared at each other with frozen terror. Spike realised he was counting
down in his head, and then he saw Angel’s jaw begin to wobble. On the very
edge of his hearing the beginnings of a rumble were already registering.
No, not now. Spike watched Angel shake his head in
desperate denial and he wanted to scream. There hadn’t been a single storm
in the whole time they’d lived at the cabin and now it looked like one was
about to make its presence felt. The rumbling was getting louder, the storm
a long way off, but the roll of thunder was building in the back ground.
Spike leant forward and clasped Angel agonized face between both hands and
did the only thing he could think of. He just had to time to mouth three
words…
“I love you.”
…Before Angel’s hands flew to his shoulders and his back
arched, his head thrown back in a silent scream as the thunder crashed all
around them. Spike hung on to Angel for dear life has he convulsed in his
grip, the thunder still rumbling out. Angel’s nails bit harshly into his
shoulders, tears pouring down his face and his chest rising and falling as
he took great harsh breaths as if it would ease the pain.
As the sound drifted off Angel slumped, and Spike slid
them both to the floor, wrapping his arms around Angel’s shoulders as he
rocked in agony, his hands clutching at his ears. Another flash lit the
room and Angel bolted forward. He didn’t get far, just collapsed resting
his forehead on the floor. The rumble built quicker this time and Spike
watched horrified as Angel began to beat his head on the floor. Acting
quickly, he pounced on Angel, rolling him onto his back, straddling his
legs and pinning his hands above his head. Angel was mouthing something and
Spike strained to work out what Angel was trying to say. When he did his
own tears started to fall.
“Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop!”
He’d never felt so utterly powerless in his life. This
time when the thunder reached its peak Angel arched again, crashing his
head into the floor and there was nothing Spike could do to stop it. On and
on the thunder kept coming, Angel had started to growl and hiss, no longer
aware enough to realise that he was causing himself nothing but more pain.
He was acting on instinct, a wounded animal desperate for escape and
throughout all this all Spike could do was watch, unable to help, unable to
ease Angel’s pain. Angel’s face shifted and the growling grew louder; amber
eyes burned into spike with their plea for mercy.
Unable to bare that look in Angel’s eyes any longer.
Spike lowered his head to Angel’s chest and sobbed.
“I’m sorry, hold on luv, just hold on. I’m sorry I can’t
stop this.”
The gap between the lightning and thunder was getting
ever smaller now, the volume growing with each strike.
Suddenly the air went very still and Spike looked up and
deep into Angel’s pain hazed eyes. The air crackled, every hair stood up
spike’s body. Angel’s eyes cleared for a second, and Spike could do nothing
more than stare.
When the next strike hit, it could only have been yards
from the cabin. The noise was instant and deafening. Spike crunched up
against the onslaught of sound, his sensitive vampire hearing overwhelmed
by the blast.
When he looked up he let out the howl he’d been holding
in. Angel’s eyes were blank, he hadn’t even cringed when the thunder hit. A
trickle of blood dripped slowly from both his ears.
“Angel…”
Another flash of lightning, another thunderous barrage,
but Spike paid it no heed.
“Angel… Please…”
There was no response to his plaintive plea, not even a
twitch. Spike collapsed to the floor and pulled Angel’s unresponsive form
into his arms. He'd wished the silence would end, and now he wished it
would return. But the storm couldn't last forever, like all things in life.
Whatever he wished now, he knew, that one way or another, the silence would
soon be ending for good.
The End
Authors
site
| Fiction Search | Home
Page | Back |
|
