A/N: Wow, long chapter here (compared to my other ones, anyway)
This is the last chapter. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and especially to ShinodaBear, who fed me feedback every time. :-)
Ch. 4: Pictures
He tried to see them again today. Thought maybe he could do it now. Turns out he still can't. Can't see them as they were before the blood and mangled corpses.
Can't stand Angel's muteness, either. It's gotten to the point where he'll do anything to make Angel talk. Well, nearly anything; a bloke's gotta have his pride.
One of these things include directing inquires at Angel whenever the occasion arises and sometimes not even then.
"Where're we going?"
Angel merely shoots him an "I-know-what-you're-doing-so-don't-even-bother" look and continues on his way.
Spike is at a loss as to why he wants Angel to talk so much. Time was he couldn't wait for him to shut up. Maybe it's because it's only natural to want what is rare, and Angel speaking definitely falls into that category.
More aimless walking tonight. More wandering into a bar. More drinking—except Spike has decided to stick with whiskey this time.
It is always like this, the pointless drifting between warm bodies, one trying to fill the silence and the other draining the noise. During the first intermission, they'll head home and usually Angel is up for a shag. A dream frequently occurs during the second intermission. If not, Illyria wakes them both, usually by breaking something. Then the play starts all over again.
Spike sodding well hates plays. Always has.
One of the many girls latches herself onto his arm. He starts to turn to tell her to leave him alone, but the words can't quite make it out of his mouth. Because the prostitute is suddenly not one at all. She is Her and Her head is grotesquely twisted to one side. One blue eye remains; blood trickles out of it. Chunks of flesh are missing. Streams of red flow from her scalp and drip from the ends of her blond hair. Mangled fingers with missing fingernails clutch a broken stake.
--"Spike?"--
--"yeah, pet?"--
"C'mon, baby," she purrs. "I'll make it good." A plump, white maggot slithers from her mouth.
--"Angel...where...where's Angel?"--
Spike stumbles back with a horrified cry, knocking astray several pedestrians who curse loudly, and suddenly he's bolting. He doesn't even realize it until he hears footsteps behind him and a voice in the distance.
--"sshh, luv. He's fine. Just a little banged up, is all."--
"Spike! Dammit, slow down!"
Slow down? No, no way in hell is he doing that.
He doesn't slow down until his legs ache and his knees are weak and he can no longer stay upright. Only then does he collapse onto his hands and knees. Cold tears drip into the asphalt, and as harsh sobs are torn from his chest, it's too much to even remain on all fours, so he curls up on to his side, barely noticing that he is lying in a puddle of rainwater. Rainwater diluted with tears. Tears that are not of grief or pain or nostalgia, but of utter shock and terror. He can still see the image very clearly. He will forever see her now.
Stupid, bleedin' cow. Couldn't she have hit on someone else? Someone without issues, without ever-present shadows of Before?
Hands haul him up and out of the puddle and all of a sudden, he finds himself in Angel's lap and he is clinging to Angel because he would certainly plummet into permanent insanity otherwise.
Spike fumbles in the pockets of his jacket for a smoke and his lighter. He finds both without problem, but his still-trembling hands won't let the flame meet the target.
Angel takes the silver lighter and does it for him.
"Thanks."
Angel nods.
"Saw her," Spike says.
Angel hasn't asked, but Spike feels compelled to tell him anyway. Perhaps he's hoping that the memory will fade a little by sharing.
"I saw her and she was dead, you know." Spike rolls up tighter until his forehead touches his knees, the heels of his boots digging into Angel's thighs. "Oh God, she was dead and rotting and bloody and ohjesusfuckingbloodychrist—"
"Sshh." Fingers stroke his hair gently. "Hush, Will. It's okay."
Spike snorts and laughs derisively. It borders on hysteria and sounds not quite sane to his ears.
Things will never be okay. He wants to scream that, to take Angel by the shoulders and shake him until the idiot acknowledges that things are never okay and that shutting up and avoiding all subjects that pertain to Before will never help make things okay...
Angel's staring at him, eyes wide.
Spike is on a verge of muttering, "What?" when he realizes he did scream all those things.
"You think it'll go away, everything?" he whispers, swiping at his eyes and slipping off onto the concrete beside Angel. "If you ignore it enough, fuck me enough?"
Angel shakes his head. "That's not why—"
"Shut up!" Spike jumps to his feet and starts pacing. "Bloody hell, Angel, if you gotta lie, do it. But don't fucking lie to me when I'm of concern." He stubs out his smouldering cigarette against the red-bricked wall. Takes out the nearly-empty pack and tries to tap another smoke out, but his hands are shaking again. Fuck. Why the hell are they shaking again?
"Will..."
Spike whirls around. Hurls his Zippo at the stupid bastard. He's too pissed off to aim properly, but Angel's too dumbfounded to duck properly as well. The lighter bounces off Angel's temple and shatters on the dirty concrete.
"Truth's all I got," Spike says softly.
Angel reaches up absently to wipe away the blood trickling from the wound while staring at the remains of the lighter.
Spike runs a hand nervously through his hair, trying to keep from completely losing it. Walks around a bit and scuffs his toe against the ground.
"What do you think I've got?" Angel replies at length.
"What you've got?" Spike yells back, whatever calm he'd attained during Angel's silence dissipating instantly. "You've got everything! Your pet mortals died loving you. Your kid loves you, wherever he is. I stayed with Buffy until the very end and it was your name she whispered." He chews viciously on the end of an unlit cigarette. "Dru loves you, too. You know that? You made her bleed every night and then you abandoned her and you tried to dust her, but she always screamed your name in bed. So what have I got, Angel? The naked truth and a clique of mutilated corpses in my head that never go away." It comes out a tad more bitter than he intended. Maybe even a little whiny. He doesn't care.
Angel shifts from one foot to the other, as though contemplating his next move. Then he takes a hesitant step forward. Spike doesn't back away and Angel apparently takes this as a sign of consent because he takes another step until he's closed the distance between them.
Spike stares at his feet. Traces some random patterns with the toe of his boot.
"The past, she don't let go." Angel sounds as though he's quoting someone. Spike searches his mind, but he can't recall those lines in any poetry or books he might've read. And he'd give a response of some sort relating to the current topic, but all he can think of doing is yell some more and hit Angel on the head until not even vampiric strength could save the poor sod.
But he doesn't do that because it'd just lead to the Double F's again, and while Spike usually does not turn down a good shag, he would really prefer one without some bizarre, twisted, ulterior motive underlying it.
"Can we go home?" he asks instead.
Angel nods slowly. "Yeah. Okay."
- - - - - - - - - - -
He's gone when Spike wakes up later, but there's a folder in his place.
Spike picks it up curiously and something flutters to the carpet, landing face-up. He recognizes her instantly, even without the help of colour, without the recognizable blond hair.
There are more sketches in the folder. Willow, Drusilla, more Buffy, Fred...hell, even Xander's here.
Something moves in the shadows and Spike looks up to find Angel hovering by the doorway.
"I remember you mentioned something about pictures once," he says.
Spike personally doesn't recall saying anything like that to Angel, but he must have. He's glad he did, at any rate.
"You just gonna stand there, or are you going to come here?"
Angel might've done it or purpose. Or perhaps it was simply Fate. Whatever it was, Angel's elbow ended up poking Spike in the side, causing him to jump a little and squirm.
A positively wicked and completely out of character grin graces his sire's face, and before he can figure out what's going on, Angel has him flat on his back and straddled. And tickled.
"Stop it!" Spike gasps, giggling and writhing under light fingertips.
His giggles are suddenly cut off when Angel leans down and kisses him, brown eyes sparkling. Angel is in a curiously blithe mood today. Spike is fairly certain he was never like this even Before.
"What the hell's gotten into you, Angel?" Spike asks when he can finally speak.
Angel's hand traces over his chest, heading south.
"Does it matter?"
Spike pauses, contemplating.
"No," he decides finally. "No, it doesn't."
"Good."
And Spike would be lying if he said the past was finally letting go. Angel is right; she never would.
But her grip is no longer as strong, and that's good enough for him.
End.
Hope you enjoyed it. :)