Title: Torment
Author: PokerKitten
Setting: Response to the LJ 15 Minute Ficlet Picture challenge #18
AtS, S5. Immediately prior to The Cautionary Tale of Numero Cinco
Spike/Angel angst
Disclaimer: Joss, ME, Fox yadayada own the characters. I'm just messin'.
Leaving a trace, a message in the condensation, that first time had been a bloody triumph! Practice makes perfect, so they say, and he'd certainly been putting in the hours since. Mastering the art of raising a coffee cup…. but unable to enjoy its contents. Learning how to focus his attention and send an entire shelf of glass beakers in Fred's lab crashing to the floor. She hadn't been too thrilled about that, but at least she understood the why. Concentrating very hard and changing his appearance… well, his clothes anyway. And he only ever experimented with this when he was confident he was quite alone, unobserved. No-one ever saw him out of his standard uniform of tee, jeans, duster. His armour against the world.
But no matter the effort, he was still a phantom. Sometimes he saw himself as a figment of everyone else's imaginations; and that was a sweet, sad fantasy offering some little comfort. At least it would have meant he was in their thoughts. At other times he would strive to comprehend how this could be happening to him, how he could still feel incredible pain, frustration, panic, fear; and yet, not even exist. Lonely and confused, angry and desolate, he haunted the halls of Wolfram and Hart for want of any better purpose or anchor. Haunted Angel, because…. well, just because.
He told himself he was up for a spot of Angel baiting this morning, a little mischief-making to brighten the dreary incorporeal day. His grandsire may bluster and growl, protest and make a show of impatience, but Spike knew he was almost as confused and concerned himself. Knew Angel could remember their shared past and experiences just as keenly. Recall the times when the bickering and belittling had been as much a cover as it was now; and bring back the memories of what it had hidden, what they had allowed each other to do and see and mean when they were alone together.
The penthouse bedroom was deserted, save for the few items of stylish furniture. No way did Angel need a bed that expansive! Not as if he was going to be having company there any time soon. Spike followed the sound of running water, cheering a little at the thought of mocking Angel as he showered….
And yet, once in the steam-filled room, peering through the rivulets of water trickling down the shower-screen, he just didn't have the heart. Angel seemed oblivious, turned away from him, soaping his hair, humming softly to himself. Ghosts really shouldn't be forced to endure this, to feel lumps in their throat, tears in their eyes. Help me, he thought, felt, pressing his palm to the glass. Even the success of leaving such a clear print could not shake the melancholy, the yearning. Just leave.
"Spike?" Angel paused in his ablutions, head tilted as if he were listening. "Spike?" he asked again, voice surprisingly soft.
Just leave. Just vanish. Just go….
"Don't go!"
So what, was he bloody mindreader now?! But Spike remained exactly where he was, watching as Angel turned his head, as he reached towards the shower door, as it clicked open.
"That's the damndest thing!" Angel exclaimed, little jets of water escaping into the room. "I was just thinking about you… and there you are!"
Angel was thinking about him? Thinking about him while showering? Thinking about him while showering, and sounding quite happy about that? He dropped his gaze. And looking more than happy about that.
"Want to join me?"
Oh now, this had to be some sort of fucked up dream because….
"How can I?" Spike found himself responding, embarrassed by the plaintive note in his voice, hoping Angel hadn't picked up on it.
"Nothing stopping you, is there?" Angel asked. "You won't even get your hair wet." His mouth twitched upwards a little, almost a smile; he held out his hand.
Spike eyed the proffered hand with some suspicion.
"Come on Spike; I have a meeting in half an hour!"
Spike moved tentatively towards him, hands firmly in pockets. "What's going on?"
"We're bonding, Spike. Remember?" He paused, looked down. "I guess I haven't been much help to you so far. Have I?"
Spike shrugged. Fuck, that stupid lump in his throat was growing!
Angel sighed. "Look, just do this. Might make us both feel better, huh?"
He moved back, leaving room for Spike to step inside. Space that they both knew he didn't need. But Spike did as he was bidden, standing untouched beneath the spray.
"Can you…?" Angel hesitated. "Are you able…? Can you take off your clothes?"
Spike nodded, swallowing hard, eyes never leaving Angel's. Concentrated.
Angel took another, involuntary, step away, back brushing against the glass, against the dissolving shape of Spike's palm. "This is some weird shit, Spike" he gulped. "But it's a kind of comfort to see that some things don't change."
Spike glanced down at his now naked form and wondered, marvelled as much as Angel, at the ability of a spectre to sustain a pretty impressive erection.
"I wish I could…." Angel sounded wistful, reached out to brush Spike's cheek, felt his stomach lurch as his fingers passed unhindered through the air. "I'm so sorry."
This was torture, a torment the likes of which he had never known. Maybe this was some sort of Hell, afterall…. Summoning all his strength, returning the gesture, choking back a sob as he felt the familiar flesh, albeit briefly. Gasping at the sharp jolt of electricity that seemed to fly between them.
Wide eyed, Angel's voice broke. "We'll find a way, Spike. Fred will find a way."
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Cutting through Gunn's speech on special powers, Spike offered them a trade, a two-for-one. "Walking through walls. Picking up mugs. In exchange for… I don't know… how about me not being dead!"
"How about you not being here!" Angel shot right back.
"If wishes were horses."
Business as usual. Apart from Angel leaping to his feet, hastily turning away, suppressing a little shiver. Torment.