Untitled
Summary: because their story has never had a title. A not-so-chance encounter between two not-so-strangers, too long later. Slight slash.
Disclaimer: not mine.
Notes: random and empty inspiration. Irrevocably…
Decades, maybe a century later, and he sits alone (as always) on the edge of a conveniently placed cliff that overlooks a lake and a glittering, beautiful city beyond it.
And how things have changed.
"What's wrong?" asks a vaguely familiar voice, from behind him.
"What's wrong?" He laughs, bitterly. "Everything. Everything's wrong. They're all dead and I'm not, and it was bound to happen but not like that, not now, not…then…I wouldn't expect you to understand." A pause. "No one does."
"You'd be surprised," the man says, and sits next to him, just a little back, so he can't see his face. "You would be very surprised."
Another bitter laugh. "I probably would be. Thought I'd seen everything. Every bloody thing there was to see. Look, mate, I'm not saying you haven't been through shit, because I know better than anyone what it is…but not like me. No one like me."
"Never was," the man says, and he ignores him, because he already knows who he is. "I know just how you feel."
"Do you, though? You knew them, but not like I did."
"I could honestly say the same."
"Nothing," he says, ignoring the comment, "I don't feel anything. I only feel what others feel. I'm their fucking plaything, s'all I am. Doesn't matter what I feel, s'long as I can do what they want me to…"
Arms around him, and he hadn't even heard him move. "Don't say that. You were always the one that felt, everything or anything. You will always feel, even as you fall, even as you burst into flames or ashes on the last day of your unnatural unlife."
He turns around and faces him.
Familiar features grin uncharacteristically.
"Spike."
"Angel."
"Missed you."
A shadow of his former self, Spike manages a smirk. "I'm sorry I can't say the same."
"Shut up."
"Poof."
"Wanker."
"What?"
"You heard me." Another Angelus grin.
And silence, as they embrace. Not a manly-clasp-hands-and-slap-on-the-back hug, but an embrace. Understanding. Sort of.
"Can I help?"
"No one can help."
Lips briefly on his, and he arches into him wantonly (gorgeous and submissive; memories in a bloodstained, abandoned box left at the bottom of the well; the feeling of a body pressed against his; bigger, taller; smaller, shorter; dark and light), before he is alone once more, left to gaze out over the glittering, empty city and listen to the purr of a motor and remember, and look at the letters on the card.
Angel Investigations.
He memorizes the address and throws the card off the cliff, towards the glittering city, and turns away before he can see it fall short of it's destination and land atop the dark water below.
Fin.
Want a sequel? Just ask.