Title: Noise's Absence 1?
Author: Stolen Childe
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
Rating: Undetermined, PG this part
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Warnings: angst, Post-NFA, odd, slash, cursing, un-beta'd
Spoilers: Possibly season five
Feedback: Please, more than anything! I need to get a response to this one, I really, really do. Please? puppy eyes
Summary: Post-NFA Angel and Spike strive to deal with the aftermath, outcomes and consequences.
Author's Notes: Still looking for a beta if anyone's interested. I really don't know what this story is about, I do know it's somewhat depressing and I only have a vague idea of where it's going. I'm not sure if I can promise regular updates or not, as it stands, yes, but that never means anything for me in the beginning. So I really hope you enjoy.
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Silence permeating the air always unsettled him; it seemed to at any rate. He would begin fidgeting and twisting his hands together, his eyes tracking around the room as if every shadow would move and pounce. He would tap a rhythm on the table, or his knee, or bounce his leg wildly causing the heels of his boots to beat out a sound where he sat. I took to bringing a music player with me if only to stay my own irritation. It would work, for a time, until he got bored and the restlessness began once more. He would take to pacing around the room, hands clasped tightly behind his back and humming under his breath. One day I rose beside him and followed him, step for step if only to drive him to the point of irritation. It worked hardly, if at all. The smile he gave me was tight and strained and I could no longer keep up the mimicking act. I sat and settled for watching him.
After what seemed to be an eternity he was called into the small office. I knew from the way he rubbed his hands that his palms had began sweating the moment he heard it. I offered the best smile I could and tentatively he returned it before entering the office as if walking to his death. The young receptionist behind the desk asked me if my friend was all right. I had seen her looking at me from the moment I entered and feared for a moment that this was her way to start a conversation that may lead to more. She was pretty enough, but looking to the closed office door I smiled and she may have picked up on that fact that I was less than available. I answered that he just got nervous and she accepted that and fell silent.
It wasn't until what seemed to me as an awful long time later that he reappeared, that soft shy smile prominent; the smile I knew meant that he was denied again. This had been his fifth try and I didn't want to let on that I was beginning to give up hope. I wanted to say something consoling but nothing came to mind so I just kept my smile on and clasped his shoulder. The young receptionist finally got it.
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He sat in the bedroom that night, shaggy golden blond hair falling over his slender hands covering his face. I watched him, leaned in the doorway nibbling my lip. I never knew what to say in this situation. I never knew what to say in most situations. I wasn't much for talking in general. He was a babbler though but right now his silence was grating on me for a change. I opened my mouth and whatever I tried to say stuck in my throat.
He looked up and smiled and spoke for the first time that evening, "No worries Luv." I was far from convinced. I didn't like this at all and anyone could tell, everyone as a matter of fact but I refused to do or say anything to dispel their fears, I just went about my normal business, in my normal life thinking about him sitting at home in front of the television that strained, seemingly ever-present sadness in his eyes. The hand on my back startled me and so did the soft concern in the owner's eyes. I tried to shoo my co-worker away, make excuses for why I couldn't be there anything but it didn't work. His hand was a strong solid presence on my shoulder and seemingly, a weight pulling me down to what seemed the very depths of the ocean. I didn't much care for water.
When I got home that evening the emptiness of the house startled me into panic, I looked around checking everywhere even the most ludicrous of places except the one logical one, the refrigerator. When I finally did get around to the appliance, it was to find a small, handwritten note tacked there. He had gone out. I knew what out meant and I knew where I'd find him. The question was did I want to find him. To not only see the anguish and the sadness but to feel it radiating off of him as he poured his heart out over a standing microphone and an acoustic guitar. I could already hear his husky voice in my mind, a voice that I used to love more than anything but now it only hurt because of what was behind it. He had become desperate and him desperate was always a situation that I really didn't like him and I to be in.
Suddenly I very much wanted to go find him.
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He was right where I suspected, on stage just before I entered most likely, sitting on the small wooden stood with his foot propped up and his bare knee exposed through the ripped knee of his dark blue jeans. His ring and bracelet glinted in the stage light and so did the tears gathered on the dark fan of his eyelashes. His eyes were closed so he didn't see my entrance but I suspect he felt it because the minute I froze in the doorway he opened his eyes and locked his crystal blue gaze with my dark brown. There was not a soft strained smile this time, but a shattering of his entire face. Only one deeply aware of his gestures, movements and idiosyncrasies would have noticed and I was intimately aware.
I felt at that moment if my knees would buckle beneath me and I would fall to the floor broken at that look. He was not reaching the point of desperation, he was past it and that look clearly said 'save me.' I wanted to, desperately and the song he broke into next was somewhat unconventional. Dying to be Alive. And by god, I wanted to make his every wish and every desire come true but I no longer had the power, abilities or means to do so. I didn't collapse where I stood but walked rather shakily over to a small table near the stage and refused to look at him. Instead, I stared at a piece of modern 'art' of obscenely bright colours hanging on the wall behind the counter. My act of interest must have been more convincing than I thought because a young woman with short, violet hair in messy wild spikes came and slid next to me. Her earrings, nose piercing, lip piercing and the slightly intriguing tongue piercing glinted in the low light. She introduced herself as the artist and I tried to offer up a mildly interested smile but I knew I was most likely failing miserably. Her face changed and I quickly apologized with the explanation of a bad night. She patted my hand consolingly her long violently painted nails brushed my skin and for a moment I feared (foolishly) that they were pierce into my hand for their sheer length. She left then and for that, I was relieved.
His performance ended after two other songs and the light respectful clapping (and some snapping) filled the small room. I watched him pack away his guitar and collect his glass of water and wondered if he would hazard to sit with me. He didn't, instead walked to the counter ordered a cup of tea and moved to a shadowy corner. His eyes caught mine and I stood, ordering for myself a cup of decaffeinated coffee. I always thought that a foolish process, tacking on the prefix 'de' in order to make something the negative of another. I always thought a large majority of the English language was foolish.
I sat across from him at the small table for two. His hands were shaking around his large mug, the china clattering lightly and the tag of the tea bag shivering. I reached out, unthinkingly and lay my hand over his. They were cold. He started and pulled away sharply and I feared that he would topple over his chair. He collected himself, panting slightly and his eyes did that nervous animal act again. I begged silently for him to calm down, for him to look at me and after nearly five minutes his breathing calmed and his eyes flickered to mind.
"Don't leave me again," my voice was soft and pathetic to my own ears and I knew before the words escaped my mouth that they were the wrong thing to say. The rapid breathing started again and again, unthinkingly I clasped both his hands in mine but this time I refused to allow him to pull away.
"No." I said, "You can't do this. You aren't allowed to do this!" He struggled and pulled. I felt tears enter my eyes and stream down my cheeks. The watery glint must have caught his eye because he stilled, sucking in one big breath and focused on me. I breathed with him for a time and his hands relaxed in my grip, moving so far as to clutch back at them.
I stared into his eyes and rubbed the pad of my thumbs over his soft skin. Whispering gentle nonsense words and in the back of my mind wondering what he would have been reduced to if I had decided to stay at home. Perhaps he would have been the better off for it, as much as I loathed thinking so. I wanted to gather him up in my arms and hold him for an eternity we no longer had. I had no idea had to make it better, how to make it all go away. He was dying before my very eyes and no one could tell me why.
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TBC…?
