Title: Here's to the Nights Alterna Ending Series
Rating: R
Author: Azure K Mello
Disclaimer: Joss, Eve6, not me.
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Spoilers: End of Days. Cannon? That's a four letter word.
Warning: some angst
Thanks Poison.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At four o'clock Spike's eyes fluttered open. The hangover pounded in his long dead skull. Moaning softly he turned over. His body was rent. He didn't want to open his eyes. Light would be too painful to cope with, even the tiny amount that managed to seep down into the lower level of the Moslem. His whole being was sore, he couldn't remember the last time he had awoken like this. Trying hard to remember why he ached so made his head hurt worse. And so he stood, trying to accept that the night was lost to eternity and that trying to recall it was futile. Linking his fingers above his head he arched his back in an angle that had taken him forty years to figure out and perfect so that he cracked every bone from his finger tips to the base of his spine.
Slowly and painfully he opened his eyes so that he could make his bed, oh the joys of taking care of oneself while living alone. It had taken him ninety years to learn how to pretend to enjoy eating unaccompanied. There in his bed was the proof that he was, in fact, not alone. He dropped the sheets like a burning cross and stepped back. He pinched his arm 'til he bled: it wasn't a dream. He quickly located his jeans on the floor and pulled them on. Without bothering to fasten the button fly, he flew up to the upper level of the crypt.
Pacing back and forth, he flipped on the telly hoping to drown out his own thoughts. He searched his jeans for his fags, he got *bloody* angry when they were nowhere to be found. He cursed loudly in about 14 languages before he caught sight of them on the marble top of the tomb. Sighing he lit a fag and leaning back upon the surface, he shut his eyes and tried to think. The talk show's mindless babble effectively stopped him from cognitive thought. He hated waking alone, and he hadn't. Wasn't that a good thing. He pushed himself up onto the tomb but could not comfortably sit, damn Angelus and his need to mark property. But was that what Spike was? Did Angel really want him? To have him, to keep him, to keep him safe? He stubbed out the dog end and instantly lit another fag as Buffy came traipsing through the door.
The sight in front of her caused her to gasp. "Are you ok? What happened?"
"I don't remember, but I'm fine," he said softly without looking up from his lit cigarette. "What can I do for you?" he asked still with his eyes averted.
"I just wanted to see you were ok. Angel said he was going to come looking for you. Did he find you?"
How could he possibly answer that? "Yeah, he found me." Right where he left me, Spike added in his own mind. How could he tell Buffy what was going on? 'So hey, Buffy, ya know that yer ex is a shirt-lifter, right?' Yes, that gave it the touch of classic elegance. Could he possibly defend the fact that he hadn't stolen Buffy's man but that she had stolen his? His sire, his. . . what, mate? Could he even dare to hope for that? Could he say, well damn it, woman, he's my sire? Was that allowed? Then of course he would have to tell her he lied about Drusilla turning him purely to protect Angel's honor. And that fact brought him back to wondering if it was his place to tell Buffy that her man wasn't in fact hers at all.
"Was he the one who inflicted all that?"
"Mostly, yeah." He said softly.
Her eyes scanned the bruises, scratches, and bites all over his chest, shoulders, and neck. Suddenly a light went on in her head. She sighed heavily. "Does he still have his soul?" Spike looked up at her with pained eyes and nodded. "That's good," she said softly. "So you're going with him?"
He nodded again, "If he'll have me," he said softly. A snort was the only answer, "I'm sorry this must hurt you, Buff. But I can't be sorry that it's happened."
"And you shouldn't be. He's your sire," she said and upon seeing the shock in his eyes she laughed, "Oh please, did you really think I bought that whole thing with Dru? She could barely turn a chipmunk. I get that he's your sire and I get that I have no real idea what that means. But I understand how important that is, and I know that what I've had with either of you is nothing compared to what's between you. You should come by the house and grab all the stuff you have there. Sunnydale might not be here later. I can be a grown up," she said with a sad smile and turned to leave. "After all," she said with her back turned, "neither of you were mine to begin with." The door swung shut behind her.
Cool hands snaked around his waist. "Hey," said a warm voice that went with the cold limbs. Spike melted back into that strong embrace. "How much of last night do you remember?"
"None." He said with a sad sigh as he turned to face his sire. "Why are you here? How did I get you back? Why don't you hate me? *Do* you hate me? Are you going back to LA."
"Never hated you, baby, just thought you hated me. And yes, I'm going back to LA and you're coming too, I don't want you here when this war happens. Don't let me lose you again. And this," he said brandishing the suicide letter, "is so scary and fucked up. Don't you ever doubt how important you are. I'll always be right here for you, so don't do something this stupid." Spike nodded slowly, the night's events starting to drizzle back into his skull. "But I need you to be here too. I can't and won't do this alone. You promised me last night I could keep you forever. Mine, ok?"
"Always yours."
"Just so long as we're clear."
"What about the necklace you gave Buffy? Aren't I supposed to be wearing that bloody thing into the scuffle?"
"I hope this doesn't come off as overly possessive and sire like of me: but there is no fucking way I'm letting you go within 50 square miles of that battlefield."
"Do you have any idea how safe you make me feel?" said Spike with a soft smile as the broader man pulled him close. "Always love you, my Angelus."
Rating: R
Author: Azure K Mello
Disclaimer: Joss, Eve6, not me.
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Spoilers: End of Days. Cannon? That's a four letter word.
Warning: some angst
Thanks Poison.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At four o'clock Spike's eyes fluttered open. The hangover pounded in his long dead skull. Moaning softly he turned over. His body was rent. He didn't want to open his eyes. Light would be too painful to cope with, even the tiny amount that managed to seep down into the lower level of the Moslem. His whole being was sore, he couldn't remember the last time he had awoken like this. Trying hard to remember why he ached so made his head hurt worse. And so he stood, trying to accept that the night was lost to eternity and that trying to recall it was futile. Linking his fingers above his head he arched his back in an angle that had taken him forty years to figure out and perfect so that he cracked every bone from his finger tips to the base of his spine.
Slowly and painfully he opened his eyes so that he could make his bed, oh the joys of taking care of oneself while living alone. It had taken him ninety years to learn how to pretend to enjoy eating unaccompanied. There in his bed was the proof that he was, in fact, not alone. He dropped the sheets like a burning cross and stepped back. He pinched his arm 'til he bled: it wasn't a dream. He quickly located his jeans on the floor and pulled them on. Without bothering to fasten the button fly, he flew up to the upper level of the crypt.
Pacing back and forth, he flipped on the telly hoping to drown out his own thoughts. He searched his jeans for his fags, he got *bloody* angry when they were nowhere to be found. He cursed loudly in about 14 languages before he caught sight of them on the marble top of the tomb. Sighing he lit a fag and leaning back upon the surface, he shut his eyes and tried to think. The talk show's mindless babble effectively stopped him from cognitive thought. He hated waking alone, and he hadn't. Wasn't that a good thing. He pushed himself up onto the tomb but could not comfortably sit, damn Angelus and his need to mark property. But was that what Spike was? Did Angel really want him? To have him, to keep him, to keep him safe? He stubbed out the dog end and instantly lit another fag as Buffy came traipsing through the door.
The sight in front of her caused her to gasp. "Are you ok? What happened?"
"I don't remember, but I'm fine," he said softly without looking up from his lit cigarette. "What can I do for you?" he asked still with his eyes averted.
"I just wanted to see you were ok. Angel said he was going to come looking for you. Did he find you?"
How could he possibly answer that? "Yeah, he found me." Right where he left me, Spike added in his own mind. How could he tell Buffy what was going on? 'So hey, Buffy, ya know that yer ex is a shirt-lifter, right?' Yes, that gave it the touch of classic elegance. Could he possibly defend the fact that he hadn't stolen Buffy's man but that she had stolen his? His sire, his. . . what, mate? Could he even dare to hope for that? Could he say, well damn it, woman, he's my sire? Was that allowed? Then of course he would have to tell her he lied about Drusilla turning him purely to protect Angel's honor. And that fact brought him back to wondering if it was his place to tell Buffy that her man wasn't in fact hers at all.
"Was he the one who inflicted all that?"
"Mostly, yeah." He said softly.
Her eyes scanned the bruises, scratches, and bites all over his chest, shoulders, and neck. Suddenly a light went on in her head. She sighed heavily. "Does he still have his soul?" Spike looked up at her with pained eyes and nodded. "That's good," she said softly. "So you're going with him?"
He nodded again, "If he'll have me," he said softly. A snort was the only answer, "I'm sorry this must hurt you, Buff. But I can't be sorry that it's happened."
"And you shouldn't be. He's your sire," she said and upon seeing the shock in his eyes she laughed, "Oh please, did you really think I bought that whole thing with Dru? She could barely turn a chipmunk. I get that he's your sire and I get that I have no real idea what that means. But I understand how important that is, and I know that what I've had with either of you is nothing compared to what's between you. You should come by the house and grab all the stuff you have there. Sunnydale might not be here later. I can be a grown up," she said with a sad smile and turned to leave. "After all," she said with her back turned, "neither of you were mine to begin with." The door swung shut behind her.
Cool hands snaked around his waist. "Hey," said a warm voice that went with the cold limbs. Spike melted back into that strong embrace. "How much of last night do you remember?"
"None." He said with a sad sigh as he turned to face his sire. "Why are you here? How did I get you back? Why don't you hate me? *Do* you hate me? Are you going back to LA."
"Never hated you, baby, just thought you hated me. And yes, I'm going back to LA and you're coming too, I don't want you here when this war happens. Don't let me lose you again. And this," he said brandishing the suicide letter, "is so scary and fucked up. Don't you ever doubt how important you are. I'll always be right here for you, so don't do something this stupid." Spike nodded slowly, the night's events starting to drizzle back into his skull. "But I need you to be here too. I can't and won't do this alone. You promised me last night I could keep you forever. Mine, ok?"
"Always yours."
"Just so long as we're clear."
"What about the necklace you gave Buffy? Aren't I supposed to be wearing that bloody thing into the scuffle?"
"I hope this doesn't come off as overly possessive and sire like of me: but there is no fucking way I'm letting you go within 50 square miles of that battlefield."
"Do you have any idea how safe you make me feel?" said Spike with a soft smile as the broader man pulled him close. "Always love you, my Angelus."