A/N: In order to set things up in the present, flashbacks seemed the best way to go about it. Hopefully it's not too confusing, and not all chapters are going to be like this, as I myself am not a big fan of long flashbacks. Just so no one goes, "oh dear God, it's one of those flashback fics":P And hooray for Edibbea, who's been kind enough to beta this fic, she's kept me from making a complete idiot out of myself.:)
He resorted to what he always did when faced with a problem he couldn't handle. He got shit-faced, and started what could've possibly been the biggest bar fight L.A. had seen in decades. Fuck the soul, it felt so damn good to be fighting again, even if he was bleeding from dozens of cuts and could barely see out of his swollen and blackened right eye anymore. With a primal yell he threw himself back into the middle of the fray, fists flying.
"You thought you could just leave us? You didn't even say goodbye! Fuck the sodding soul, Angelus, you didn't have to leave!" He knew it had been Darla that hated the soul, but he had thought he meant more to Angelus than her… Besides, they didn't need her, as long as they had each other… Why couldn't Angelus see that?
Angel lay still on the ground, bleeding heavily, willingly taking the beating Spike was dealing out. He secretly hoped that his Childe would go too far, and kill him in the process. The soul was burning him, and if he could've summoned up the courage, he'd have staked himself weeks ago.
"You left us! Fucking left us, you wanker! Don't you bleeding care anymore? We're your fucking family for Christ's sake!" Delivering one last vicious kick to Angel's side, Spike broke down, sobbing. His legs no longer able to support him, he fell down on his knees, next to his Sire.
"You said... You said you loved us. Me. You said you loved..." He tenderly ran his fingers across Angel's broken and bruised face.
"No." He could barely speak due to the damage Spike had inflicted, his windpipe all but crushed. He was torn between love for this soulless creature, and the knowledge that it was wrong to feel this way about a bloodthirsty demon. He had to push him away, to keep both of them safe…
"No..." The word was barely more than a whisper. The small knot of nothingness that had formed deep in the pit of his stomach expanded to a size that threatened to swallow him whole. For the first time in his unlife, he felt truly dead inside.
Angelus, the man who had finished what Drusilla had started and been unable to finish that night in the alley, the man who had taught him to fight and fuck with passion and flair, the man who had been his lover and friend... And now he was ripping the meaning from all that had happened between them; he was saying that it had never been love. Angelus had often toyed with him before, pretending not to care; he reveled in pain, causing it and receiving it, but Spike had always believed that deep down, Angelus truly loved him back.
But this souled creature before him… He didn't know much about souls, but he was certain that the man before him, his Sire with a soul, couldn't, wouldn't lie about something like that.
Three times. Angelus had only said it three times to Spike, and each moment was forever burned into his memory; he had always been desperate to hear the words, a confirmation of his affection. But now, according to the man before him...it all meant nothing.
"No..." A wail of complete and utter despair threatened to break the surface of his cool exterior, the sapphirine fire in his eyes dulled to imitate lifelessness. It was as if his life had been taken from him. Everything that he had lived for, stolen from him with a single word. And as if someone had been reading his mind, a small sliver of wood was being pressed into his hand.
"Finish it, Childe," Angel pleaded, weakly coughing up blood. Spike's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. No, Angelus couldn't be asking him to do this, how could he... Suddenly the hollowness and despair gave way to a white hot fury. He leapt to his feet and continued his earlier assault, repeatedly kicking Angel in the side, shattering the remainder of his ribs. When his initial burst of anger had subsided, he bent down to whisper in his Sire's ear.
"I know what you've become, what's happened to you... And I don't fucking care. You're my Sire, and that's what bloody counts." He gave one last, strategically placed kick that landed on Angel's head, rendering him unconscious. Bending down a second time, he gave his Sire one last, brutal kiss, coming away from it with blood on his lips. Sire's blood. He slowly ran his tongue across his lips, savoring the taste, certain he would never again consume the precious liquid.
Then he kicked his Sire again, for good measure. "That's for being so fucking weak, you fat Irish bastard!"
He fought to keep from remembering, but the memories refused to fade. Everyone he had ever cared about over the years-- they had all used and abused him, then abandoned him to deal with the aftermath.
But this time he had managed to leave before the damage could be done. That was good, right? Then why does it still hurt?
Having lost his will to fight, he slipped out the back, grabbing a bottle on his way out. He climbed back into his car and began to drink, desperately seeking an escape from the memories that threatened to overwhelm him.
By the time he had recovered from Spike's blow, there was no chance of catching up with the blond. He cursed himself for caring. He had always had a soft spot for Spike. It was those damned eyes of his; they had always meant trouble for Angelus, and Angel secretly feared that he was no different.
What had possessed the great poof to turn him anyway? Oh, right, just another one of Angelus' sick games. He always got the last laugh, the wanker…
What was it that he had seen in Spike, anyway? What was worth preserving for an eternity?
When Angelus had first come upon his Childe and her latest toy, he was irked. He was growing tired of Drusilla's tendencies to wander off whenever the pixies or the moon or other equally strange things told her to. Not that he didn't find it charming, but there were worse things than vampires lurking about London's alleys, and he would be unable to do much if his Childe ran afoul of them while wandering alone.
She had found a young, spoiled, society brat, judging by his clothes and hair. Sighing in disgust, he only hoped that she would finish her game on the spot, instead of insisting on dragging the boy home, as she was often prone to do. He impatiently watched them converse, and silently rejoiced when she finally got around to biting her prey.
She was taking too long to drain the boy, and Angelus contemplated demanding a taste so as to speed up the game. There were better places to feed than this, and sunrise was only a few hours away. He stepped forward to make his demand, but it died on his lips as the young man Drusilla was draining lifted his head in a slow, sensuous movement, the moonlight illuminating his features. He made a small whimper of pleasure, and Angelus felt himself being pulled on a downward spiral of desire.
The hair was unfortunate, but the face it framed... Ivory skin that had most likely achieved its hue due to long days spent indoors, sculpted cheekbones that spoke of exquisitely carved marble statues, and eyes... Ocean blue depths that were darkened with desire, open and unseeing, he was so lost in passion. His lips were slightly parted, his full lower lip begging to be nibbled on. Angelus could smell the lust pouring off him in waves, and he licked his lips in anticipation of what the young man would taste like. Innocent and sweet, sunshine and other things long forgotten. He longed to break this boy, make him scream. He would give him pain, and teach him to love it.
But he would never have the time; Drusilla was down to the last few drops of the boy's blood, her game at its end. But instead of finishing him off, and to Angelus' surprise, she tore open her wrist and offered it to the boy, and he drank eagerly. But she pulled away too soon, leaving him needy and confused. Crying out in need of the blood that would complete him, he reached out for her blindly, searching for the one who would give him the new life that he had been promised. But Drusilla stepped back, frightened, not understanding what her dear boy was after.
If Angelus had been thinking clearly at the time, he would have chosen the obvious solution; to order his Childe to once again open her wrist and finish what she started, or to stake the would-be fledgling and end his suffering. But all he could think about was those blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones. He found himself kneeling next to the young man, cradling him in his arms. He brought his own wrist to his mouth, ripping it open and sharing the powerful fluid that came forth.
The boy drank eagerly, and Angelus grew hard at the sensation of those full lips pulling and sucking, greedily drinking his blood. With a moan and a sigh, the young man finished consuming the blood that would end his human existence, and he fell into a deathlike sleep.