I don't even know why I'm here. I knew. Well, I knew something was
wrong. I could feel it. Whatever the hell that it was, I was feeling it.
But we got the call, the oh-so-wondrous call from the Powers That Be. And
I am here. Looking at a face I have not seen in centuries.
I'm looking at William. Not the drunken baddass, not Spike, not William the Bloody. Not any of those people. Just William. He's sleeping on my bed, and I'm not entirely sure just why. I walked into that warehouse believe that there was an innocent to save, some unknowing Angelenos that had gotten themselves mixed up with Wolfram and Hart. I never expected it to be him.
I went and saw Lindsay a few hours ago, tried to figure out why he was there. I have destroyed Lindsay's life and it appears that he is trying to destroy mine. I followed the usual pattern of interrogation. Slam him against the wall, threaten, go almost gameface for awhile. He just laughed. Told me that I didn't understand, that I wouldn't understand. This had nothing to do with him, or me. Just William. Except Lindsay never called him that, he just kept calling him Spike. All I could think about was that he had never been Spike. I wanted to kill him for it. Rip him into shreds so that maybe he would understand that he had never really been Spike.
It wasn't worth it to me, to have that lawyer on my conscience, on my hands soaking into the skin. I don't think I could deal with his voice in my head, laughing. I was trying to leave, trying to get myself out the door. Then I thought of something, where on this planet had they found him. Because Spike would never allow himself to be taken just like that.
He was all smiles and laughter behind those baby blues. Your doorstep, he told me. He ran to you and you weren't there. It was easy, he says, didn't even fight back. Just smiled and said it was like old times. Said you were never there when he needed you. He handed me a tape, said it would be interesting for me to watch.
It's sitting on the coffee table in the living room. I spent a half an hour staring at it, then I thought I heard a noise in the bedroom. He was still sleeping, or pretending to sleep. It was hard to tell. He hasn't moved since then. It scares me. Where did Spike learn to sleep so quietly? He used to move, dreaming of every second of the time we spent out there together. He'd shift to gameface and smile, thinking of all the innocents that we had dined on. He'd smile, and I used to think that he thought about us. I wanted him to think about the laughter, the games, the incredible feeling of living. Being with this boy was the only time in a century where I came close to feeling alive. He seemed to have that effect on people. He always would with me.
~
I woke up with a start, listening for the faint rustle of cloth against skin. I was at the bedside in an instant, staring at the bruised face of my Childer. "Spike?"
One blood shot blue eye opened a crack, "Angelus?"
"I'm right here Spike," I scanned his face.
He eased back into the bed clothes, "It hurts."
I knew how much it killed him to tell me that, he hated admitting weakness. Even worse was admitting it to a man that had ripped him to shreds less that a decade ago. The thing about it all was that it killed me to see him this way, almost...broken. "I know, Spike, I know."
I had tried to clean him up last night, at least as much as possible. He's going to kill me when he finds out that I had to cut his favorite T-shirt off to clean him up. He's had the thing since the sixties. I knew that it would be bad, so I was prepared for the cuts and bruises. I had so sit him under the shower to soften the dried blood enough to where I could peel it off. I made sure not to get his Docs wet, he couldn't live without them. I watched the blood slide down the drain, it was his blood. We used to wash the blood off each other, but this was the first time his blood was going down the drain. I could handle the bruises left by the handcuffs that bound him to the ceiling. I could handle the cuts on his chest and face. I could deal with the bandages and disinfectant. I could clean him up, I was used to fixing him up after a scrape. There were so many things about him that I wasn't quite ready for.
I wasn't prepared to count his ribs, see the bruises his pelvic bone left beneath the surface. I wasn't quite ready to see though his skin, so thin and pale I could trace the veins. I wasn't fucking prepared for him to be so far gone.
"Angelus?" both eyes are open now, staring at me with an intensity that hasn't diminished over the years.
"I'll get you some food," I stand quickly, needing to be out of that room. It's hard for me to see him like that, to see him so lost in himself. He doesn't say anything, just watches me with that same stare he had in 1880.
I don't even hear him come into the kitchen, I miss the scrape of the chair against the tiles. He waits for the microwave to finish, for me to turn around and find him there. "Where is my shirt?"
I slide the mug in front of him, "I had to cut it off."
He ignores the blood in front of him, "Can I have another one?"
That bothered me, I didn't expect for him to be so forgiving over the loss of his favorite shirt. Truth be told, his only shirt. "Yeah," I start for the bedroom.
He doesn't follow me, but when I get back the blood is gone. "Here," I hand the soft cotton to him, "It's black."
"Doesn't matter," he accepts the garment with indifference. I can't help but notice that his ribs jut out a little more when he lifts his arms to get the shirt over his head and I wince. Visibly. His lips curve into that familiar smirk, "Don't like what you see anymore, eh Peaches?"
"Don't call me that," I demand automatically. The amusement fades from his eyes and his face and the room is filled with the silence that stretches between us. I work up the nerve to ask him everything I want to know. "What happened?"
He stands up abruptly, the chair nearly going over in the process, "I'll be back later." He's out the door and halfway down the stairs before I can say anything. I chased him down the stairs as he strides across the office. Cordelia screams and grabs a stake as he passes her, guess I forgot to tell them who the innocent was last night. He's not stopping, even if I dragged him back upstairs by his hair, he wouldn't stop. "Spike..." I want him to know, he is welcome. He's safe here.
He pauses halfway out the door, and looks back at me. I wish that look said 'I know Angel...I'll be back later,' but it didn't. It was the look that said 'Fuck you. You were never there for me anyways. I don't need your help.'
He settles for saying, "Just don't Angel...just fucking don't. I don't want to know."
The door slams softly behind him before I realize that he called me Angel. He never does that, unless he wants to throw it in my face. There's a noise in the background and I realize that Cordelia is talking to me, well at me mostly.
"...You don't even tell us why he's here. Why is he here? Why do I have to put up with this in the office? You know I don't want him here, and that's final." Queen C is standing behind her desk, hands on hips.
"Cordelia," I warn wearily. I didn't really want to deal with this right then.
"What? Just because he's related to you and all that! I am not dealing with this, he tried to kill you! I want him to stay out, tell him he has to leave."
"No," I walked down the rest of the stairs.
"What? Why not?"
"Cordelia," Wesley comes out into the front room. "Leave it alone." She shoots the ex- Watcher a glare he tries to ignore, "He was in the factory last night?"
I nod slowly.
"He'll be staying here then?"
I nod again, "If he comes back."
"He'll come back."
Sometimes I think that Wesley knows more than he lets on, he certainly knows more about me than he lets on. I know that he understands what happened between Spike and I. It doesn't have to be written in a book to be understood. It's evident in the way we move around each other, the way we hide what we feel. It's just there to be seen.
"No not okay!" Cordy is coming to yell at me, "I don't want him here!"
"That's too bad," I rarely ever stand up to her, but when I do she knows that I mean it. "He's staying."
"But...I..." she sputters.
"I'm going back to bed," I trudge back up the stairs to my empty apartment and collapsed on the couch.
"He can't do that! Can he?" Cordelia asks Wesley.
"It doesn't matter," the ex-Watcher returns to his books, leaving Cordelia in the lobby.
~
I woke up sometime in the mid-afternoon, listening for any movement at all. My apartment was as silent as a grave. I couldn't even feel him anywhere. Guess Wesley was wrong.
I decide to go downstairs and check, just to be sure. Cordelia is ignoring me, her way of letting me know that she still isn't happy about the whole situation. But there isn't a situation. He's not coming back, I can feel it. He won't come back unless I ask him to. We both know the chances of that happening.
"He didn't come back?"
Wesley doesn't dare to look at me, "He didn't come back."
We were both silent for a moment, before he tries again, "Angel, maybe this was for the..."
I cut him off, "Don't say it Wesley. I don't want to hear it."
The telephone rings, startling both of us. We're both stunned, that phone hasn't rung in a long time. Somehow Wesley beat me to it, "Angel Investigations...Oh, hello Lorne...Right...We'll be there shortly..." He hangs up and looks at me, "Lorne found Spike."
I didn't know how much weight those words lifted from my shoulders, "Where?"
"Caritas."
I nod, it makes sense. Spike always liked bars. He picked one where he would be safe. My boy was never dumb, played dumb yes, but he was never dumb. He always knows what he's getting into, even if it's subconsciously. Time to go get William.
I'm looking at William. Not the drunken baddass, not Spike, not William the Bloody. Not any of those people. Just William. He's sleeping on my bed, and I'm not entirely sure just why. I walked into that warehouse believe that there was an innocent to save, some unknowing Angelenos that had gotten themselves mixed up with Wolfram and Hart. I never expected it to be him.
I went and saw Lindsay a few hours ago, tried to figure out why he was there. I have destroyed Lindsay's life and it appears that he is trying to destroy mine. I followed the usual pattern of interrogation. Slam him against the wall, threaten, go almost gameface for awhile. He just laughed. Told me that I didn't understand, that I wouldn't understand. This had nothing to do with him, or me. Just William. Except Lindsay never called him that, he just kept calling him Spike. All I could think about was that he had never been Spike. I wanted to kill him for it. Rip him into shreds so that maybe he would understand that he had never really been Spike.
It wasn't worth it to me, to have that lawyer on my conscience, on my hands soaking into the skin. I don't think I could deal with his voice in my head, laughing. I was trying to leave, trying to get myself out the door. Then I thought of something, where on this planet had they found him. Because Spike would never allow himself to be taken just like that.
He was all smiles and laughter behind those baby blues. Your doorstep, he told me. He ran to you and you weren't there. It was easy, he says, didn't even fight back. Just smiled and said it was like old times. Said you were never there when he needed you. He handed me a tape, said it would be interesting for me to watch.
It's sitting on the coffee table in the living room. I spent a half an hour staring at it, then I thought I heard a noise in the bedroom. He was still sleeping, or pretending to sleep. It was hard to tell. He hasn't moved since then. It scares me. Where did Spike learn to sleep so quietly? He used to move, dreaming of every second of the time we spent out there together. He'd shift to gameface and smile, thinking of all the innocents that we had dined on. He'd smile, and I used to think that he thought about us. I wanted him to think about the laughter, the games, the incredible feeling of living. Being with this boy was the only time in a century where I came close to feeling alive. He seemed to have that effect on people. He always would with me.
~
I woke up with a start, listening for the faint rustle of cloth against skin. I was at the bedside in an instant, staring at the bruised face of my Childer. "Spike?"
One blood shot blue eye opened a crack, "Angelus?"
"I'm right here Spike," I scanned his face.
He eased back into the bed clothes, "It hurts."
I knew how much it killed him to tell me that, he hated admitting weakness. Even worse was admitting it to a man that had ripped him to shreds less that a decade ago. The thing about it all was that it killed me to see him this way, almost...broken. "I know, Spike, I know."
I had tried to clean him up last night, at least as much as possible. He's going to kill me when he finds out that I had to cut his favorite T-shirt off to clean him up. He's had the thing since the sixties. I knew that it would be bad, so I was prepared for the cuts and bruises. I had so sit him under the shower to soften the dried blood enough to where I could peel it off. I made sure not to get his Docs wet, he couldn't live without them. I watched the blood slide down the drain, it was his blood. We used to wash the blood off each other, but this was the first time his blood was going down the drain. I could handle the bruises left by the handcuffs that bound him to the ceiling. I could handle the cuts on his chest and face. I could deal with the bandages and disinfectant. I could clean him up, I was used to fixing him up after a scrape. There were so many things about him that I wasn't quite ready for.
I wasn't prepared to count his ribs, see the bruises his pelvic bone left beneath the surface. I wasn't quite ready to see though his skin, so thin and pale I could trace the veins. I wasn't fucking prepared for him to be so far gone.
"Angelus?" both eyes are open now, staring at me with an intensity that hasn't diminished over the years.
"I'll get you some food," I stand quickly, needing to be out of that room. It's hard for me to see him like that, to see him so lost in himself. He doesn't say anything, just watches me with that same stare he had in 1880.
I don't even hear him come into the kitchen, I miss the scrape of the chair against the tiles. He waits for the microwave to finish, for me to turn around and find him there. "Where is my shirt?"
I slide the mug in front of him, "I had to cut it off."
He ignores the blood in front of him, "Can I have another one?"
That bothered me, I didn't expect for him to be so forgiving over the loss of his favorite shirt. Truth be told, his only shirt. "Yeah," I start for the bedroom.
He doesn't follow me, but when I get back the blood is gone. "Here," I hand the soft cotton to him, "It's black."
"Doesn't matter," he accepts the garment with indifference. I can't help but notice that his ribs jut out a little more when he lifts his arms to get the shirt over his head and I wince. Visibly. His lips curve into that familiar smirk, "Don't like what you see anymore, eh Peaches?"
"Don't call me that," I demand automatically. The amusement fades from his eyes and his face and the room is filled with the silence that stretches between us. I work up the nerve to ask him everything I want to know. "What happened?"
He stands up abruptly, the chair nearly going over in the process, "I'll be back later." He's out the door and halfway down the stairs before I can say anything. I chased him down the stairs as he strides across the office. Cordelia screams and grabs a stake as he passes her, guess I forgot to tell them who the innocent was last night. He's not stopping, even if I dragged him back upstairs by his hair, he wouldn't stop. "Spike..." I want him to know, he is welcome. He's safe here.
He pauses halfway out the door, and looks back at me. I wish that look said 'I know Angel...I'll be back later,' but it didn't. It was the look that said 'Fuck you. You were never there for me anyways. I don't need your help.'
He settles for saying, "Just don't Angel...just fucking don't. I don't want to know."
The door slams softly behind him before I realize that he called me Angel. He never does that, unless he wants to throw it in my face. There's a noise in the background and I realize that Cordelia is talking to me, well at me mostly.
"...You don't even tell us why he's here. Why is he here? Why do I have to put up with this in the office? You know I don't want him here, and that's final." Queen C is standing behind her desk, hands on hips.
"Cordelia," I warn wearily. I didn't really want to deal with this right then.
"What? Just because he's related to you and all that! I am not dealing with this, he tried to kill you! I want him to stay out, tell him he has to leave."
"No," I walked down the rest of the stairs.
"What? Why not?"
"Cordelia," Wesley comes out into the front room. "Leave it alone." She shoots the ex- Watcher a glare he tries to ignore, "He was in the factory last night?"
I nod slowly.
"He'll be staying here then?"
I nod again, "If he comes back."
"He'll come back."
Sometimes I think that Wesley knows more than he lets on, he certainly knows more about me than he lets on. I know that he understands what happened between Spike and I. It doesn't have to be written in a book to be understood. It's evident in the way we move around each other, the way we hide what we feel. It's just there to be seen.
"No not okay!" Cordy is coming to yell at me, "I don't want him here!"
"That's too bad," I rarely ever stand up to her, but when I do she knows that I mean it. "He's staying."
"But...I..." she sputters.
"I'm going back to bed," I trudge back up the stairs to my empty apartment and collapsed on the couch.
"He can't do that! Can he?" Cordelia asks Wesley.
"It doesn't matter," the ex-Watcher returns to his books, leaving Cordelia in the lobby.
~
I woke up sometime in the mid-afternoon, listening for any movement at all. My apartment was as silent as a grave. I couldn't even feel him anywhere. Guess Wesley was wrong.
I decide to go downstairs and check, just to be sure. Cordelia is ignoring me, her way of letting me know that she still isn't happy about the whole situation. But there isn't a situation. He's not coming back, I can feel it. He won't come back unless I ask him to. We both know the chances of that happening.
"He didn't come back?"
Wesley doesn't dare to look at me, "He didn't come back."
We were both silent for a moment, before he tries again, "Angel, maybe this was for the..."
I cut him off, "Don't say it Wesley. I don't want to hear it."
The telephone rings, startling both of us. We're both stunned, that phone hasn't rung in a long time. Somehow Wesley beat me to it, "Angel Investigations...Oh, hello Lorne...Right...We'll be there shortly..." He hangs up and looks at me, "Lorne found Spike."
I didn't know how much weight those words lifted from my shoulders, "Where?"
"Caritas."
I nod, it makes sense. Spike always liked bars. He picked one where he would be safe. My boy was never dumb, played dumb yes, but he was never dumb. He always knows what he's getting into, even if it's subconsciously. Time to go get William.