(Just so I don't have to make notes anymore, the only British
character in this story is going to be Spike, and maybe Giles if I put him
in—still brainstorming with the characters----Angel had that whole accent
thing going on so- well you'll why I had to say that eventually.)
Spike watched the casket being lowered into the ground, a chill engulfing him. Oddly, Angel had disappeared the same day that Spike had had his accident. It could have been his body being lowered into that hole just as easily as O'Connor's.
For a brief second when he'd seen the casket and the hold in the ground, he'd had a flash that it was him being lowered. That he was Angel O'Connor and he had died.
Rupert Giles, the doctor at the research center who'd been helping Spike with his recovery after the accident, frowned solemnly. "He was a good man. We'll miss him at the center."
"It...it seems strange that I survived, but he died on the same day."
Giles gave him a sympathetic look. "Don't succumb to survivor guilt," he said in a low voice. "As a doctor, you know that's dangerous."
Spike shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his black leather duster. The harsh reality of the timing obviously hadn't escaped him and had played with his head. He had felt guilty that luck had been on his side that day and he had survived. Granted he had a new face, his memory was on the shaky side and he had a slight limp, but bloody hell, at least he was still able to walk.
He shuddered, wondering if he should have come. He hadn't wanted to. In fact, he had the oddest feeling he didn't attend funerals, but he couldn't remember why. He'd hoped seeing so many of the research center's stuff in one place would jog some of his memory.
"I didn't know him that well, did I?"
Giles shrugged. "No. You only met once. At the center when you came for the interview. I believe you corresponded through e-mail about your research, but I'm not certain."
Shaking off the uneasy feeling, Spike stared across the smattering of faces, a few of them familiar from the three days he'd spent getting acquainted with the research center."
His gaze settled on Angel O'Connor's wife. Buffy. A nurse from the psychiatric ward.
Another eerie sensation skittered across his nerve endings, a flash of some kind memory tugging at him. He must have met her before, probably at the facility or at one of the dinners for the center when he was being interviewed. She wouldn't be an easy woman to forget.
She had the face of an angel, the body of a fighter, and the lips of a lover.
But he had no right to even think such lurid thoughts, especially at a funeral.
From her grief-stricken face, she'd obviously cared for her husband deeply.
During those long, lonely days in the hospital, he had thought about his life, the fact that he had no one. No family who'd come looking for him. No woman who searched him out, sat by his bedside, vowed that she loved him.
Apparently, he had no family back in England and hadn't made any friends in Los Angeles.
In a strange way, he envied Angel O'Connor.
He knew that was sick. The man died, for God's sake, and here he stood, alive and bloody breathing, feeling bloody sorry for himself.
One by one, the visitors stopped to speak to Buffy.
"I'm going to give him my condolences," Giles said.
Spike hesitated. Finally he took a deep breath and stalked, (which was very hard to do with an injured leg and a cane) across the damp ground through the throng of people. Her gaze rose and met his across the crowd. Raindrops dotted her face, mingling with tears, the raincoat shielding her sunny-colored hair and slim body. But it was the dark circles beneath her haunted hazel eyes that made his gut clench.
Without remembering how he reached her, Spike found himself standing in front of her, not knowing what to say, but he extended his hand, wanting to take away her pain.
She slowly lifted her small hand and placed it inside his, the whisper of her soft skin brushing his callused fingertips. A small surge of awareness skated through him. Her lips parted slightly as is she, too, felt the odd connection between them.
A wave of images suddenly flashed through his head like a movie trailer. Images of Buffy Summers looking at him with those haunted hazel eyes. Images of her crying on his shoulder. Of her raising of tiptoe to smother his mouth with kisses. Her lying naked in his arms and calling his name in the darkness of the night.
He snapped his hand back and felt himself grow weak. What in the bleeding hell had just happened? Those flashes had seemed so real. But they couldn't have been memories?
Could they?
TBC.
Spike watched the casket being lowered into the ground, a chill engulfing him. Oddly, Angel had disappeared the same day that Spike had had his accident. It could have been his body being lowered into that hole just as easily as O'Connor's.
For a brief second when he'd seen the casket and the hold in the ground, he'd had a flash that it was him being lowered. That he was Angel O'Connor and he had died.
Rupert Giles, the doctor at the research center who'd been helping Spike with his recovery after the accident, frowned solemnly. "He was a good man. We'll miss him at the center."
"It...it seems strange that I survived, but he died on the same day."
Giles gave him a sympathetic look. "Don't succumb to survivor guilt," he said in a low voice. "As a doctor, you know that's dangerous."
Spike shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his black leather duster. The harsh reality of the timing obviously hadn't escaped him and had played with his head. He had felt guilty that luck had been on his side that day and he had survived. Granted he had a new face, his memory was on the shaky side and he had a slight limp, but bloody hell, at least he was still able to walk.
He shuddered, wondering if he should have come. He hadn't wanted to. In fact, he had the oddest feeling he didn't attend funerals, but he couldn't remember why. He'd hoped seeing so many of the research center's stuff in one place would jog some of his memory.
"I didn't know him that well, did I?"
Giles shrugged. "No. You only met once. At the center when you came for the interview. I believe you corresponded through e-mail about your research, but I'm not certain."
Shaking off the uneasy feeling, Spike stared across the smattering of faces, a few of them familiar from the three days he'd spent getting acquainted with the research center."
His gaze settled on Angel O'Connor's wife. Buffy. A nurse from the psychiatric ward.
Another eerie sensation skittered across his nerve endings, a flash of some kind memory tugging at him. He must have met her before, probably at the facility or at one of the dinners for the center when he was being interviewed. She wouldn't be an easy woman to forget.
She had the face of an angel, the body of a fighter, and the lips of a lover.
But he had no right to even think such lurid thoughts, especially at a funeral.
From her grief-stricken face, she'd obviously cared for her husband deeply.
During those long, lonely days in the hospital, he had thought about his life, the fact that he had no one. No family who'd come looking for him. No woman who searched him out, sat by his bedside, vowed that she loved him.
Apparently, he had no family back in England and hadn't made any friends in Los Angeles.
In a strange way, he envied Angel O'Connor.
He knew that was sick. The man died, for God's sake, and here he stood, alive and bloody breathing, feeling bloody sorry for himself.
One by one, the visitors stopped to speak to Buffy.
"I'm going to give him my condolences," Giles said.
Spike hesitated. Finally he took a deep breath and stalked, (which was very hard to do with an injured leg and a cane) across the damp ground through the throng of people. Her gaze rose and met his across the crowd. Raindrops dotted her face, mingling with tears, the raincoat shielding her sunny-colored hair and slim body. But it was the dark circles beneath her haunted hazel eyes that made his gut clench.
Without remembering how he reached her, Spike found himself standing in front of her, not knowing what to say, but he extended his hand, wanting to take away her pain.
She slowly lifted her small hand and placed it inside his, the whisper of her soft skin brushing his callused fingertips. A small surge of awareness skated through him. Her lips parted slightly as is she, too, felt the odd connection between them.
A wave of images suddenly flashed through his head like a movie trailer. Images of Buffy Summers looking at him with those haunted hazel eyes. Images of her crying on his shoulder. Of her raising of tiptoe to smother his mouth with kisses. Her lying naked in his arms and calling his name in the darkness of the night.
He snapped his hand back and felt himself grow weak. What in the bleeding hell had just happened? Those flashes had seemed so real. But they couldn't have been memories?
Could they?
TBC.