Author's Note: Here's another chapter I swore I would never write, but did anyway. Some dialogue is lifted from 'Underneath'.
xxxxx
Angel was in Spike's bed. He'd been lying in that bed for the better part of a week. The scent of his Childe was greatest there and some part of Angel - an unhealthy part - needed to wallow in it, need to soak up the essence before it faded away completely.
Wesley had come over Monday. He had been concerned when Angel hadn't shown up for work and he'd mentioned something about bringing Lindsey back from a Hell dimension, but whatever. Angel hadn't been paying attention. He might have denounced the entire meeting as a dream if Fred hadn't been with him. Angel remembered how she and Wes had been holding hands and giving each other worried looks peppered with sexual tension. It didn't seem fair that they should be so happy while he was so miserable. They had left in hurry; probably went off to fuck like rabbits back at Wes's place. Either that or they had wanted to escape Illyria. At first glance, the Old One was rather intimidating.
The demon god hadn't left Spike's room, either. Like Angel, it was content to stay where it was, no doubt pondering the disease that was humanity or whatever it was that demon gods pondered. Angel could feel it watching him. Often, he'd awaken from a nightmare and see those icy, unblinking orbs staring into his gold ones. They had barely spoken to each other since Illyria had asked for his "help" days and days ago. Angel didn't know how much longer he could continue to ignore the Old One's presence before the god decided it was bored with him and chose to kill him. Angel almost welcomed the oblivion.
It was the dreams that hurt him the most. The dreams where everyone he'd ever loved was gathered around a dinner table mouthing words he couldn't hear. He saw Buffy dancing in a swirl of white and Cordy playing with her chestnut brown hair. He saw Wesley cleaning his glasses and Fred reading her books. He saw Gunn polishing his hubcap axe. He saw Connor smiling with people who weren't his family and he saw Lorne having a drinking contest with Spike. Angel saw it all and he wondered what had happened to these people. Where were they now? The dreams made him feel lonely because every time he opened his eyes all he saw was Illyria.
Angel thought he was going crazy. It might have helped his mental state if he actually took the time to drink something other than whiskey, but the alcohol made the pain easier to bear. If he drank enough maybe the crushing agony would disappear and all the people he'd dreamed about would come back and he'd be happy again.
"Hey, Peaches, whatcha broodin' about now?"
He had heard that voice before. Cautiously, Angel opened his eyes and slowly sat up; letting the familiar scent invade his nostrils. Spike was sitting on the left side of the bed.
Angel smiled briefly, playing along with the dream he'd had so many times before. "I thought I told you I wanted to be alone."
The younger vampire snorted and reached for Angel's liquor glass. "Yeah, alone so you could mess up my bed and steal my whiskey."
"It's not your whiskey," Angel protested. "You stole it from Wolfram & Hart, my office if I'm not mistaken."
"Where's your proof?" Spike asked, downing the remaining contents of the glass and handing it back to Angel, who placed it on the night-stand.
"All the bottles are marked 'Property of Wolfram & Hart' and my name's on them."
"Possession's nine-tenths, mate."
Angel blinked. "No, it's not."
Spike rolled his eyes. "I wasn't being serious, luv. You need to loosen up!" he said, reaching over and shaking Angel's shoulder. "Stop brooding and go out an' enjoy life!"
"There's no reason to. Besides, I like it here."
The younger vampire let out a long, tortured sigh. "Okay, fine, we'll start small. Tell me a joke."
"I don't know any."
"Not even a knock-knock joke? That's pretty sad."
"Shut up, Spike."
"If only I could," he said wistfully. "You know me. I find silence boring." Angel shivered slightly as Spike's cool breath tickled his ear. "This is only the first layer, Peaches. Don't you wanna see how deep I go?"
"What? No!" Angel gasped, knowing that the dream was over. He bolted up in bed and saw Illyria gazing at him from across the room. Spike was gone. Why did Illyria still remain? It didn't seem fair.
"You've been sleeping a long time," it stated emotionlessly.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "I had a nightmare."
"In my time, nightmares walked among us, walked and danced, skewering victims in plain sight, laying their fears and worst desires out for everyone to see. This to make us laugh."
"Laugh?" Angel repeated. Dream Spike had told him to laugh more. At least, that's what he thought Dream Spike had said. There had been something about a joke. And onions. Why would Dream Spike talk about onions?
"And now nightmares are trapped inside the heads of humans; pitiful echoes of themselves. I wonder whom they angered so to merit such a fate."
Thinking about it, Angel realized he like it better when Illyria didn't talk. Its words followed a rhyme scheme. They were poetic. Spike had been a poet. He had written all of his scribbles down in a little, leather journal. He used to read them to Drusilla every night and never showed them to anyone else but her. Once, Angelus's curiosity had overtaken him and he stole that journal and read every word in it. He remembered liking them, though he hadn't told Spike that until very recently. His boy had brushed off the compliment, claiming that Angel liked Barry Manilow, but he knew that Spike had been touched by his remark. Angel had even thought he'd seen a ghost of a smile fly across his face before they had gone back to insulting each other. In a way that hurt, because he knew Spike would never smile again.
"Yeah," Angel deadpanned, "the world sucks. Didn't we already cover that?"
"Why don't you leave?" Illyria asked this question bluntly. It wanted to know why Angel didn't simply kill himself. If only he'd had the guts for it.
If only...
"You could leave," Angel realized, wondering why he hadn't thought of it before. "Why don't you?"
"That's not possible."
"Of course it is. Are you telling me that the great Illyria is limited to only one dimension?"
Illyria opened its mouth to reply and that's when Angel stopped listening. He should probably have paid more attention to it, but he was suddenly fascinated with the demon's lips. They even moved differently then Spike's. Angel found himself wondering what it'd be like to kiss those lips. He remembered how Will's lips had felt soft and cool. Illyria's were probably hard and cold. It'd be like kissing one of Drusilla's dolls.
"Why stay in this world?" Angel found himself asking. "Why don't you go? You can go. Why don't you go?" Yes, go, he willed. I won't have to look at you and see him if you're gone.
Quickly, Illyria moved to grab his neck. It lifted Angel up and pinned him against the wall. There was rage in the demon's eyes. Angel found himself wondering if Illyria would squeeze his neck until his eyes popped out, or if the god would simply rip his head off. The eye popping one would be more painful. Illyria would probably use that one.
Suddenly, it released him. The god looked disturbed, worried, almost fearful. It was even breathing. No, not breathing, gasping. "It's too small," it cried. "It's too small. I can't breathe." Illyria began pacing in a frenzied circle. "I can't live with these walls. I can't breathe. There's no room for anything real." It glared at Angel. "I should gut you where you stand. You challenged me. There's not enough space to open my jaws. My face is not my face. I don't know what it will say."
Will had hated being cooped up. Angelus had taken him on a boat once. Spike had started hyperventilating when he'd realized they would have to go below deck when the rain started. He hadn't even needed to breathe. What Will had needed was space. Space to run, space to hunt, space to live freer than he had ever lived as a mortal. He had hated cages, hated being confined. At that moment, the demon reminded him of his boy.
"Illyria," Angel ordered softly, "come with me."
The Old One looked at him strangely, but silently followed him out of Spike's apartment.
So much like him, Angel thought sadly. So much, but not nearly enough.
The demon didn't speak a word to Angel until they had reached the destination; the complex's rooftop.
"I breathe easier," Illyria murmured.
"You don't need to breathe," replied Angel, repeating the words he had whispered to Spike so many decades ago.
Illyria ignored him, preferring the sound of its own voice to any decent conversation."All I am is what I am. I lived seven lives once..."
Angel imagined them chained to a wall. All of friends, all of his family trapped. He saw the Powers that Be laughing at him, telling him as soon as he positioned the bodies he would get to chose the order in which they would die. Drusilla would go next to Buffy. There was something oddly poetic about his greatest sin being chained next to his greatest love. Cordy would go next to Doyle, because, in his mind, he saw those two together even now. Fred would go in between Wesley and Gunn and Lorne would be beside them. It only seemed fair that Darla be placed next to their son and Spike would stand next to Connor. Angel could only imagine the arguments those three would have.
Darla would die first, there was no question about that. If for no other reason then she was the only one chained Angel could say he'd never truly loved. He had offered to die for her once, but not because he loved her, she was a selfish sacrifice. He'd once thought that saving Darla would be his redemption, but now he saw his redemption was Connor. Connor. He and Buffy would die last. Cordy would die just before them, Angel knew that much. But then the line got murkier. He would die after her? Doyle? Wesley? Dear, sweet, Fred? What of Drusilla? Would she die before Spike? After?
"...I fear in any other dimension in this form I'd be but prey to those I knew..."
Was that Illyria? It must have been, there was no one else on the rooftop.
"...I reek of humanity."
"Don't you dare insult Spike like that," he growled.
"Your world is so small. And yet you box yourselves in rooms even smaller. You shut yourselves inside - in rooms, in routines."
Inwardly, Angel grimaced. Had it only be several weeks since Spike had accused him of forgetting who he was? How long ago had Spike accused him of becoming a walking routine? Spike had hated order, hated schedules and cramped places. Hated being boxed, hated living in a Goddamn cage. Spike had wanted freedom. Spike had always wanted freedom, even when he'd been alive he had craved it - Angel shook his head. He couldn't think about that. Not now. Not again. Not ever again.
"There are things worse than walls, Illyria."
"No, there are not," the Old One sighed. "We are so weak."
"Yes," Angel whispered. "Yes, we are."