I live in a haze.
Of lies, of blood, of emptiness.
The lies I tell myself, the lies I tell my friends. Yeah, I'm fine. Really. I'm dealing. I mean, come on, he was a vampire, it's not like I loved him or anything.
But I do. He didn't believe me on the day the Hellmouth burned and I told him. But it was true.
I still love him.
I felt like this when I sent Angel to hell. Broken. Alone. Now, ironically, he's the only one who understands. Spike was his childe and my love. Angel felt him disintegrate, just as I watched him dust.
God, he was so annoying, bossing me around even when he knew he was dying. Or undying, as it is. Go . . .
Angel and me sparred for hours at a time, until we were both too exhausted to move. I cried and he stared off into the distance, remembering. Sometimes he would tell me what he recalled. Not all of it was pleasant but I needed to hear it.
Once he told a story of when the four of them were in Italy in 1886.
Spike had found a girl who intrigued him and followed her. He found out about her abusive, sheltered, luxurious life. Her name was Angelica and she lived in a golden cage, according to the poet still within him. Spike found her walking home one night and turned her. Made her his childe. We were a family and traveled to China, mostly on Spike's urging. He wanted to kill himself a Slayer. He and Angelica found her, fought her and killed her.
But Angelica didn't survive. The Slayer had done too much damage. It nearly destroyed him.
He didn't change outwardly but inside I knew he was in agony.
If Angel had told me this story years ago I wouldn't have believed him or cared. Now I see how deeply Spike could love. He did love without his soul.
He loved me.
