Thanks to MarieP, Isabella Rossellini, kina, SpikingJennsAngel, andAngeloholic for reviewing.
"…really rather strange occurrence. Wouldn't you agree, Angel? …Angel? Angel!" A frantic hand belonging to Wesley waves in front of my face, snapping me back to reality.
"Huh? Uh, yes. Yes, that is…rather…rather strange…" I fake hopelessly.
"Are you all right?"
"Oh. Sure, sure. I'm
((just hiding a killer who tortured me about a year back and whose main goal is to drain my ex-girlfriend))
fine. Perfectly fine."
The expression on Wes's face announces clearly that he believes me as much as he would believe a paint-covered two-year-old's claim that no one had messed with the paints.
Okay. I need to let him know delicately. I need to be firm in my decision.
I need to tell him before Cordelia gets here.
"Wesley, there's something…I need to talk to you."
Much to my bewilderment, Wes immediately adopts a near—panicked look. "It was Cordelia's fault! She insisted that we spend your money on the—"
"What? No, Wes, that's not why I—you spent my money?"
"Oh." He clears his throat. "No, no. Now is clearly not the time to discuss such trivial matters. You were saying?"
"I was…well, see, I don't exactly know how to say this, but I—he—he's—" I take a deep breath. "He's here."
Wesley frowns. "Who is 'he', precisely?"
"Spike. Spike's upstairs."
"Spike as in William the Bl—" An ear-splitting screech cuts him off.
"Oh my God, Spike's upstairs?!" There's a loud clatter as the owner of this new voice fumbles through her purse for a cross, holy water, a stake, or possibly all three.
Wesley looks at me with an expression I can't quite decipher. It appears to be a cross between alarmed and amused and…something else that suggests he's not exactly thrilled with the thought of William the Bloody being upstairs, either. I myself am scanning the room as if there's an escape hole I've yet to discover.
Cordelia finally manages to pull out a stake and stares at me. "Angel, why are you just sitting there?"
I cut my eyes away in a manner that in no way suggests I am being completely evasive. Cordy won't let it go. No, of course she won't. It's Cordelia we're talking about here.
I shift nervously and twiddle my thumbs.
"He's here at your invitation, isn't he," Wesley says. It's not a question.
I glance up briefly. "Yes. No. I mean, not exactly. I mean—I didn't call him up and ask him over, but I…let him in."
"What?" Cordelia takes a step back and holds up the stake as though it were a cross. "Oh, God! You reunited with Buffy, didn't you?"
I press two fingers against my temple. "No. I'm not evil, Cordy." I don't bother adding that had I lost my soul, I would've chained her up and had some fun already. Nor do I mention that I'd really like to do that right now so I can avoid this painful confrontation that will ultimately end in a major migraine and a possible guilt trip for me, and Cordelia storming out.
She gawks at me in utter confusion. "So why—?"
I inhale and exhale slowly in an effort to calm myself and quickly discover it was a waste of oxygen. "I found him outside my door last night and he was hurt, so I let him in."
"He's evil, Angel. He—he's Spike. Remember? The Smurf? The Ring of Arm—Ara—Aurora—"
"Amara," I fill in, falsely hoping that my correction will place her in a more agreeing mood.
She waves a hand dismissively. "Whatever. The point is why didn't you stake him?"
Picking up a pencil, I begin to drum it on the edge of my desk. Anything to keep my hands busy so I won't wrap them around her throat. Or quite possibly my own. Because how do I tell her that I cannot stake Spike no matter what, simply because he is mine?
I can't.
Instead, I respond, "Look, he can't hurt any of you guys. He has a chip in his head or something, according to Willow." I hesitate. "He'll be staying here awhile."
If possible, Cordelia's eyes grow even wider. "Staying here? Angel, please don't tell me you're pulling another Faith because—"
My last shred of patience gone, I drop the pencil with an all-too-loud clatter. "Cordelia, please!"
Her mouth snaps shut and she quickly covers up a hurt look, causing my Guilt-O-Meter to slide up another several notches. Someday, it might very possibly overload and crash, but I'm still waiting.
She throws up her hands. "Fine. Just don't expect me to come running when you get strung up and kebobed again." She stalks out of the foyer without even bothering to close the door, tossing a, "You know, at least Faith had a soul," over her shoulder.
I look at who may very possibly be my remaining friend—maybe not even that—and sigh. "Don't start, Wes. I know I'm crazy to have him here."
"No. No, I wasn't going to…to 'start'. I will say, however, that I don't understand your decision. And I think it's extremely foolish of you—"
"Wesley—"
"—but I will respect it."
"Thanks. I appreciate that." I wave toward the entrance, its door still ajar. "You might as well go home and sleep or…read or something, too."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I'll call you if anything happens."
"All right." He starts to leave, then stops, his hand resting on the doorknob. "I hope you know what you're doing, Angel."
"Me, too," I say softly to the closing door.
Spike is staring at the ceiling when I arrive ten minutes later with a mug of steaming blood in one hand.
"Hungry?"
"Not really." He sits up and takes the proffered mug anyway.
A quiet, smothering stillness envelopes us once more.
I clear my throat, wondering if I should approach the subject of exactly what happened to him last night. "So, uh…"
Spike slams his mug abruptly on the night table. Red liquid sloshes over the brim and slides down the side of the mug onto the wood surface.
I glance up, startled. "What?"
"This isn't working," he states flatly, getting up.
"What?" I'm having difficulty extracting a different word from my vocabulary.
"This." He waves an arm in a wide arc. "Me. Here. I never should've come." He throws on his coat and makes a move towards the door for the second time. It's starting to feel like some sort of purgatory.
I block his path. And—
Why did I do that? If he wants to leave, all the better, especially since he's mostly recovered overnight. No more nagging from Cordelia. No more constant debates within my mind. Back to simple, to that clear line between black and white.
Spike tries to push past me, then groans when he can't.
"Bloody hell, Angel, just get out of my way."
"Spike—"
"Christ, you're such a goddamned wanker!" He runs his fingers through his hair so violently it causes his already mussed blond curls to stick up in random directions. If it weren't for the current situation and the deadly expression on his face, he would look utterly adorable.
"I shouldn't have come here," he says again.
"You're right, you shouldn't have," I shoot back, my patience dissipating once more. "But you did, so don't run out on me just because you feel like it."
"You did." Two words, spoken not with accusation, but as simple statements of fact, and perhaps that is what hurts most. He gazes at me, fiery blue eyes that bore into mine until I look away because
(("you're leaving again? you just bloody got here, Angelus, rebellion's just gotten started, and you're leaving? bloody hell"))
(("Will, i…"))
(("are. you. stay. ing."))
(("Will—"))
(("don't call me that. tell me if you're staying"))
(("perhaps"))
(("liar. liar! you fucking liar! she spent every fucking night screaming for three bleedin' months the last time and she won't look at me now and if you're not gonna stay, then tell me you're not, don't give me your bollocks!"))
(("i can't stay, William." shock in his eyes at the whispered words. he didn't expect me to admit it. he opens his mouth and i cover it with mine before he can utter a word. kiss him, taste him, only once, thinking it's the last time i ever will))
Thinking and not knowing what would happen decades later, when he has traded in his light brown locks for bleached blond, his legs for a wheelchair. But those weren't kisses, were they? No, not kisses. Nothing but acts of dominance, his lips and tongue just one more thing for me to bruise, bleed, claim.
(("you did"))
"I know," I whisper at length.
"Yeah? Glad you do, mate, 'cause that alone makes everything all sunshine and pansies." He shoves me out of the way roughly. Caught off guard, I stumble back and he manages to get through this time.
I close my eyes. "Please. Will." I feel him freeze behind me.
"Bloody ponce," he murmurs. "'M not your lapdog anymore. I'm not gonna come running just 'cause you call my name." But his footsteps are growing closer.
And this is really, really stupid of us. Because he's right: this isn't working, most definitely never will. No amount of watering could get anything but thorns to grow on our rosebush.
I don't care.
And I can't say that I don't feel responsible for him. I do. But that's not why I want him to stay. I want him to stay because maybe things will work out. I know he hates me. He hates me and he will never forgive me. And an outsider will say there is no hope whatsoever, but I know better. Because hope is nothing more than diamond-encrusted lies and if he stays, I can lie to myself just a little longer.
I can tell myself that maybe, just maybe, I will not fuck things up this time.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
God, why is it that only he can make me feel this way? "Will," he says, and it doesn't matter how many Slayers I've killed or how many Watcher books I'm in or how long I've been on my own; I'm a fledge all over again.
And I hate it. I hate that he still has that power over me and I hate the bastard and this is why I should just leave right now and never, ever come back. This is why I should beat the shit out of him so that we can go back to being mortal enemies. I want him to kick my ass. Hell, I'd be more comfortable if he tried to dust me.
Because it's what he's supposed to do. It's what I know; it's what I can handle. I know what to do if he comes at me with a stake.
I have no idea what to do with this.
But he says my name, and it's all I can do to suppress the shudder that runs through me, even though there is only a shadow of that bloody sire tone shining through.
That bloody sire tone that shouldn't even be there in the first place. He's not my sire.
No, that's a lie. He is. He might as well be. Might as well be the one who drained me that night, might as well be his blood running through my veins. Dru may have been my destiny, the love of my life, and I was her Spikey, her Prince, but she never really knew me. To know someone requires an attention span of more than five minutes.
Angel was the only one who truly saw me. Who knew me. And yeah, he was an asshole and most of the time I spent with him I spent bleeding and when I say he knew me, it's not some kind of romantic shit. He knew I was toy, his childe brat, his little pet. His challenge. Damn straight, I was a challenge. But I was real to him. For once in my life, I was real to someone. Wasn't I? When I recall back those worshipful hands, that sex-roughened voice, yeah, I was real.
Note, however, my use of the past tense. Because right now, I'm fairly certain the only thing he sees when he looks at me is a century of soulful regret.
Not that it really matters in the physical sense, what he sees now. He's still the one who makes my blood hum when I'm near. He is, he has to be. Because there has to be something to explain why I'm so fucking drawn to him.
Has to be something to explain why, instead of walking out like I should, I brush past him, sprawl out on his bed, and light a fag.
I don't want to do this. I don't want to stay.
He never
(("i can't stay, William"))
stayed for me.
I wait for Angel's "no smoking" tirade, but it doesn't come. He just gives me a quick glance before gesturing towards the open door.
"I'm gonna—"
"Yeah." I cut him off before he can say that last word.
I don't wanna hear it.
You'd think I'd have learned by now. You'd think I'd have learned that nothing is for fucking ever.
But I was Dru's bitch and Angelus's whore, I am love's slut, and I am a masochistic bastard who cannot love without fistsfangsheartache and I will never. Catch. On.
Ever.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Day ten. It's been ten days since he showed up at my door. Nine nights. Two hundred and thirty hours. I didn't keep track of the minutes; I'm not Wesley.
"…completely blind, Wes, you know that?"
"But it can't possibly be that creature, we haven't even identified it yet! Besides—"
I push my chair back and stand up, causing Cordelia and Wesley's hundredth or so argument over exactly what Wolfram and Hart raised in that box to grind to a full halt.
Cordelia gives me a chagrined look; Wes simply glances down in resignation.
"What?" I intend for an innocent tone, but it comes out guilty, as pretty much everything I say does.
"You're going to see him again, aren't you," she says. No inquiry here, only a statement.
I try to come up with either a plausible explanation as to why I'm checking up on Spike for the fifth time in an hour or a comment that might possibly distract her, but short of writing her a check, the best I can do is, "I'll be back."
Cordelia throws up her hands in a huff. I chance a look at Wesley, but there's no real support there, merely a reluctant agreement that seems to say he knows there is no point in getting me to do otherwise so he won't bother wasting his time.
That's good enough.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Spike is rarely quiet or still when awake and he's the same in sleep. He moans, he wriggles, he purrs, he growls, he tangles himself in the sheets until it's a wonder he can disengage from them come sunset.
But there are two things I have never witnessed him do: whimper and shake.
He's doing both now.
I approach the bed slowly. I don't have a clue what to do. I'm no stranger to the nightmare department, of course, what with my five century stint in Hell, but I've always been on the receiving end after getting my soul and prior to that, I simply didn't give a damn as long as whoever was dreaming
(("Drusilla, if you don't stop that goddamned whimpering…"))
(("fuck off, Angelus, she's having a nightmare"))
didn't annoy me.
Another step. He still hasn't woken up. Am I supposed to wake him up? Or am I supposed to let him ride it out?
Oh, Jesus. Even this is complicated. I want simple. Is that too much to ask? I want one day that goes by where I don't even have to think in order to make up my mind.
Thankfully, my indecision is resolved when Spike jerks upright, eyes glowing gold, baring his fangs. "Darla?"
"Huh?" The last thing I expected him to utter was my sire's name. "Spike, it's just me."
"Oh." He shakes away his game face. I can see him trying desperately to regain his composure.
"Are you okay?" It's a damn silly question. As though I'm even considering the possibility that he might actually do something other than blow off my concern.
Spike flops back down on the mattress, bravo facade firmly in place once more. "'M fine, ya pouf."
I almost ask him about the Darla thing, but then decide against it. I doubt I'd get much more out of him than a glare and some variation of "Piss off."
I'm two feet away from the door when his voice stops me. It's so quiet that my enhanced hearing can barely pick it up.
"Stay with me, Angelus."
I turn around and say the only thing I seem to be capable of saying of late: "What?"
He doesn't answer me. He knows I heard him the first time. He's watching me, propped up on one elbow, his head titled casually. Letting me know that he is offering me a chance; that this time, unlike the night he showed up here, it's not because he has no other choice.
And I'll be damned if I don't take his offer.
I slip under the covers beside him so that we're nearly touching, but not quite. His back is to me, leaving inches between my face and his neck.
The first time he slept in my bed, he curled around me like a snake on a pole, until I told him that if he didn't give me some goddamned room, I was going to throw him to the floor. The second time I invited him to my bed, he did it again, but by then, it was because he knew it annoyed me and he knew that if I asked him in, I wanted him in, and I wasn't going to kick him out unless I really had to.
Days of easy touching are long gone, though, and now I find myself staring at his back and wishing I could run a finger down his spine. Could I? I don't know where the line is drawn anymore. Ten minutes ago I thought sharing a bed with Spike was out of my reach. Hell, not too long ago, I thought sharing a city with Spike wouldn't be possible.
And I shouldn't do it. I truly shouldn't…because I would be crossing barriers that have been set up for a reason. Barriers which, by all means, should not be brought down, lest I release something terrible. But dear God, the temptation is so strong and Spike is a very shiny, red apple…and I have never been good with resisting temptation. It's why I left Sunnydale, why I get news of things over there from Willow instead of Buffy.
So I stroke his hair, running my fingers through the blond strands which are sans gel for once. He doesn't pull away. Instead—sweet, merciful Jesus—he actually shifts closer. His shoulders are tense beneath my touch.
I spend the rest of the hours until sunset watching him slowly drift off to sleep, and holding him close, afraid to sleep, afraid to let go, in case it is all a dream and I will awake to find my arms empty and the right side of the bed vacant and there won't even be anyone there to tell me, sorry, Angel, guess you're alone again.
