Paroxysm

Chapter One: My Modern Philosophy

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the rights attributed to the fantastically funderful, spastically superb show: "ANGEL"

Those belong to... Joss, yea? So... on we go.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet."

-Juliet from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet

My Modern Philosphy

The dictionary defines philosophy as the "love and pursuit of wisdom by intellectual means and moral self-discipline" and as "the discipline comprising logic, ethics, aesthetics, metaphysics, and epistemology", however at the Channing and Bradford Academy, Educational Estates for Young Men, the course of Modern Philosophy remains a lack in the way of students. Now, the reason remains to be clearly seen, though those with (god forbid) enough time on their hands to wonder might narrow it down to two options:

1- The relatively new-fangled look on life disrupts some of the rather preserved ways of thinking at the rather preserved institute of the rather preserved and respectable among the student body.

or possibly...

2- BIG WORDS SCARE ME!

Okay, well, you get the idea. The class is held twice a day, once in the morning and an extra follow-up class during the evening (for those who actually feel like giving up some of there precious free time towards the subject). It lasts about an hour and fifteen minutes, bleeding into the 45-minute break between the first two classes of the day and the the second two; most classes last an hour.

The actual classroom itself is an interesting compilation of artwork and quotes throughout the years. Framed almost fantasy-esque artworks of Alphonse Mucha are on either side of the blackboard, along with other nameless artists showing their feelings about peace, war, sex, and drugs through their canvas as well. Swords and crossbows are hung randomly throughout the other three walls. Awards, trophies, diplomas, certificates, scrolls, and bookshelves set the 'thoughtful' mood and the general floating of dust and 'that old book smell' pervade the atmosphere. The desks are set on rows and levels. 12 or so in a row, then go up a level, another 12 or so. Your average class for your not so average student.

This would be the time and place to introduce William. A 'bad-ass' with a heart o' gold... Sorta. Through toil, strife, and snarky attitude all William managed to do was earn himself a worthy reputation and a nickname. "Though you gotta admit, Spike iza bloody awesome nickname, righ' yea?" Oh yea, and self-proclamation. The main fault with Spike is that he runs off fluid emotion and instinct. "I'm talkin' primal..., something beyond brains." His mouth is so busy moving his mind can barely keep up. At least, you know, at first glance. In truth, if he'd just give his lips a rest most people might get a glimpse of a soft-hearted young poet and, though not a brainiac, a bright kid.

I few of his friends put up a few arguments about him signing up for 'Ol' Ripper's' class, not thinking he had much of the necesarry brain power it took to hold one's own in Modern Philosophy. They were wowed though once the self-proclaimed bad-ass not only achieved amazing grades but was soon on close terms with Professor Rupert Giles, even called him Ripper in person. Spike took it all on, unphased, going through the motions. Riding easy through the class. And such easiness suited him, for he enjoyed being carefree and hated being bored. A playful smile of playful, or wicked intents usually on his face and one hand playing with his slightly curly bright blonde hair. Skin pale, but eyes of so soft a blue that they brought his odd hair and strange skin hue into an almost ethereal vision in the sunshine. Laughing, being an ass an everything he could get away with. Loose and even with the stride.

For every ying, kinda, there is a yang, kinda.

English is, in the dictionary, defined as... the language of England; by those who speak it, "What we're speaking."

The Devil is, in the bible, described (at great length) as a very very very very very bad person or "entity", if you want to be fancy.

And how the two could come together in such a seamless combination remains a mystery, except possibly to those who (God forbid) had just enough time in detention to ponder why God did NOT forbid this particular combination, felt it their duty to find out where God went wrong, or perhaps decided to lose faith in God all together. Any which way you go you still end up with the same two options:

1- The language, being the taught in the self-same nation of it's namesake, was obviously forsaken by god. And now the English, or other European, must suffer under the tyranny that is Satan Herself in the hour long class for something terrible they did in the past or perhaps it serves as a sort of penance to get into heaven later, a pergatory of sorts.

or possibly

2- I... HATE... MY...LIFE. (Which may or may not be followed by the sound of a gunshot.)

Either path, however will eventually lead you to the teacher of the 2nd Sophomores and 2nd Juniors English Division. Miss Darla. MISS Darla Elaine Montague. Never Miss Montague, rarely Darla. And Miss pronounced with such severe enunciation that the 'S's form harsh sibilance and slip from your tongue like a snake's hiss. It seemed indeed that God had forsaken them to such a fiend as this. But the Devil in all forms is a tempter, and no one would disagree here. Tight black uniform consisting of a longsleeved top, black shiny buttons up and down that most often could not stand to be fastened above a place that would seldom let slip the particular type of bra Miss Darla would be wearing... if at all. A standard black skirt, though long and almost victorian in style, always seemed to tie up the sides and (God forbid) part a teasing ammount as she sat upon her desk to converse with the class. Her golden locks pulled back tight in a bun, stray bangs fell ascew to frame her face and lips always blood red. It was impossible to read her direction, her body language confused and slowed down, like poison. Her eyes misled, their true purpose hidden behind a thin glass and stylish frames. Her smile, always a lie.

So despite the fact that Satan Herself had nestled into the schedules of a portion of the student body, had achieved an immortal type of tenure and the complaining was always accompanied by stupid laughs and sad attempts at flirting on their part. Sad attempts that SOMEHOW always led to someone in detention on matters of SOME overlooked truency or 'F's on some obscure previous tests that always seemed to JUST pop up (outta NOWHERE).

And now, readers, we find ourselves face to face with Liam. But he had not been called that since preschool, and the poor preschooler left with a black eye and an ear full of such words, that when he repeated them to his parents he had two black eyes. Everyone who knows that face finds it wise to put the name 'Angel' to it, adding a sinister twist to so heavenly a connotation. God, however did not forbid Angel from earning such a heavenly cove in Darla's heart that he was exempt from many tests, earned the highest grades, and sadly did have to spin some one on one conference time with Miss Darla. So fine were his features that it earned him the rights to 'A's. Dark were his eyes, dark was his hair, and well set into his own existence that it seemed nothing could surprise his pace and stride. His figure was almost feline in it's poise and readiness, a predator in glare and speech. Setting you up in words and the smallest placed of piece. Silent, yet, he spoke with his body, and was always thinking. And he, to the jealousy of his friends, was able to call her 'Darla' on a friendly basis. "Darla, such a heavenly name." He might cruelly interject into a lunch conversation, a faint Irish lilt on his tongue to send shivers up their spine, as airy as an Angel's kiss. With such happiness in it's dark humour that it made some question their own outlook on life. Question their modern philosophy on why God was so cruel in his blessings.

And as fate might have it both Angel and Spike had been shoved into the same dorm, by a rather unmerciful list at the beginning of the school year. It had been a rough beginning, the two had grown into an awkward friendship that two who live within the same breathing area most of the time must create. From there though, it had been an easier realtionship. Able to joke and compete, the jokes in their classes became the jokes they'd laugh at then. A competitiveness kept them like this for a fashion, fighting and laughing at the other's screw-ups and who they could mock together became the focus of any shred of relationship the two had.

"Opposites" one might say, but it's a lie you know. What works in science isn't always life. In fact opposites may want to kill each other. (Maybe that's why + and - work... maybe they're really biting each other as hard as they can waiting for the other to give in, and + and + are just too shy to admit their similarities, so they go out of their way to avoid the other.) Sometimes the opposites created such a harsh disruptance in thier lives that periods of silence would fall between them and living with the other became like living with a fly on the wall you just can't seem to care enough about to confront (WITH A FLY-SWATTER! muahaha). Instances when perhaps Darla would come to tutor Angel in private and Spike himself would be 'inuendo'-ed into leaving eventually out of sheer embarassment or distaste. Or when the two would fight for days on end about something trivial and Spike would end up being correct, and Angel would merely cease to talk to Spike. Not out of a matter of pride, but as a trap, waiting until Spike couldn't stand it anymore and admit defeat in some other. Playing the fool, perhaps, to make Angel laugh.

And so became their order in chaos, for as hectic as living with either may have been there was always the pattern.

'My Modern Philosophy...' read the center of the top of the page in elegant cursive. So snappy a title, yet there was nothing beneath.

Spike cleared his throat and tried it out, "My modern philosophy!" He, being alone in the room, said the title again and again in various different styles, accents (differing from his own british). "Bloody brilliant." He said in sarcasm, slamming his head onto the desk in frustration. "...Ow." He sat at one of the small desks in the room, this one the only affixed with a mirror. It was closest to his bed on his side of the room (farther from the window though) and so it had been silently accepted that this was 'Spike's Desk'. Spike lifted his head, the wet ink from the quill he had been using stuck to his head and he looked into the mirror, faced with the same mocking title, completely legible in his nice handwriting and able to read in the mirror. "My Modern Philosophy," he began to laugh at himself over the rediculousness of it all. He picked his quill back up which had been resting in it's ink bottle, and after leaking some of the excess ink over the edge of the glass bottle back with rest, he began to form new words on the page.

'The world at one point or another felt the philosophy was something so sacred that it must be bottled up and contemplated over. That someone, Plato, Aristotle, Jesós Christo, must be as cryptic as possible in discovering the meaning of life. Because, apparently, to them it's it always hidden in the most obvious of phrases. Is there order in chaos? Hell if I know. Hell if I care. My Modern Philosophy is plain, as plain as if... as if it were written on my forhead in reverse. So that you might need a mirror, a little self-reflection to understand it, but that's all. Philosophy has changed, evolved with us. We're still cavemen, cavemen in fancy suits and ties, and one day we'll be cavemen in space! Hell if that changes anything. Hell if God will let us. But that's all the thought it takes. God didn't stuff the meaning of life into the arse of a rabbit and send us to examine and argue about it. There's a meaning to everything nowadays. Meaning behind the apple, behind a foot, behind a ribbon, a card, a kiss, a poem. All these make up life. How can life have a meaning then? If rabbit with the meaning of life stuffed up it's arse went out and had trillions of babies, all with their own outlook on life, with their on little piece of the world and human thought and sanity shoved up their arses... Well I ask, How can we ever hope to find it? Look not to the skies for your answers, because God's laughing at you.

Self reflection! Self reflection and time! Times have changed my friend, since the days in which you could teach a man to fish and allow him to eat for a lifetime. Times have changed since the meaning of your name clearly defined who you were. What's in a name, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, love. And yea it would, but it's identity would have changed in some small part. Nowadays, all you have in this sea of lies is your name. And if you lose that, or someone takes it away, they take away your own little piece of truth, your own little piece of the world, shoved up your arse as a babe. Your mum looked down and gave you that, because her mum gave her that as right as God gave man his name and woman hers, as right as god gave them Eden as their identity, and they spoiled it. They took away their true names and after, what did they have? What was all God had left? They had their names, and their world, and their right on it, as right is the right of a rose to grow there.

So Romeo, Romeo, fuck you Romeo, and compare me not to the sun, because I'm not the sun. Im a million names and they're all me. As true as those that gave me the name, and Ill not deny that. If there is anything Ill not deny it's the name that other's have given me, because it was their acceptance of me in hate and love. It was them giving me right to shadow and light, in their mind, in their little piece of their inner world, so far shoved up their arse they've forgotten what's in a name.They forgot the meaning so they look for it in the skies and hope to find it up some rabbit hole or in thinking a hell of a lot about why the sun is yellow. And when they're too embarassed to admit how little a ways they've gone along, they hide it in cryptic messages.'

Spike paused in his writing to look it over and laugh, the truth of a moment having been written on the page. What he had spent 5 minutes just letting his hand write what it wanted. "It makes no sense... but that's the truth." He had pressed one hand to his head as a prop on the desk as he had been writing and it had smeared the black ink all along the cuff of his sleeve, which had been as long as to reach past his wrists and to knuckles. He grimaced and stood, walking to his wardrobe along the wall, almost side by side to Angel's. From it pervaded a tangible sweet smell. The smell of roses, one he could quickly identify with Satan Herself. She had probably left some prefumed article of clothing here by accident. "An innocent sock, prolly." Spike mused, but he laughed on the inside. People don't perfume their socks now do they? He unbuttoned his plain white long-sleeved button up shirt. And tossed it to the ground, withdrawing from the small hanging pole inside the wardrobe a fresh one.

Here we have a brief moment to further describe Spike and a bit of the school. The school, as a proper and preserved academy should, required a specific uniform be worn.

-White button up dress-shirt. Collar. Cotton. One pocket near the heart.

-Black Dress pants. One Zipper. One Button. Two pockets in the front. Two pockets in the rear.

-Tie. No clip-ons. Blue for 1st Freshmen, Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors. Black for 2nd Freshmen... etc. etc.

-Black Dress shoes. Shined please.

-Socks. Always wear socks. We dont care what kind, just wear them please.

-Black blazer. One or two true buttons, 4 buttons total.

-A crest that showed you as a Freshman, Sophomore, Junior, or Senior. Outlined in blue for 1st groups, black for 2nd.

The crest must be either on your blazer, your shirt-pocket, or your backpack.

And Spike, being the 'free spirit' that he be, attempts to be as casual as possible with this code. Usually never wears the blazer, and keeps his crest on his backpack. 'Sz' in the center of the school's coat of arms. The would-be traditional Unicorn and Lion, save the horn had been switched and the lion bore the only weapon the horse had. The horse, in all it's bare being fought back none the less, a proud mare against the horned lion who's claws spelled it's death.

Spike began to button up the front, his chest in amazing shape for someone one might either take as a lazy ass-hole or possibly a book-worm. Interesting huh? The reason for so nice a shape, though, will be explained later. A few tiny line-scars bedeck his chest as tiny pink indentations on his pale flesh. He grumbles as he realized he missed a sodding button and redoes the set. He manages to finish as Angel doesn't bother to knock and casually strides in, quiet, and controlled in his temper as always. "You're out early," Spike says nonchalantly, for he had woken up early to finish the Modern Philosophy assignment due that day.

"MMmm," Angel stretched his arms up and over his head, yawning close-mouthed, "Yea, checkin' out the horses, makin' sure that everythin's in order."

"Hm? Order?" Spike asked, half caring just wanting to talk.

"Yea, y'see, you get a lot of green-riders out there. Don' know what their doin' and we got the new horses too yea?"

"...Y-yea?" Spike said unassuredly, not having signed up for the hunting class, finding it barbaric.

"Yea. Anyway, we get the young horses out there, and someone 'ears a leaf pop underfoot and they start shootin' there arrows, left. right. up. down. Horse gets spooked cus he's spooked and horse goes flyin'!" Angel grinned wickedly as he did a swoop with his arm and hand to show a horse 'flyin' off. "Rider falls off, breaks his bones, outta there!" Spike raised an eyebrow.

"Serves him right." Spike smiled too, though for other reasons. "S'not right to shoot the animals for sport."

"Psshh. Only the green ones'll do that! Idiots, miss half-a-time too!" Angel it seemed was actually talking quite a lot. "Anyway, Wesley get out there-"

"NO WAY! Head boy!" Spike turned quickly, face brightened, "Mr. Ponce himself?" Angel held up a hand.

"Lemme finish!" Spike shut his mouth but was utterly beyond excited, "Anyway, Mr. Price his own self gets out there on a horse and sees a falcon rush outta nowhere at him! And he goes tumbling back cus he jerked the reigns! And the horse!" He did another swoop with his arm. "Anyways, Wesley hits the ground and breaks his arm on a root, horse snapped it his self!" Spike fell back on the bed laughing his ass off. Angel smiled, satisfied, laughing too.

Abruptly there came a knock at the door.

"Keep it down in there gentlemen, that is no way for young connoisseurs of knowledge and wisdome to behave in such a place as... as this place." The voice belonged to that of Wesley himself and did not seemed pained at all. In fact headboy had made his rounds as usual, making sure everything was ship-shape.

"You were lying again huh?" Spike looked at Angel wuickly, quicking an eyebrow a puzzled grin on his face.

"Your fault for believin' it. I swear you're such an idiot, Spike."

"I said keep it down! I may be forced to excercise drastic measures!" Once again Wesley's voice came muffled from beyond the door.

What little argument that was about to rise was quickly effaced by Wesley's rediculous threats and sent them both into bouts of crippling laughter.

"V-very well! But I warn you! There is now a.. a CHECK. In my notebook next to both of your names... Blackguards and miscreants!" Wesley 'hmph'-ed proudly and they could hear him walk off in the pause of their laughter before they laughed again.

"Golly-gee, Angel, think he kisses his mum with that mouth?" Spike took a breath from laughing on the bed and regained composure.

"That'd be a little too much action for our dear head-boy, doncha think? Get him a little too excited."

"Speakin of which... Fraternizing with the teachers again are we Angel?" There was added laughter from them both, though the question was never answered, in spite of the casual way Spike had brought it up.

After a while their laughs faded and silent preperations for the morning began and Spike moved back to his desk to attempt to finish his paper.

End Chapter One.

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God! I am sooo sorry! Tha must have been the most boring thing you, if there is a you there, have ever read. I plan to make it more exciting. DEATH! DRAMA! ROMANCE! All that crap that people like. (not really) I wrote this quickly, one big rush, so forgive the typos and shtuff. This is my first true fanfic by myself so Im hoping it'll be as fun as it sounds ... ;; Anyway... Thanks for your time.

Lovies,

Mechanical

PS: Just to inform: The quotes I may or may not put at the tops of chapters are NOT because I like them, but because the will have something to do with that particular chapter. For example, this chapter's quote. I don't like it. I don't like it at all. I think it is silly, but it's also simple and to the point and ya.. yada yada yada. In fact... I wouldnt exactly recomment Romeo and Juliet to anyone looking to enjoy Shakespeare. He HAS written better! Don't believe the press! Defy the man! DEFY HIM! dances

Special thanks to:

Jessica (she's prolly gonna hate my guts for the R&J references ehehe..hehe..he...)

This girl is awesome like a possum, and without her this story would have worse dialogue and not exist. I mean... really. It wouldn't.