A/N #1: See 'Visions of Strangers- Part 1' for title information. Apologies to all for any grammatical errors or just plain wrongness. Feedback is always appreciated. A/N #2: This is a continuation, sort of, of Part 1 so the narration style remains the same. The next chapter will return to stream-of-consciousness type storytelling. The final two chapters will be all about Spike.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either.
Visions of Strangers- Part 2
Angel was trying to sleep. It was working about as well as it had since the battle. Every time he closed his eyes he saw… everything, every horrible thing that had led him here. The visions swirled around behind his eyelids in a kaleidoscope of blood, pain, and death.
"Do you think she will like it?" Spike was standing in the doorway, brow furrowed, as he stared at a point somewhere over Angel's head.
"Like what?" It could be anything. It could be nothing. Spike didn't live here anymore. This was just his hollow shell.
"I wrote her a poem. It's a secret, though. Shhh, mustn't tell." Spike wasn't looking at him so Angel didn't know if Spike was talking to him or if he thought he was talking to someone else.
Spike had been calling him: Father, Watcher, Whelp, Angelus, Doyle, and Clem, depending on his mood. Most of the time it didn't matter if Angel answered back or just tried to ignore him; Spike would just continue on, having whole conversations with the empty air. That wasn't the worst, though. No, there was despair still untapped in their house of pain.
"I'm sure she'll love it." He was participating in Spike's delusions, letting them be real. It was easier this way, though. Most of the time, it was easier.
"You haven't even looked." Spike was looking straight at him now with watery, red-rimmed eyes. In another minute he would be crying, his skeletal frame racked with sobs. Once he started, the crying could go on for hours or, once, days.
"Show me." He let Spike pull him up and out into the outer room of the gas station.
Merciful God and all His saints, what the hell had Spike done?
Angel hadn't been fazed by the smell of fresh blood or the traces of it on Spike's fingers. Spike had been gnawing and tearing at his fingers for two days. It wasn't anything new. This, though, this was new. Spike had covered one entire wall with his blood. The splashes and swirls were black as death in the muted, filtered sunlight. There were… poems; dozens upon dozens of poems, all written in blood, adorning the wall.
Spike had never done anything like it before. Before, Spike had just shuffled around the room talking to himself or to Angel or to nobody at all. He wasn't dangerous. He'd never tried to harm himself or Angel. He'd never tried to go outside during the day. Once, Spike had wandered away while Angel was out hunting but he hadn't gone far and he hadn't gone anywhere near the road or the motel. Angel had yelled at him and Spike had cried and apologized like a small child; head down, arms behind his back, and the toe of his boot scuffing a bare spot on the dirty floor.
"You don't like it. I-I know they're not any good, love. Never could write poetry worth a damn. I just… they come from the heart, dead thing that it is, and they're all for you." Angel knew Spike wasn't talking to him anymore, if he ever had been.
"Spike." Spike was looking at him, hopeful and braced for the blow all at the same time, and Angel just couldn't do it. "I-I love them. They're… they're so… beautiful. They're beautiful, William."
"Not as beautiful as you are, my love, my Slayer, my Buffy." Spike was crying again but it didn't matter because Angel was too. And when Spike wrapped his arms around him, Angel didn't pull back. When Spike stretched up on his toes and murmured into Angel's ear, Angel only clutched at Spike and let the words flow over him. He could take it. Angel had done this to him so he could damn well stand here and take it.
"My, someone has issues." That wasn't Spike's voice, that was… his own voice. Angel pulled away from the arms holding him and frowned in distaste.
"Angelus."
"Oh, you are the smart one, aren't you? What gave me away? My keen fashion sense?" His face, his own face, was laughing back at him.
"Haven't we already done this once this century?" Angelus didn't scare him. Not like this, not still trapped within him. "You should have stuck with the Spike scenario."
"I got bored." Angelus shrugged, a fluid movement of shoulders and silk. "There are only so many times we can have that dream before it just doesn't do it for me the way it used to." Angelus grinned and leaned into him. "I like the Buffy dreams much better. That girl, she was something else, wasn't she?"
"Shut up." The best response to Angelus was no response but Angel couldn't help himself. "You don't get to talk about her."
"Well then, I suppose we could discuss your deep emotional problems." Angelus strolled over to the bloody wall and appeared to study the writing on it. "That's always good for a laugh."
Angel walked up beside the demon and clasped his hands behind his back. He slid a glance to his left and gave a small half-smile. Compared to how his life was going this was actually kind of soothing. Angel frowned. That, in and of itself, was more than a little disturbing.
"Well, I just live for your amusement. What are you doing here?" Angelus was always a whispering voice inside him but he usually didn't invade Angel's dreams.
"Maybe I just want to catch up, see how the whole hero thing is going. Not looking too good from my end." Angelus dragged a finger through the drying blood and delicately licked it clean before turning to Angel and winking. "That's our Will to a tee. Funny how well you remember some things, isn't it? No matter how long you've went without. "
"That's enough." That was more than enough. He knew from the way it smelled, even in his dreams, that it was Will's blood, Spike's blood, on the wall. "You have five seconds and then I start kicking your ass. What are you doing here?"
"Distracting you." Angelus reached out to coat his finger again and Angel grabbed his wrist. Angelus just smirked as his muscles strained to push his fingers closer and closer to their goal. "How's that working by the way?"
"Distracting me from what?" Angelus finally gave up his little game and threw Angel back into the middle of the room.
"Oh no." Angelus wagged his finger. "That's not how the game is played and you know it." He tapped his lips with a finger as if thinking. "You could try begging though. I always loved it when they begged. And cried. And screamed. Come to think of it," he said laughingly, "I just loved the whole damned thing. What does that say about my deep emotional problems, do you think?"
"That you're a psychotic asshole?" Angel smirked back at his doppelganger.
"Flattery will get you… exactly what you want this time, soul boy. This should be good for, oh, I don't know, a week of mental pain and suffering at the least." Angelus tilted his head back and closed his eyes, sighing deeply. "Don't you just love the sound of screams in the afternoon?"
Angel cocked his head, listening. He could hear someone screaming in the background. Where was that coming from?
Oh shit, Spike…
ooo