Cherries

By Javawolf

Author's Note: Thanks to all my reviewers. I took the week off my other stories to give more attention to this one. I may continue doing a shift off, which means longer waits but better writing. It's completely up to the readers.

ShinodaBear: Well, I'm glad you weren't angry. I feared I might offend you somehow, but I was compelled to do it anyway. I wonder what kind of person that makes me? Hmm... Well, I'm glad you're still reading! "Now this, I didn't miss–cryptic poetry." Heh, heh! Oh, BTW, send me a postcard from Cloud 9!

Ricechex: I love brownies! Oh thank you! grin And a hug too? Wow! You sure know how to make a writer feel special. D hugs you back You're not so old, you know. In your prime! Be happy, eat some brownies!

Ducklips: Ah, yes. Cherries. Well, it was Spike's line in 'Harm's Way.' "You can't really top an exit like that." It's somewhat lame, but cherries was a sad attempt at simile. I'm planning on some line at the end of the story to bring light to it.

MarieP & SpikingJennsAngel: I have done it. It may not happen again for some time, it depends on Blaise's mood. For this, you may thank Ricechex and her fabulous brownies. They lift anyone's mood!

raga2dope: You remind me an awful lot of a friend of mine. Don't ask me why, I can't place it. But you do. Anyway, I'm excited to have you reading, and I hope the wait has been worth it!

These dark contemplations fill even an angel's heart.

None today, and none to stay; though even death won't part

An angel from his evil, a child from their game–

Because, you see, this misery fills all of them the same.

Spike sat on his cot with the small black book he tended to drag around everywhere in secret. With no one watching him, he felt a certain freedom with his poetry, and was able to release everything and anything that had been on his mind. His efforts were being rewarded with mediocrity, however, and his patience was waning.

He did in fact have a room mate, and as he scribbled another line into his notebook the young man turned over in his sleep. With a low grumble and a murmur of something involving Martha Stewart he fell again into what seemed to Spike, the casual observer, to be a fairly pleasant and comfortable sleep.

Wow. This was really bloody boring...

Everyone on the entire ship had to be asleep by now. Not that he got along particularly well with any of them, but harassing people could be entertaining if you keep doing it. With not even a single person to annoy, aggravate, or argue with he was at a loss for what to do. What he wouldn't do for a box of cheap beer and a pogo stick...

A fire burns within them, destroying from inside.

In nothing lue, nobody knew for everyone must hide

This innate force of feeling; a tainted world of peace.

Running in rain, hate stills the pain. His torture cannot cease.

Ugh...

He was only thinking. But his thoughts were telling him maybe he didn't need to be watching sappy soap operas so often. It was corrupting his mind.

Groaning with quiet boredom and frustration, Spike mused what Angel might be doing at that moment. He was probably thought to be sleeping. He'd mentioned switching to the daylight hours, what with having escaped the risk of being fried sunny-side up. But he wouldn't actually be sleeping. Spike knew better than to assume that. Angel never slept anymore.

Growing more and more restless, Spike began absent-mindedly tapping his foot against one of the posts at the foot of his bed. He repositioned himself so that his head lay on his pillow, which he pushed against the wall. He relaxed, allowing one leg to fall lazily off one side of the bed, and the other to find it's home against to post, where it tapped a beat softly to relieve tension.

THIS WAS SO BORING!

Wouldn't it be funny, Spike mused, if there were a book about him? Even simply a short story describing in detail his battle against boredom, with the readers slowly sinking deeper and deeper into their chairs, slipping into the same state. He might have felt sorry for them, if such a thing were to ever happen. But of course, the idea was nonsense. Though naturally, some things did tend to happen in his world that were pretty screwed up. Who knows?

An illustrated smile and a laugh that hides hard years.

True words are real for men to steal and twist them into tears.

Hello, this is your narrator speaking. It is at this point that our favorite vampire losses his patience and begins violently carving crude swears and other such things into his little black note book. I'm afraid I cannot detail what these choice phrases might be, as they are not consistent with this story's rating. As it is, he will continue his fuming for some time, so let us leave him to it and look in on another vampire whom we all know and love. Give it up for–Angel!

Angel sank into his couch with a sigh, glancing tentatively at the small glass container which held the warm pig's blood he occasionally sipped, but decided against it he turned his attention out the window. It was exactly the same as any other night. Fairly dark, sparkling with the thousands of lights that lit Los Angeles' skyline. It was beautiful. But it was still exactly the same as last night. Except last night Spike had been here to complain about the crappy town that was hidden underneath all the lights. He hadn't found it funny before, but looking back on the moment, Angel couldn't help but chuckle. Spike had a way with words, that was one point to him. He also knew how to get out and have a little fun once in a while. Chances were he was on some cruise ship now, winning mountains of cash playing blackjack at the high roller tables. Those saps would never see him coming.

Angel fell back against the pillow. God, was he bored.

Suddenly and without warning the phone rang, causing Angel to jump right out of the couch and onto the floor with a loud thump and a short grunt.

"Oh... so vampires can't fly." He grumbled as he quickly jumped back to his feet and ambled over to the telephone.

"What?" He didn't mean to snap, but the person on the other end didn't seem to care.

"How did I know you were awake?" Came Wesley's dry, criticizing voice. Angel could sense Wesley's eyes rolling.

"How can you know I didn't just get rudely awakened at..." Angel glanced at his watch. "Whoa. Why are you awake?"

"I honestly don't know. I suppose my chemical balance is out of sync, probably due to dehydration or–"

"It's a simple question, Wesley."

There was an audible sigh on the other end. "I can't sleep."

"Sorry. So, why are you–"

"Yes, Angel, I was getting to that."

"So get to it."

"My, we're friendly this–well, morning, I suppose..."

"Wesley!"

"I–"

"No, Wesley–don't blow it!" Came another voice. Fred's voice.

"Wes, what's going on?" Angel growled, not bothering to mask the annoyance in his voice.

"I was put up to this, please understand it wasn't my–" There was a shuffling sound as Fred tore the phone from Wesley's hand, much to his protest from what Angel could make out.

"Okay, look–Angel?"

He sighed. "Yes, Fred?"

"Okay, well Wesley here was s'posta get to it slowly, but we all know he lacks certain undercover skills–"

"Hey!" Angel heard Wesley argue. "I fooled a gang of gun-toting psychopaths."

"Don't remind me. Anyway, Angel...we're all just a little concerned about you. You've been–we'll more taciturn than usual."

"Huh." Angel replied in an uninterested grunt.

"Don't be like that."

"Like what?"

"Can't you just be happy?"

"No, see, there's an issue with that." Angel sneered.

"Damn it, you know what I mean. Wes and I are up at Goodness-knows-when, because we're worried about you. And, oh! Lorne's just walked in–he's on the line, Lorne, say hi."

"Cheer up, Angel-cakes!" Lorne called into the telephone. Angel rolled his eyes.

"Really guys, this is touching; and I'm glad to know you care about me, but I'm fine."

"I've heard that line." Fred replied dryly. "Heck, I've used that line–recently!"

"Fine, just–bother me tomorrow." And with that, he hung up, and slouched miserably to the shower. Hopefully after some relaxation he could get some sleep. Ha, ha... Fat chance.

Spike jotted down one final line into his notebook, which was taped and tattered, but otherwise functional. Glancing at his watch, and satisfied that the sun must be coming up and now was as good a time as any to catch some Z's, he kicked his shoes off his feet and made himself comfortable in the bed. As he fluffed the pillow up to his satisfaction the last line of his sorry poem rang echos in his mind.

An angel walks with broken wings, his head hung in his shame.

Because, you see, this misery fills all of them the same.