For The Love Of The Childe
Author: Fyre
Rating: PG-15 with one naughty word.
Spoilers: Basically, series 4 - BtVs and Series 1 - Angel. Just after
out favourite blondie bear has gotten the chip, but this is NOT like
the chip the Nish gave him. It's shortly after 'I fall apart' cos Wes
is on the scene, so the timeline technically works out.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not fair. Am I gonna get it? Not likely.
Notes: This is my first attempt at an Angel POV and I still stick by
the fact that Angel IS Spike's Sire, no matter what poncy joss
decides - My reasons? "You were my Sire man!" - School Hard & "I'll
stake me old Sire, meself." - In the Dark. So that's my argument.
Enjoy the fic.
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He's here.
Without even needing to leave my building, I can tell, as always.
Though we both may deny it vehemently...note: kill Wesley or take
him off his diet of dictionaries...anyway, getting back to what I was
saying, both he and I still feel the bond, spite of everything that
we've been through.
Ascending the stairs, I know I better be in the office when he
decides to show face. He'll be out for blood, as usual. Nothing ever
changes with my beautiful boy.
Cordelia says nothing, raises one of her perfectly plucked
eyebrows, realises she is getting no response and turns her attention
back to her half-painted nails. Wesley - however - is oblivious,
buried up to his neck in books.
Never thought there would be a day when I would have an ex-Watcher
working for me, willingly. Or a brainy former cheerleader - and like
everyone else, I assumed that would be a contradiction in terms, but
not with Cordy.
Looking at the two people who are now the most important to me,
it's almost laughable. Both of them seem so...insignificant.
And yet, I feel I have to protect them from whatever might be
coming, brought on the storm that my favourite childe is always bound
to arrive in.
He always was one for a big entrance.
His presence grows closer, quicker as the dulling twilight deepens
into night, the electric glow of the streetlights flickering outside
the half-shuttered windows. I can almost hear the screeching of his
tires, as that battered DeSoto roars down the street.
Sitting down near the desk, ignoring the questioning glances
flitting between Seer and Watcher, I wait, patient.
You see, brooding really does have some uses. You can sit for
hours, doing nothing without getting bored, just...thinking. Or not
thinking, whatever feels right. Staring into space and looking blank
is also a good trick to use.
Then the door opens slowly, that familiar scent creeping in like a
wisp of mist. The startled gasps from my employees tell me that my
instincts were right, but there's something in my boy's flavour that
is...wrong.
"Still brooding, ya great poof?" Nothing more than the usual
greeting to the others, I can hear the faint, strained note in his
voice. That tiny tremor that tells me if he didn't say something, he
would scream.
I don't want to look at him for fear of what I'll se. For my childe
to be frightened, I know something must be truly wrong. For him to
come to me of his own accord, that is a clear indication that I'm
going to regret looking up, but I have to.
"Spike." Starting at his feet, my eyes move up his body. Still lean
and dangerous, with that damn jacket covering that perfect body of
his, I see. Finally, I reach his face, forcing myself to stifle a
gasp of shock. "What brings you here?"
He shrugs. "Thought I'd stop by for a drink and a natter about old
times, mate." There's a pleading gleam in his empty, hopeless eyes,
desperately begging that I don't humiliate him in front of the two
humans, that I don't reveal his weakness.
I could never resist those eyes, so I nod, rise.
"Angel, are you crazy?" Cordelia grabs my arm. "Hello? Blonde demon
who tried to kill you last time you saw him?"
Reassuring her that I'm safe and that Spike won't - or at least,
better not - try anything, I lead my childe down to my home.
He walks behind me, his heavy footfalls and silence a definite
indication that something is seriously wrong. No insults, no smart-
ass comments, nothing. I used to wish he would shut up. Now, all I
want is for him to talk to me.
Halting in the living room, he looks around. He's been here before,
but he feigns interest, trying for casual. "Nice place you've got
here...dark..." His hands grip the back of couch, as I walk to the
kitchen and, even from that distance, I can see his knuckles
whitening.
Gritting his teeth, he presses his eyes shut for a long moment,
then casts a feeble variation of one of those infamous devil-may-care
grins at me.
"Drink?" I offer, a surge of memories trickling through my mind at
that grin. All the memories of why he was and always will be my
favourite. Even when I was with my Buffy, I used to think of my
childe more often than not.
He shrugs, pulls out his lighter and a half-empty packet of
cigarettes. Lighting up, he continues to toy with the lighter, as he
makes his way to the kitchen and slowly sits down at the table. "Why
the hell not?" He says dully, twists the lighter between his fingers,
a noticeable tremor visible in those long, slim white hands.
"Two Bloody Mary's minus the Mary." I try a pathetic joke, but
don't even manage to raise a snort of disgust out of him. Something
is really wrong with my boy.
The silence between us was unnerving. There was nothing to be said,
as I warmed a mug of blood for him and sat down on the opposite side
of the table, watching my childe's blue eyes for some flicker of
emotion.
He looks so much paler and gaunter than I could ever remember
seeing him. Even those months when I had joined him and Dru in
Sunnydale, when he was trapped in that wheelchair, he had seemed more
alive than he did now.
Sipping the blood, his eyes remained fixed on a knot in the surface
of the table, one black-nailed finger occasionally running around the
rim of the mug absently. A feathery curl of smoke swirls from the
cigarette that is tightly gripped between his fingers.
"Spike?" No reaction but an acceleration of his finger tracing
round the mug. Laying my own mug to the side, I prop my elbows on the
table, watching him, staring, hoping that it might stir him to yell
at me like he used to.
He hated being watched like an animal, used to always growl "Keep
staring and I'll rip your eyes out their bloody sockets."
But nothing. No motion, no action, nothing.
Time for another tactic.
"Will." A twitch. "Will, look at me."
Those once lively blue eyes rose to mine. The despair and pain
etched there made me want to stake myself. My boy, my sweet Will, was
in pain and I had done nothing about it, nothing to help him.
Then something remarkable. A small, genuine smile. "Thank you." He
whispers. He seems on the verge of tears, tipping his head back to
stare at the ceiling, blinking fiercely, moistening his dry lips with
the tip of his tongue. Slowly, he lowers his head and looks at me. "I
had no one else to go to, Sire." He forces an explanation.
When my erstwhile boy calls me 'Sire', it only increases my worry.
I haven't been called that for over a hundred years now, even when I
lost my soul two years ago. My demon feels it too, feels that his
belonging is in torment.
"Childe..." I don't know what to say. It's been so long since I've
been in this position. Every fibre in my being screams I should
comfort him the only way demons know how, but my human side knows my
childe has his own human side, in spite of the demon.
My boy seems to sense my uncertainty and gives me that tragic smile
again, rising to his feet. "I know." He acknowledges, walking back
into the main area of the room, his back to me, his thin shoulders
rigid.
He raises his shaking hand to his lips, inhaling a drag from his
glowing cigarette and even though he's motionless, I can smell the
salty tang of his tears on the air.
My boy never cries, never. Through our years together, through the
dominating, the torture, the humiliation, everything, I don't recall
one instance of seeing my beautiful childe weeping in front of me.
Moving to him, I lay a hand on his shoulder. He stiffens and I can
feel how much thinner he is now, the bone of his shoulder pressing
against my hand through the heavy leather of his black duster.
Crushing his cigarette in his hand, he pivots, raises his eyes to
me. Tears rain down his cheeks, leaving rose-tinted tracks down the
hollows beneath those perfect cheekbones, his lower lip caught
anxiously between his teeth.
Abruptly, he's in my arms, clinging to me with the desperation of a
lost child. His cool cheek presses against my chest, his arms around
my waist as shuddering sobs rip through his narrow body.
Holding him, giving him the comfort he needs, I let my demon
surface, start purring softly, to reassure him. Running my hand over
his slicked-back hair, I try and hold in my own tears, as my boy's
pain tears through me.
Finally, his cries fade, softening and he steps away, placing
barely a foot between us, as he scrubs his face roughly with the back
of his hand. "Look whose the soddin' nancy boy, now." He
half-smiles
with a trace of his old self.
"What's wrong, Spike?" I cup his chin in my hand. Running my thumb
down his cheek, I force myself not to remember the old days, the days
we would sit for hours, barely touching, yet feeling more than either
of us believed.
His blue eyes snap up, locking with mine, a sudden fire burning
there with an intensity that terrifies me as much as it intrigues
me. "Do you still love me, Sire?"
My hand falls away at the question. That was the one thing that had
remained unsaid between us. It had never been spoken of, because no
words were necessary.
His eyes drop, he turns, starts to walk away. The slump in his
shoulders speaks of defeat and despair and I know I have to know
what's wrong with him. My first and truest love. When Buffy had asked
if I loved anyone, my response that I'd only ever loved one girl was
true. One girl and one beautiful man.
"Yes."
He freezes, his back to me, chin tilted arrogantly. I recognise
what he's doing. It was this way in the past. It would seem to
observers that he was defying me, but it was our game, ours and ours
alone.
I step behind him again, my chest nigh brushing against his back.
My mouth close to his ear, I whisper the words I know he needs to
hear. "I love you, Will."
"And I, you, Angelus." His voice is equally soft, trembling with
emotion, his entire body still as taut as a coiled spring. Slowly he
turns, returns those beautiful blue eyes to mine, indecision in his
features. "That's why I came to you."
I wait, knowing that whatever he is about to say is going to be
some kind of bombshell. My boy always did like to be dramatic.
"I..." His voice wavers, another tear breaking from his
eye. "Bloody hell...I can't believe I'm getting so worked up about
this..." He tries to smile, but the pain in his eyes holds him
back. "I want you to..." He swallows hard and unnecessarily. "To kill
me."
"What!?" Yes, sir, that was definitely the manliest squeak I've
heard a two hundred and forty seven-year-old vampire make.
"Are you getting deaf?" He stares at me. "I want you to kill me. Is
it so hard to understand?"
I take a step back, shaking my head. This can't be happening. "No.
You can't ask me to do that! Anything but that, Will, please..."
"I'm dying, Angelus." He grates painfully, tears streaming
unashamedly down his taut face. "I mean, look at me, for fuck's sake!
You can see it! Some bloody bastards put something in my head...It's
killing me...taking me apart from the inside...it's so bloody
painful..."
"No...there's gotta be a way to get it out." His jaw tightens, blue
eyes blending into gold, blazing with hurt and pain. He shakes his
head once. No. There's no other way. "Please, Will...please don't
make me do this to you..."
His hand plunges into his pocket, producing a stake, proffering it
to me. "You were the one who gave me life." He speaks softly, his
voice lisping slightly though his fangs, rough with emotion. "I want
you to be the one to take it back."
"No!" Storming away, I feel my own fury and despair bubble to the
surface. My childe, my love, my Will...he's dying and there's nothing
we can do about it. He wouldn't come to me, unless it was true.
He doesn't move, his head hanging, the stake slowly twisting
between his shivering hands. Leaning against the wall, I try not to
look back at him, try not to let my broken heart show. "Why?" He
finally asks.
"Why?" Not looking at him, I bunch my fists, fighting the urge to
rip my heart out my chest and throw it to the floor and stamp on
it. "What do you mean why? You show up here, you ask me if I love
you, when you know that I do, then you ask me to kill you...why do
you think?"
He chuckles. Not the wicked laugh I remember, but a dull, hollow
sound. "Why do you think I asked you?" He demands. "Why do you think
I drove all the way here, hardly able to move because of the pain,
when I could just have gotten your precious Slayer to do the job? I
want to die at your hand, again. You are the only one I trust to do
this for me."
"NO!" That really is my word of the day. Clasping my hands over my
ears, I sink to my knees against the wall, shaking my head. I won't
kill my boy. I won't. I won't. I won't. "Never!"
I feel more than hear him approach. His duster sweeps softly
against my hunched shoulder. He kneels beside me, touches one hand to
my head. Drawing my hands away from my ears, he makes me look at
him. "Please, Angelus."
"How?" I ask him, cupping his pain-filled face in my hands. "Tell
me that, Will. You know how I feel about you. You know I'd do
anything if it meant we could be the way we were, before, but how can
you expect me to kill you, just like that?"
He lowers his eyes momentarily. "Because," Those overwhelming eyes
burn into mine once again. "You love me."
Pulling him into my arms, I feel him bury his face against my
shoulder, his shaking body sliding between my knees. He holds onto me
desperately and I know that I owe him a merciful death, even if I
don't want it.
I can see the pain my childe is in. It's etched in his every
gesture, his stiff, lifeless body, his hollow empty eyes that crave
death, the end. I can't leave my childe at nature's brutal mercy, let
him be ripped apart from the inside out.
He may have done evil, he may have been a brutal killer, a
murderous demon, but that doesn't change the fact I will love him for
all eternity. The fact that I can't bear to see him hurting, as he is
now.
Who can say how long we knelt there, holding each other. It could
have been minutes. It could have been hours. It could even have been
days. Nothing mattered then, just as nothing will ever truly matter
anymore when my love is dead.
Resting my chin on the top of his head, I exhale a slow sigh,
running my fingers down the back of his familiar neck. "All right,
Will." I murmur softly. The words are the hardest I've ever had to
utter. Harder than telling Buffy I was leaving. Harder than anything
I've ever had to say before.
He raises his head, his tragic smile shattering the remains of my
broken heart. "Thank you, Sire." He whispers, raising his hand to
trace one finger down the tracks of my tears that rolled silently
down my cheeks. "I love you, so bloody much."
"And I, you." I repeat his earlier words, gently covering his mouth
with mine, kissing him with all the love and despair and every other
emotion I'm feeling, as my hand reaches for the stake on the floor.
I don't want my boy in pain. I don't want his death to be painful.
I just wish he had chosen someone else...yet, in a strange way, I
feel proud that he came to me, that he felt so deeply for me, he
wanted me to be his angel of death once more.
His hands slide to my shoulders, and I open my eyes to find his
closed. He trusts me entirely and I know I have to do this for him.
My left hand runs lightly over his back, my right, curled tightly
around a stake, rising towards his chest.
Drawing back, I plunge the stake through his heart, his eyes
snapping open and one last, beautiful smile crossing his lips as he
crumbles silently into nothing more than a pile of dust on the bare
floor.
Slumping against the wall, I feel the stake clatter from my
fingers, pulling my knees up to my chest, as I let the pain rip
through me. Staring at the soft heap of grey, I've never felt so
empty or lost in my life.
My childe, my best and most beautiful childe: my cocky, arrogant,
wild son: my wickedly sensual and delightful lover...gone.
I'm never going to see him again. That's what really hurts the
most. Knowing he has gone forever. That he won't show up and kick my
ass again, like he had done so many times in the past. He is gone and
this time, there were no promises for him to break.
I know what the others will no doubt think. They'll believe I hated
him and that I killed him for that reason and that reason only. That
I murdered him for being a cocky, arrogant son of a bitch who had
hurt me.
They'll be wrong.
I did it for the love of the childe.
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