It’s Christmas Eve.
“Since when does that mean anything to us,” he asks me, or whispers anyway. He’s weak. Got ripped open by old Claus himself. Claws. Big, long, sharp claws. I had turned for a second to take out one of those psychotic elves, and when I looked behind me, Spike was on the floor, torn up like a sugar-happy kid’s biggest present- except more blood. It was not pretty. Somehow, he had managed to lop the Jolly Old Soul-less guy’s head off before he hit the ground. Thank God for small mercies. If not, we would have been royally screwed. The folks at the mall where Santa (the real, not so nice one) had decided to make his annual appearance either ran like hell, or just stood there, gawking, like sick fucks as I tried to hold Spike together. Literally.
Now I’m spending my Christmas Eve looking after the one person who I’ve been trying to get rid of for over 3 months. My Grand-Childe. And this is really pissing me off, because, hey, I could so just leave. I have no obligation to sit here and feed this asshole blood, this same asshole who slept with my one true love, and tried to steal my destiny from me. MY DESTINY! But for some stupid reason I’m not leaving. And for some stupid reason, when I saw him lying on the floor, his insides all outside-ish, I felt my stomach go all weird, and not just because it was very nasty, but because I was scared. What a time for paternal instincts to kick in. After what, 100 years or so?
“Where are we?” he says, coughing up some blood in the process.
“Back at Wolfram and Hart. You passed out back at the Mall.” I say it with a twinge of attitude, trying to look annoyed by the whole ordeal, as if he’s this huge inconvenience. He turns his head down to get a look at himself. Obviously, he doesn’t like what he sees, and his eyes start to water, and I’m getting more and more uncomfortable. He looks up at me like a terrified child. Oh, Christ. I put a hand on his shoulder. What am I doing?
“You’ll be alright boy.” And I have never called him that! Only Angelus calls him that.
“I feel like someone yanked my guts out, hacked ‘em up, and shoved ‘em back in,” he groans. I make a pained face, and have to look away briefly, but it’s long enough. “Oh. Bloody hell,” he sighs, realizing that that’s exactly what has happened.
“You’re lucky.”
“M-hmm. Being eviscerated was right up there on my Christmas wish li--” Spike’s sarcasm is cut off abruptly by a coughing fit. When it subsides, he closes his eyes tightly and takes a tired breath, as if trying to will away the pain. I hate this. Have I mentioned that already?
I can see Wesley peering into the Medical lab (that’s where we are, by the way), and I take it as an excuse to get away from Spike for a couple of minutes.
“Is he alright?” Wes asks me out in the hallway. He’s always asking the stupidest questions just to be polite.
“He’s not dust, Wes. Normally, that’s a good sign.”
“Sorry. I know. It’s just that I thought something might be wrong. You staying with him . . .it just seemed odd.”
“He’s in a lot of pain.”
“Yes. And I’m sure he’s handled worse, Angel.”
“I know he has.” I’m getting irritated.
“So then, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. Nothing is going on.” And I’m angry.
“Alright,” he replies, thoughtfully. As if he just knows. Damn it.
“He’s my boy, that’s all. He’s my boy.” I’m looking down at my feet.
“Yes. I suppose he is.”
For some stupid reason, I spend the rest of Christmas sitting in a ridiculously uncomfortable chair in the Medical lab, watching over the vampire who slept with my girl, tried to steal my destiny, and who has on numerous occasions tortured me and tried to stake me. And I feel like I’m doing something right.
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