Chapter 16
An eerie kind of stillness
hovered over the hotel. Their lives had been razed and it was with a sense of
numbness that they gazed upon the ground zero of their existence. They kept to
themselves, although gradually, between the cracks in the silence, seeped the
clank and clatter of everyday life, where words were traded like precious
jewels in miserly exchanges.
One morning, Gunn happened
to wander into the kitchen as Wesley boiled a kettle. Respecting the other
man’s privacy, he quickly retreated, but Wes heard his footsteps and called
after him, offering him coffee. Gunn hung precariously in the moment before
casually accepting. It wasn’t quite expressions of forgiveness or
understanding, but it was close enough for these wounded souls.
They drank together in
silence.
Angel finally picked up the
weapons they had dropped, which lay like abandoned relics, crusted with blood
and guts. Wearily he gathered them up and brought out the oil and the cloths.
“You want a
hand?” Gunn asked.
Angel nodded, and once
again, silence settled as they worked together and scoured away remnants of
that day.
On moments such as these
they laid the foundation of their new lives.
Lorne continued secluding
himself from company, or rather their company.
It struck him for the first
time that his friends were killers. Sure, he knew they were warriors, the word
trailed clouds of nobility in its wake. Having experienced battle, he could see
nothing noble or honourable in such things. It was gut clenching fear, the
steady beat of skins, and ferocious war cries that rang out like dread
melodies, and each one spoke of death and agony. He had stood uncertainly,
wondering what in the Power’s name he was doing there and had vowed he
wouldn’t take a life. The vow was shattered as he’d stuck cold
steel into the ancient sorcerer.
His sensitive psyche
contained a dark blemish that seeped into him like poison. His talent for
reading people disappeared, hearts no longer bared their secrets to him, the
future was a wall of granite through which he could not pass. And he mourned
this loss more than he ever thought possible.
Lorne, the anagogic demon
who helped people, couldn’t be reconciled to Lorne, killer of the weak
and infirm. Lacking the finesse of a killer, he’d stabbed the point of
his sword into the sorcerer’s throat, and could still feel the spray of
blood on his face, the taste of it in his mouth…. No matter how many sea
breezes he poured down his gullet the taste of murder remained with him.
He finally admitted to
Wesley that his psychic abilities had vanished.
“It’s punishment
for the blood on my hands.” He pulled a face. “And on my
tongue.”
“I don’t
understand why… I mean, if you hadn’t have wielded that blade and
everyone had died, would that have made your guilt less? You probably saved
thousands.”
Lorne looked at his hands,
convinced he could see rust coloured substance ingrained beneath his nails.
“If that’s true,
if I did the right thing, why has my talent left me?” he asked miserably.
“Personally, I believe
your predicament is psychological. Your talent requires your internal balance
to be finely tuned. You acted against your nature, and despite having the best
intentions this experience shook your world, in effect, destroyed your
equilibrium. Really it would be marvellous if one such as yourself were
unaffected by that battle.”
“So it’s all in
my noggin? Well that’s not good news, Sugarplum. You do remember last
time I spilled my marbles across the floor?”
They both shuddered…
Lorne recalled the giant green demon he’d unleashed, and Wes, his
embarrassing turn as the party drunk. They both shook the disturbing memories
away.
“It seems to me that
the problem stems from your perception of Cyvus as someone fragile and weak.
You need to disabuse yourself of such notions.” Wesley thought for a
second. “I have books containing extracts of his life and habits. Perhaps
if you re-evaluated your deeds in the light of that information, if you
understand exactly what you destroyed that day, then you can reconcile yourself
to your actions.”
Lorne looked unconvinced.
“I know he was a
powerful sorcerer, but I could also see he was just some old guy, too weak to
defend himself. I know what I murdered, but thanks for trying.”
Nonetheless, later that day
Wesley delivered the books to him, and Lorne spent the rest of the afternoon
locked in his room.
Meanwhile, as they patiently
cleaned axes, swords and knives Gunn finally asked a question that was
bothering him.
“How do you do it,
man?”
“Uh, well, plenty of
oil. There’s no such thing as too much oil. Grind out the nicks and
dents, sharpen the blade and finish off with a clean oilcloth to polish.”
Angel was relieved that the
question was innocuous. He’d been half afraid that….
“No. I mean, live with
the things you’ve done.”
“Oh that.”
He continued the final
polish of a knife. It had been well used in the battle, one of his favourites,
with its plain hilt and sharp blade, beautiful and functional, decoration on
such a weapon would have been superfluous.
“What else can I do?”
he asked. “If I thought
killing myself would balance the books then I’d have done it years ago.
But what’s the point of that? How would it help anyone? It’s a
coward’s way out. The difficult thing is living with it. Everyday, every
hour, each decision you make, each person you help. You buy back self worth in
dribs and drabs, then one day you stand tall again, realising it’s no
longer redemption that you seek, but the satisfaction of making a difference to
someone’s life.”
“So you’re
saying wanting to be redeemed for an action is selfish?”
“Not exactly.
I’m saying it’s a starting point. A springboard to something
better.”
They fell back into silence,
and Gunn contemplated his words.
Lorne joined them later that
night. For the first time in a while, Gunn looked beyond himself and his own
misery.
“Hey, How you
doing?”
Lorne raised a smile.
“Funny enough, I’m beginning to feel better.”
“Really?” Gunn
smiled back. “That’s great.”
“I still have a
problem with killing, but if that bastard returns I’ll gut him
slowly.”
“Uh.…”
Gunn wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. “I guess you can
do that and keep him alive. Painful though.”
“Kind of thought it
might be,” Lorne replied flatly.
Gunn looked across to Wesley
for help, who caught the look and smoothly stepped in.
“So the books helped.
Good. Do you know if you can still read people? Would you like one of us to
sing?”
Lorne looked around at them
and could feel their pain screaming at him. Events were still too fresh and raw
for each of them, he shuddered at the thought of hearing it in song.
“Not yet, Sugarcakes.
Maybe later, ‘kay? Until then, who fancies a gorgeous, frothy, chocha
mocha, with my own secret ingredient?”
For his sake, Wesley perked
up and smiled.
“Is that the one with the
dash of Kahlua?”
“You’ve given
away the secret, Wes. Now he’ll have to kill us,” Gunn joked, and
then turning the words over in his head; his grin became sickly, took to its
bed and pulled the covers up high.
Lorne gamely kept his fixed
to his face. “Don’t fret it, Peachkins, I appreciate the
effort.”
He made them a drink anyway, and
contained a smile at the sight of three hard-bitten warriors with frothy
moustaches on their upper lips. This was all they were, just people with the
ability to rise up to challenges without regard to personal cost.
They in turn, found the
warmth of the drink seeping into their bones, the sweetness was comforting, the
alcoholic kick relaxed them, and for a moment frown lines disappeared from
their battle weary features. If Lorne could, he would have kept them like this
forever.
So the days passed, with
little breakthroughs for each of them, but there were two gaping wounds, which
no one yet dared to probe. Until
one night, Angel discovered Wesley sitting next to a fire, whiskey glass in
hand and a half empty bottle at his feet. He approached the man cautiously, but
Wes was merely staring blankly into the leaping flames.
“Why did he do
it?”
Angel froze, wanting to
flee. He wasn’t ready for this, may never be ready, but one look at
Wesley’s empty eyes and he found a streak of courage, and moved into the
circle of firelight.
“It was supposed to be
me. It was foretold, I would be the one who unleashed her on hell. She was the
timebomb and I should have led her to the target, it should have been
me.”
“Yes, it should
have.”
Wesley blinked at the
harshness. Still, it was better than lies and platitudes.
“It would have left
two whole people, instead there’s just you and me.”
“Yes.”
Angel waited, knowing there would
be more.
“So why did he do
it?”
“He, uh… You
know he gave up his soul to close the portal? Angelus brokered the deal.”
“No!” Wesley’s eyes
watered in sympathy for the doomed vampire he’d come to call friend. He
could hardly grasp such a sacrifice.
Angel said nothing.
“Oh bloody hell, the
poor, bloody sod. So he lost his soul, and sick at what he’d done
he… but no.” Wesley’s fuzzy brain doggedly followed the
thread of his thought. “He lost his soul, but that wasn’t it. He
looked towards you… and then decided he wanted to die?”
“Yes.” Angel
said again.
“Why? What did you
say? What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Angel
said. “He gave up his soul for us, and I was horrified. I said and did
nothing.”
Wesley returned to silently
staring into the fire, perhaps seeing once more the flames of hell licking at
two slim figures.
“So it was your
fault.”
The words were just a
statement, no judgement coloured his tone. There was no need, Angel judged
himself. He could hardly think, as contrary thoughts rolled and tumbled,
cracking painfully against each other, bursting like shrapnel through his head.
Wesley leant forward and
picked up the bottle, pouring liquid carefully into his glass. It seemed his
life had been saved and Spike’s lost by something as indiscriminate as a
mistimed look. How tenuous was the attachment to life that it could hang by
such absurd threads.
For Angel, it had all
happened so quickly. He’d been in shock, of course he hadn’t meant
to drive his childe away, but such thoughts were meaningless because Spike had
turned and left. He was quiet for a minute and when he spoke his voice was
soft.
“He suffered to gain
that spark, and was so damned proud of it. He used to irritate me; always telling
me he was different because of the way he earned his soul. It was true though.
It meant there was something about his demon he could respect and take pride
in. A demon asking for a soul, fuck, it could only be him. Because of that, he
accepted his demon, embraced it, trusted it even, he was whole in all the
places I was broken.
“Then I made him give
it up. It was his source of self respect and he had to willingly surrender it.
What words could I say, Wes? He looked to me for help and I had none to offer.
I judged him by my own experience, but what if I was wrong and he really is
different to me? Angelus moulded him the first time; maybe I could have done it
differently this time and created someone good?”
Wesley blinked rapidly.
“Perhaps. He tried so
bloody hard, but we’ll never know. Why did he always get the shitty end
of the stick?”
“I don’t
know.”
“At least he had you
for a while, he was happy then.”
“Yeah, I think he
was.”
Spike found it so easy to be
happy. He loved life, picked it up by the scruff of its neck and whirled it
around in his own manic dance. Angel had joined him briefly and had felt the
beat and the rhythm echo within his own heart. Spike had brought him back to
life. Now Angel was dying again.
“He took care of Fred
from the moment they met, until he took her hand at the end. He could be
abrasive and cutting, yet so gentle with her, sometimes a difficult man to
like, but impossible not to love.”
Again silence fell. Angel
thought the human had fallen asleep and was startled when he spoke again.
“I know I lost her
weeks before the battle. I should have let go.”
“It was hard seeing
her face everyday.”
“No, I was behaving
like a child, allowing myself the luxury of wallowing in grief. All noise and
ostentation and, poor me, look how I suffer. I despise it in others, but
didn’t recognise it in myself.”
“You’re too hard
on yourself. Why shouldn’t it be about you for a while? You suffered,
Wes.”
“No, it should have
been all Fred. Recalling all I could and tucking away her memories, happy times
that I could pull out someday to find that I’m laughing with her once
more. Instead I trailed after an image that barely even looked like her. I
confused
“I saw her too.”
“I think
“Maybe she was just
trying to comfort you, Wes. She thought you were about to die and knew who you
most longed to see.”
“Was there really that
much humanity in her?” Wesley wondered.
“She thought that Fred
had infected her.”
Wesley smiled fondly.
“She probably did.
There was enough humanity in her to infect the world.”
Angel turned to leave, but Wesley
grabbed at his wrist.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Staying. Listening. I
don’t know. Helping me to say goodbye to her tonight. I’m sorry. I
should have done it weeks ago.”
“No. It takes time to
reach this point.”
“Yes, I suppose it
does. You know when the time comes, I’ll be here for you too.”
“Thanks, Wes, but
there’s no need.”
“Oh. You’ve
already come to terms with his death? I suppose you’ve lived longer than
me, learnt through experience how to cope with such loss.”
“What? Oh, no. Just that
he’s not dead.”
“Angel! That’s
splendid news! Have you had a message from him?” Angel shook his head.
“Oh. But you can sense him, yes? The sire/childe bond! I should have
thought of it myself…”
But Angel was shaking his
head again.
“Then….”
Wesley was at a loss.
“Because I told him
that this would never be over between us. That he could burn up and die and it
still wouldn’t end.”
“Oh. Well….
Good.”
Angel heard his doubts, but
couldn’t afford to share them for a second. He’d abandoned Spike in
his hour of most desperate need, and the difficult thing was living with
himself. Everyday, every hour, each decision he made, each person he helped,
did nothing to buy back his self worth. He would never stand tall again until
he’d found Spike, explained why he had said nothing, redemption meant
jack shit until that time.
The following week someone
came in and asked if this was Angel Investigations. He held in his hand an old
flyer that he’d found in a bar. Had it only been a year?
Lorne told him no, Wes looked
to Gunn, who nodded.
“Yes,”
Wesley’s cultured tones overrode Lorne, “this is Angel
Investigations. How may we help you?”
Thus it began again.
oooo
A thin wailing bled through
his consciousness. His hearing was raw and over-sensitised, the noise seemed to
bypass his ears, and pierce through his brain like a hot steel wire.
He tried to ignore it and
sink back into the downy feathers of comfortable oblivion, but the shrieking
was persistent. Fingers of awareness scraped against protecting walls, crumbling
them to rubble and leaving him exposed.
He could see nothing but
darkness. Feel nothing but a deep searing, burning through his innards. His
mouth was without moisture, his tongue was a chunk of desiccated leather, and all
he could taste was cinders and ash.
That godawful screaming
still assaulted him.
After escaping for so long
he’d finally gotten what he deserved.
So, this was hell.
Yet the surrounding scent
told a different story. Fire, brimstone, torture and pain, all strangely
absent. The banshee wailing faded to soft noises of contentment and a gentle
crooning. He heard the sounds of peaceful breathing and the rustling of linen,
and then he felt a warm hand resting on his forehead. Something was pressed to
his lips, a heady scent filled his nostrils and he felt the rush of blood
gushing down his throat, soothing the dryness, easing the burning.
The source of this ambrosia
was eased away from his lips. He recognised the taste, the smell, the tender
touches.
He attempted to speak, but
what emerged was little more than a breath and went unheard.
The effort defeated him and
he floated back into darkness.
He drifted drowsily in and
out of consciousness, unaware of the passage of time. Sometimes he awoke and
all was empty and silent. He’d never liked being alone, yet here, despite
his blindness and immobility he felt cocooned and safe, it was the world beyond
that had become scary. Other times he heard noises, or a voice talking to him,
“See Baby, You’re getting better all the time.”
It would murmur its comfort
as life-giving blood pulsed against his tongue, soothing and healing his
physical hurts enough, so that one day he managed to prise open his eyes a
crack for the first time since he’d stood holding Fred’s hand on
the edge of hell. He closed them again, not quite ready to face the harshness
of memories that awaited him.
Today there was presence in
the room, a voice talking.
“Do you remember when
I came to you a few months ago? Gods you were beautiful. I only came because
portents and auguries were circling around Wolfram & Hart, and the vampires
with souls were at the epicentre. I was curious, Will. I never meant to get
involved, and then I met you again…. I found I couldn’t just leave
you to your fate.”
Spike felt a gentle touch to
his hand and heard a soft sigh.
“I knew what was
building and I helped you. Kept a watch over you. Did you never wonder why I
wore your skin around my wrist?”
Ghan?
The voice stopped but now Spike
was curious, he willed it to continue, and it obliged.
“It was my barometer,
and my link to you. When it turned to dust it would mean you’d
died.”
Spike wanted to ask why he
was still alive and must have made some small movement because his hand was now
being squeezed.
“Hey, can you hear me?
Are you listening to me, Will? Do you want to hear more?”
Spike used all his strength
to squeeze his hand, and Ghan must have felt some slight fluttering, because he
took up the story again.
“You know that time
moves differently here. If you had been staked I could do nothing but wipe the
ash from my wrist, but if you were being destroyed by fire I calculated that I
had a small window of opportunity in which to rescue you. When I first felt
heat radiating from the strip around my wrist, I was relieved. It meant I had a
chance to save you. I was prepared for it, but then you weren’t in the
world, you’d stepped through to hell… it took me precious minutes
to trace you, using the strip of skin as a physical link to trace you.
“Time moves slowly
here, but even so I was almost too late. Your skin around my wrist was
blackening. I was desperate; it was becoming grey around the edges and at any
second would flash into nothing. I finally located you, and slashed though
dimensions to reach you, your enemies were already burning. I think
There was silence, and Spike
was grateful for the chance to absorb all he’d heard. That explained the
burning pain he had felt.
“Here, I have to go.
Can you hear Trouble? He’s got some lungs on him.”
This last was so bizarre
that Spike decided that he had fallen into hallucinations.
oooo
He panicked.
He was with Wesley, Gunn and
Lorne and he panicked.
Putting his hand to his
pocket he’d found that the familiar shape was missing. He surreptitiously
tried the other pocket. Not there either. The meeting continued without him,
words faded to meaningless murmurs of sound.
Everyone was looking at him
so he nodded, which seemed to satisfy them.
Where the hell was it? He
patted at his inner pocket.
“Angel? Is everything
alright?”
“Yes…”
Casting his mind back he
remembered talking on the telephone, it had been in his hand then….
“Angel?”
“Sorry?”
“We were discussing
advertising the Agency.”
“Great idea.”
“The hotel?”
“What?”
“Angel….
Let’s take a break. Tea? Coffee? O positive?”
The others moved into the
kitchen, whilst Angel retraced his steps of this morning.
Thank God! There it was,
perched next to the telephone.
Wesley returned with heated,
decanted blood bag. Living with Angel and Spike had caused them all to lose
their squeamishness. In the end they’d hardly blinked at Spike’s
concoctions, quickly learning that any foods tinged red or pink were probably
best left unsampled.
Something was clasped in
Angel’s hand. Wesley made out a gleam of dull silver.
“Is that his
lighter?” he asked quietly.
Angel reluctantly opened his
hand
“Yeah.”
Some days he almost forgot
it was there. It had become a part of him, either in his pocket or in his hand.
There was something reassuring about it.
“Why his
lighter?”
Angel slumped down into a
seat. He knew why….
“I used to think of it
as him,” he confided, hoping Wesley would be able to help him sort out
the knots and tangles in his head.
“Uh… right. I
mean, no actually, I don’t understand…?”
Wesley was mesmerised as
Angel twirled it slowly in his fingers, critically examining it, as he probably
had done a thousand times since Spike had… left.
“It’s old and
tarnished like him.”
“It is. But nothing hides
the fact that it’s quality, sterling silver,” Wesley pointed out.
Angel continued fiddling
restlessly, clicking it, but the flint didn’t spark. Wesley suddenly had an insight into
where this was leading.
“And all of it
pointless without the flame inside,” he said.
Angel looked up. This was
the thought that confused and battered him.
“Kind of.”
“You’re wrong.
You’re so wrong.”
Angel shook his head sadly.
“Without a flame it
has no function, no purpose, no relevance. It’s not a lighter, but just
another piece of useless trash.”
His tightly controlled voice
made the words harsher still.
Blue eyes considered him
thoughtfully.
“Yet you keep it
anyway,” Wesley commented.
Angel had no answer. Yes, he
kept it, it was precious.
Wesley gave a small laugh
devoid of anything resembling humour.
“Sometimes your logic
escapes me. You’ve overstretched an analogy. Kept his lighter but thrown
him away. I never knew you could be such a fool. He’s not an inanimate
object. He’s a complex man! Who knows what he might have been capable
of?”
“That’s what
I’m afraid of. I know what Angelus was capable of....” Angel
muttered.
The look in his eye caused a
chill to run down Wesley‘s spine.
“I never knew Spike
before his ensoulment, but one thing I do know, even taking into account his
reputation, he wasn’t Angelus.”
“Maybe not at the
start, but Spike became what Angelus moulded him to be.”
Gunn walked in and caught
the tail end of the conversation
“Angelus and his
mini-me?” he asked, biting a mansize chunk out of a hamburger, and
spurting red chutney down his chin, giving rise to unfortunate connotations. He
wiped it away on the back of his hand, and then licked his hand clean.
“Except this time he wasn’t, was he? Angelus came back and Spike
didn’t fall in with him….”
“Which is why Angelus
sold his soul.”
“He didn’t, in
the end it was Spike’s choice, and that action has to be worth something
in the scheme of things.” Wesley disagreed.
The frown lines deepened on
Angel’s brow and he was more confused than ever. He couldn’t
reconcile Spike’s final actions with his soulless state.
“Great as it is to be
chewing the cud with my fellow bulls, what’s the point?” Lorne
looked around at them all. “He’s gone.”
Angel said nothing. Wesley
watched as his brow lowered and a small tic played along his jaw. Lorne
frowned.
“Angelpie, you need to let this out
before you explode, and you know, vampire guts? Kind of difficult to get out of
the carpet.”
“There’s nothing
to say,” his tone discouraged further discussion. Lorne shrugged and gave
up.
Once he was out of earshot,
Wesley let them know of Angel’s irrational belief that Spike was still
alive. It was only fair, since they would be amongst those closest to the
fallout.
oooo
Time passed, and he spent
many hours listening to Ghan, learning more about him during these times than
in the six months they’d lived together. Sometimes he became confused as
Ghan’s voice scolded, until he remembered the baby he’d foisted on
to the man, and realised that the soft haranguing was directed at the kid not
at him. As days and nights passed Spike recognised an increasing affection in
his voice, Ghan was growing to love the child.
His strength returned until
one day, to Ghan’s joy, he finally opened his eyes, and spoke of
something that had been gnawing at him for a while.
“You called the baby
Trouble?”
“Oh, Will!”
He felt the sudden weight as
a body flung itself atop of him.
“Are you smiling,
Will?”
“Can’t you
tell,” he breathed.
“Well….”
“Oh shit. Tell me the
worst. How do I look?”
“Well….”
He repeated, which told Spike all he needed to know.
“That bad?”
“You’re looking
better. I mean, on the bright side. You have lips and ears and eyelids
now….”
“That’s the
bright side? No hair then?”
“Not exactly.”
Spike felt a hand trail
across his skull.
“There’s
something. A bit bristly, but nevertheless.”
“Hair’s the
worst. Everything else heals and grows but hair is a real bugger. Takes longer
than human hair to grow.”
Ghan soothingly stroked his
stubbly head.
“It suits you.”
If he had some hair growth
then it had been more than mere days since the battle.
“How long? How long have I been
here?”
Ghan did a quick
calculation.
“It’s been three
weeks.”
“He’ll think
I’m dead.”
Ghan didn’t need to
ask which he.
“Probably. Don’t
forget it’s been much longer for him. Months.”
Spike became restless.
“I have to see
him.”
“You talk in your
sleep, Will. I know you went through the portal because of him.”
“I’ve had time to
think. I didn’t give him a chance, did I? Hell, if Angel had lost his
soul in a matter of seconds, he might have surprised the same look on my
face,”
“Perhaps, but
you’re too weak….”
“Ghan....” Spike pleaded.
“Ok. I’ll take
you there,” Ghan reluctantly agreed.
“Cheers, Mate. Will
you do me another favour? The way I look…. Just prepare him first will
you? Tell him what’s happened.”
“But Will! Why should
I? I don’t want you to go to him, and I don’t like him
and….”
“Please?”
“It’s not fair.
I forbid you to use puppy eyes on me…. Oh, gods alive! Alright.
I’ll do it.”
Ghan pouted and had the
distinct feeling he’d been suckered.
oooo
There was a noise outside
his office, a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
“Angel,” a voice
said softly.
He looked up at the last
person he would have expected to see.
“
She tentatively smiled at
the people gathered there, as though uncertain of her welcome.
“That’s me.
It’s good to see you all again. I heard about the battle and all, and had
to come.”
“You heard?”
“Angel, everyone knows
about your victory, it was incredible! Honestly, I don’t think the world
has seen anything like it before.”
“Victory?”
Somehow they had all lost
sight of the fact that they’d actually won, and more spectacularly than
they’d ever planned or dreamt.
“I’m sorry. I
know you lost a lot that day. Fred was a wonderful person and
Spike….”
Her mouth became a thin,
drawn line as she controlled her emotions, but nothing could hide the luminous
sadness in her eyes.
Wesley walked forward. Fred
had loved talking to this intelligent girl. They had sparked off each other,
delighting in having someone who could follow the speed of their thoughts. He wasn’t a tactile man by nature,
but he crossed the space between them, drew her into his arms and rubbed her
back, allowing threatening tears to be blinked harmlessly into his shirt.
“I’m glad you
came,
She drew back with a sniff.
“I came because I know
you’ve lost people, so if you want extra help for a few months,
you’ve got yourself a volunteer.”
Angel turned to her,
eyebrows raised. “Now you want to help?”
“Yes, I do. And
I’m sorry about earlier. Buffy didn’t ask my opinion…
although, to be fair, I was kind of away at the time.”
“Cherrypie, I for one
am glad to see you. You’re a breath of fresh air.” Lorne smiled.
“You get my vote, too.
We could always do with extra help,” Gunn said.
“Well that’s
agreed then. Welcome to Angel Investigations,” Wesley beamed.
“So where are your
bags, Girl? I’ll go fetch them.”
“Well?” she
asked, aware that he had not yet approved.
She tentatively she reached
out and touched his hand. It was the first physical contact he’d had with
anyone since Spike….
“I guess we could give
it a go on a trial basis. Sure why not?” His lack of enthusiasm was embarrassingly
noticeable, but she squeezed his hand, and they bustled away to choose a room
for her.
Somehow normality was
returning to their lives, and Lorne was right she was a breath of fresh air. It
frightened Angel, how quickly the atmosphere changed. He could feel events
conspiring to loosen his stranglehold on the past. He settled down to do some
work, trying to avoid dwelling on the reason he didn’t want someone new
here. Why he didn’t want
“Angel? We’re
going to show
They were talking of coffee
shops and pastries.
Inexorably life was moving
on. He could see a new existence spreading before him, filled with the sound of
humans. Chatter and laughter and tears. There would be new dramas and crises.
He would be dragged back by their needs, forced to live and pretend… and
pretend…..
His head was in his hands
and tears rolled down his cheeks as his body shuddered with painful, wracking
sobs.
He’d let Spike go into
hell. Driven him there. And he missed him. Missed his voice and his laugh and
his touch. He missed having someone
who understood him, only now did he truly realise how Spike had watched over
him, read his moods, provoked and protected, cared for him, in a hundred
different ways.
He didn’t give a damn
about souls, in his heart Spike was only ever Spike, nothing more or less.
After all these months he
couldn’t pretend anymore. The slender, overstretched thread of hope
snapped with a stinging twang. Spike was gone and the world was nothing. He had
to accept that this was all there was.
When the others returned
they were pleased to find that Angel was more like his old self, talking about
work and making plans. They happily joined in, and like Angel, they finally
felt events at W&H were drifting into the past. They were putting down
roots and beginning to grow into their new lives.
It was with relief that
Angel saw the last of them yawn and disappear. Wearily he sank back into his
chair. He’d somehow made it through the first day of the rest of his life.
There was a knock at his
office door, and he carefully composed his features once more.
And the past came in and
punched him in the guts.
“Mede,” he said
coldly.