All About Spike - Plain Version
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Sequel to In the Shadows
Some shadows will cloud you forever.
Pairings / Warnings: B/S/A – kind of (implicito-gall – that’s me!). If the
concept of slash and/or threesomes offends you, don’t read.
Timeline: A sequel to “In the Shadows” – I’m going AU, guys!
Things will make a lot more sense if you read that first but, if you want to
read this as a stand-alone, know that it is AU after “Grave” of BtVS and
“Ground State” of AtS. Buffy and Spike are happy together, Angel has been
secretly watching them. For the sake of my sanity, Cordy is yet to return –
we’ll ignore her for the time being.
Feedback: Always good to know I’m not the only pervert out
here. No, seriously now, give me some love ‘cause this fic took me months to
get finished and I’m not even sure I got it right.
Disclaimer: Not mine – if they were their little reunion would be
Thanks: To my wonderful betas: Lara Dean-Brierley who has the
patience to go over my gibberish and the insight to turn it into something
worth reading; and Xana who made sure I didn’t trample all over AtS canon, gave
valuable advice on Angel and came up with the title.
Author’s note: Please bear in mind that Angel loses his soul when he
experiences a moment of “true happiness” (Jenny Calendar’s words and therefore
canon). Not when he experiences a perfect lay (Darla, anyone?).
They were waiting for me
“Coming in or what?” asked
Buffy in a neutral voice, her figure outlined by the light from inside.
Couldn’t make out her face. She looked both defenseless
and threatening with her arms crossed over her breasts.
The illusion of fragility
vanished as I came nearer. She extended one hand, invitingly.
“Mi casa es su casa.”
My house. Their home.
They knew I’d been coming
to see them. How could they not? Foolish of me to have thought otherwise.
They knew what I wanted
too. But they needed to hear me say it.
“Why are you here, Angel?”
So I played the part of the
petitioner. And why not? They deserved at least that. They deserve a lot more.
A lot better than me. But they had found it – in each other.
And they were willing to
She changed. Body grown
ripe into the soft curves of womanhood. Adult age most Slayers don’t get to
experience. Her hands are thinner and her face has lost the rounded fullness of
That’s not all she’s lost.
Her eyes are colder – eyes that have seen too much too soon. Gone are the
virginal innocence and hesitancy. Her nails are sharp and her mouth demanding.
She’s rough and unforgiving – show a little weakness and she’ll take advantage
“Just make sure you don’t
get a happy.”
“She’ll kill you if it
happens, you know that, right?”
“I know.” My eyes linger on
his. “And you?”
“You know the answer.”
He wants to say more. That
he’s glad I’m back, that he missed me, that he doesn’t want to lose me again.
That he thinks this is too much of a risk and if things go wrong the end result
will be not only my death but also their own broken hearts. That he won’t stand
to bear her heart broken. Fleeting menace in his eyes. Fair warning.
He doesn’t voice any of the
thoughts that dart across his face. Instead he takes mine into his hands and
kisses my lips, very tenderly.
“Just remember we love
He changed too.
Some things remain the
His sleek movements and
The way he tauntingly
displays himself when he knows he’s being watched.
His exquisitely carved
features and Greek statue slenderness.
The promise of perdition
and deliverance in those stormy eyes.
I’ve made him so.
She still possesses that
aura of purity. It hovers around her like a halo. Joan of Arc in a frilly tank
top. Can other people see it? Or do they only register her tinny frame, the
cute face and golden hair? What do they think when they notice the unmistakable
blaze that makes the air shimmer around her? Do they dismiss it as some optical
illusion? Do they turn their heads and just walk way? How can they?
How could I?
God, I missed her so much!
I’m still afraid to touch
I do it only when desire overwhelms
thought. When every one of their gestures seems to be made with the deliberate
intention of seducing me. When their very scent drives me mad with want.
Only then do I throw them
on the bed, or pin them against a wall or bend them over the kitchen table.
I try not to be gentle. I
force myself not to kiss them. Not to taste their skin. Not to slide my hands
over her slopes and his planes. I try not to stare into their eyes when they
come. Not to call out their names when I do.
I fail miserably most
I have ways to cope.
I watch them all the time.
I watch them talk and laugh
and bicker – their way of showing everything’s as it should be between them.
I watch them when it’s just
us and when her friends come over. I never show myself – I watch from afar.
I watch them eat and I
watch them sleep. I break furtively into their room at night, careful not to
make a sound, and lean over the bed to breathe in their scent. Buffy smells of
sunshine and summertime, of hope and Slayer. Spike smells of powerful vampire
blood, of family and memory – scents not even leather and cigarettes can
disguise. And they smell of sex, their scents intermingling in an elixir so potent
it’s enough to drive me to my knees.
And yes, I’ve watched that
I sit in the living room
and watch the walls. There are pictures hung everywhere on them. Dawn, Willow,
Harris and Giles. Her mother and a blond girl with dove eyes. Him and her.
Together and apart. Their life on display before me.
Every time I come I study
the images, committing them to memory as if with each recalled trait they
become a bit more mine.
Her photos show a girl
growing up surrounded by family and friends. A child in an ice-skating ring.
Birthday parties. A high school student dressed in a small skirt holding
pompons. A young woman roaming the streets alone at night with a determined
face. (I wonder who took those.)
His cover a century of
history. Brilliant eyes and that smirk in his mouth. Clothes changing with the
passing of decades. Ever present cigarette dangling in his hands or from his
lips. A hundred years I didn’t witness.
What do I have to show for
all the years I’ve walked this Earth? Only regret.
I notice for the first time
an old picture hung in a shadowed corner. Not hidden, just… out of the way.
Something meant to be seen only by the ones who placed it there. In the
portrait a young woman with huge eyes and long dark hair parted in the middle
smiles a sweet girlish smile. There’s something familiar about her. As I
approach it, I recognize her.
I sense Buffy behind me.
She’s watching me with fierce eyes. No smile in her face.
“Why do you have a picture
of Dru?” Puzzlement in my voice.
“Because of something she
once taught me.”
It sounds like an
“And what was that?”
As soon as the words leave
my mouth I know I shouldn’t have asked because she glares at me as if I should
know. And I don’t.
“That demons can love.”
And I don’t know why I feel
I should apologize for that too.
Sometimes I want to hit
them. Him. Her. Both.
Hurt them, hurt them, hurt
them sings my demon. They are
betraying you. They don’t love you. Kill them. And my soul bleeds at the
words and wavers in its conviction. And I’m ashamed of my weakness. Ashamed of
not trusting them when they’re giving so much already.
I never stay for long and I
don’t tell the others where I’ve been (just imagine the look of panic in Fred
and Gunn’s faces if they knew). I make up excuses and keep it a secret to
remind myself that I do not have the right to be here. Because this feels too
much like the forgiveness and redemption I don’t deserve.
When I feel the soul struggling to leave
the confines of my body I recall my recent failures. Dead lawyers and dead Sire
who wasn’t any more and friends gone amiss and a son so lost to me it is as if
he’s dead as well or has never existed. A chain of fiascos and regret and grief
that entraps my soul in this plane.
But I’m tired of suffering.
Haven’t I paid enough for my sins?
When I leave, I always take
their blood with me.
Whether I’ve had them in
any other way or not, I make sure I have sunk my fangs into their flesh and
feasted on their life essence, tasting their pleasure and their pain. I clutch
their bodies to mine and grab them by the hair and viciously pull their heads
back, exposing the throat.
I wait for Buffy’s gasp,
her heart thundering, fear and survival instinct clashing with growing arousal.
I rip Spike’s neck open and I drink
till shivers wrack his body. I don’t stop then. I wait for him to plead like he
used to so many years ago - I wait for my name in his lips. My other
name. Stop, Angelus, stop!
I never lick the wounds
Lest I forget…inside, I’m
still the Monster.
~~ Finis ~~
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