Disclaimer: Sadly, none of the boys are mine (nor is Illyria, while we're at it)
Note: Post Not Fade Away. Written 3rd person, but strictly from Spike's POV.
Ch. 1: Fine
Whores line the dark streets and drunks stumble about per usual. On glass windows, signs proclaiming "COME IN WE'RE OPEN!" or some other variation thereof glow haphazardly in bright, neon colours. Loud, bass-filled music blare from within clubs as he passes by them, fading away as he moves on. The end of the world as everyone knew it had come and gone and they all felt fine.
He doesn't feel fine. He's tried, but he can't seem to make himself feel that way. And from the looks of it, Angel doesn't feel too fine, either.
Spike's hand moves almost instinctively to his wrist.
--"you don't speak of her, boy. You hear?"--
He still has a lovely black-purple tattoo around it, but that's only decorative. The real art is in the crushed bones. Or was. He's not sure if they're still crushed by now. He just knows he probably won't be writing for a week or so.
Even Illyria wasn't confident enough that night to saunter curiously into the room like she usually does after their commotions.
Looking back, it wasn't so much the mention of Her that set Angel off, but rather that Spike used Her to get the stupid ponce to snap out of his funk.
--"get over it, Angelus! She would've wanted that."--
Or maybe Angel lost it because the statement was purely hypocritical—Spike hasn't moved on, either. It always comes back to golden strands soaked with blood and little dead girls everywhere. Little girls whom he realizes he barely knew, despite having lived with most for the better part of a year. Little girls from around the globe, brought together by some hocus-pocus from the household witch. Hocus-pocus had not saved her in the end.
He hadn't known then that red hair could appear bloodstained, but he knows better now.
Angel turns into a little bar and Spike follows 'cause he's pretty much followed in daddy's footsteps in a metaphorical sense all his unlife. Might as well do it literally, too.
He orders a bottle of tequila and starts to pick it up, then winces and switches over to his right hand with a scowl. He can feel Angel's fingertips running lightly over the bruises and he wants to jerk away, but apparently his limbs aren't connected with his brain because nothing happens. So he opts to get Angel to do so instead.
"Like that you marked me, eh, Peaches?"
Angel draws back exactly on cue. Ah, the wonders of predictability.
"I'm sorry. I never meant—"
Spike cocks an eyebrow and lights a fag.
"Sure you did, Angel. Enjoyed it, too."
Angel's silent for a while. One minute, five minutes, ten minutes, twelve. Clearly, a response won't be coming. Not that Spike expected one to. Angel is the absolute embodiment of Caveman—most of his responses, if there are any at all, are limited to grunts, gestures, and monosyllabic words.
Spike sighs and downs some more of the burning alcohol...although, it ceased to burn some time back. He wonders briefly if that's supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing, then he moves on to debating whether or not it was possible for Blue to get drunk. Then he notices the place is on a slight angle and spinning a bit. Huh. That's funny. Guess tequila's stronger than he thought. Shame it doesn't make him feel any more fine. In fact, it only seems to make him feel less so, and all of sudden, he's more sober and wanting to be far, far away from so many people. It's too crowded; reminds him too much of a home filled with giggling teenage girls and the occasional male.
Except he can't see said giggling girls or any of them without all the extra details—the blood and gore and death—filling in soon after. He wishes there were photos to look at, but there are none. Angel doesn't have any either; his were buried along with the W&H building.
Tapping Angel on the arm, he stands up. It's their unspoken agreement: Angel picks the place, Spike chooses when to leave. Of course, it doesn't always work out that way...
"Maybe a little," Angel says as they step back onto the street.
"Huh?"
"Marking you. I liked it a little."
Spike frowns and with some focus, manages to recall their previous conversation.
He wonders why his sire is talking more than usual tonight.
"So what prompted this lil' confession?"
Angel merely shrugs.
Guess he's not talking more than usual after all.
TBC...
Lemme know what you think!