Un-birthday Fic for Erin
Sometimes, your best isn't good enough.
This has been made painfully clear to me this week in a couple of ways, but the relevant one here is apreludetoanend's birthday. Which was Monday. For which I hope someone wrote her some fabulous SPN fic, because she completely deserves it, but it was never going to be me. And for which I started writing her some S/X, got stuck, started a couple of something elses, and am finally posting this, two days late.
Erin, I wish you all good things in the world. Here there be no Spander, but there be about 1200 words of Wesley being brittle, Spike being annoying, Angel being ill-informed, and Illyria being, well, Illyria (I hope.) Set rather vaguely during or after late AtS season 5, ignores comics canon, may have some facts completely wrong, and should be avoided by creationists.
“There’s nothing here,” Spike said for the fifteenth time. “It’s ruins, yeah? Waste of time. We should just go and kick the information out of them.”
“They don’t know, Spike,” said Angel. “That’s the point. We need to know what defeated it last time round.” He heaved aside another slab of masonry blocking the stairs.
“And they call themselves Oracles? Bloody useless posers. Still don’t see why Percy can’t just look it up.” Spike sat on a column fallen crosswise in the aisle and lit yet another cigarette. “Bad idea bringing her back here, if you ask me.”
“There’s no residual power,” Wesley said, crawling along the floor and tracing a miniscule inscription through a magnifier. “The worst she can do is insult us. And since the events we’re looking for predate recorded history, I’m afraid even the Codex is useless.”
“Just about killed you to admit that, didn’t it?” Spike observed.
Wesley glared up at him. “Would it kill you to say something constructive for once?”
“Already dead.”
“You can be deader, you know.”
“Tried that. Doesn’t stick.”
“Will you two shut up?” Angel said. “We’re wasting time. Spike, get off your ass and have a look over in that room.”
“How about it, Blue?” Spike raised his voice and glanced over to where Illyria was toying with bits of smashed mosaic. “Gonna give us a hand?”
“It is pointless,” she said. “Why waste your time?”
“I don’t believe that,” said Angel. “We’ll find a way. We always do. Just… keep looking, Wes.”
“You find a way. Then what?” She kicked a piece of rubble down a drain by her foot and waited for the echo of its landing. “You defeat it, or you do not. The next threat will come, and you will defeat it. Or you will not. One hundred years from now, no human now alive will care. Why trouble yourselves? Your lives are an eyeblink to those with power.”
“I suppose, when you live forever, you take the long view,” Wesley said curtly. “Some of us prefer the idea of doing something constructive in life, short as it may be, instead of spending however long it’s been standing around doing nothing.”
He sat back on his heels and stuffed the magnifier into the kitbag with unnecessary force.
“Allowing for drift, and standardizing to the pitifully inadequate calendar you employ, it was one billion years precisely last Tuesday,” Illyria said, examining a frieze.
“What?”
“You said, ‘however long it’s been.’ It has been one billion years.”
“You’re saying the human race was a billion years old on Tuesday?” Spike tossed a stone in the air. “Should have a party.”
“The rise and continued existence of humans - and their parasites,” her gaze rested briefly on Spike, “is not something I feel any desire to celebrate.” She picked up a fragment of mosaic and began examining it. “And I did not say humans. Your pitiful race only became recognizable in the past two million years. I have been here a billion years.”
Her fingers clenched around the broken tile. A drop of blood splashed in the dust. “Watching slimy things crawl from the sea. And now I crawl among them.”
“Ah, come on, Blue.” Spike reached over and pried the fragment from her hand. “Just because your temple’s in ruins and your enemies rule the earth, no reason to be despondent. You’re a billion years old. Live a little. Have some cake.”
The cut across Illyria’s palm closed as he spoke, leaving no mark.
“Fred would have been thirty-two next month,” Wesley said. “She liked cake.” He stood and moved to the next aisle, brushing ash off a plinth.
“Humans have been around two million years?” Angel said bemusedly. “I thought it was more like four thousand.”
Spike looked at him pityingly. “That would be Father Murphy told you that? Serves you right for going to a Catholic school.”
“The fossil record suggests that humans became recognizable around two and a half million years ago.” Wesley pulled a knotted string and a laser level out of his bag. “Spike, come hold this.”
“The fossil record hadn’t been discovered when I was in school,” Angel pointed out.
Spike snorted. “Like you’d have known, even if it had been. Did you ever pay attention? It’s a wonder you learned to read.” He took the laser from Wesley and began aiming it at Angel, making red light dance around his crotch.
“Spike!” Angel swatted ineffectually at the light. “Wes, remember rule number four? Never give Spike any of the lab tools.”
“Of course not,” said Wesley absently. “Angel, go stand over there. No, in front of that pillar.”
Angel complied. The laser light followed him.
Wesley moved along the line of light with the string, making various measurements and muttering.
“You have found something?” Illyria inquired.
“What do you care?” Wesley reached Angel, turned and sighted over his shoulder. “You’ll still be here. It doesn’t matter if we win or lose tomorrow. You’ll still be crawling the earth, like a cockroach. Indestructible.”
“Yes.” She tilted her head and contemplated the decorated arch Wesley was now examining. “But a vessel shapes that which it contains. The shell was… curious.”
“Angel.” Wesley was running his hands over a series of bas-relief carvings. “This appears to depict an encounter with the entity you described from your dream.” He rummaged in the bag and took out the digital camera. “I’ll take some pictures and work on translation back at the office. The way the runes and carvings are triangulated is suggestive of an ancient Khwaric ritual - perhaps something that could be useful.”
“So there is information here?” Spike’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been holding out on us, Blue.”
Illyria shrugged. “I did not know.”
“The godlike, all-powerful King of the Primordium didn’t know?” Wesley said coldly. “Forgive me if I don’t believe that.”
“I walked the worlds. I talked with suns, ate hopes and drank despair. I did not always watch my temple closely.” She glanced at the arch. “What was done by my minions concerned me little - even less so, if what they did involved the humans. Do you look at that which disgusts you?”
Wesley didn’t answer.
“You will not look at me.”
Silence hung around them, finer than the dust in the air.
“No,” said Wesley finally, and took the laser back from Spike. “Angel, we’ve got what we came for. Shall we head back?”
Angel slung Wesley’s kitbag over his shoulder, and headed for the entrance; Wesley followed close behind.
Spike flicked his cigarette butt into the distance. “Coming, Blue?” He stood, stretching. “Could stay, you know.”
She turned her attention from contemplating the middle distance and stared at him, gaze uncertain.
“Nice quiet place to mope. No humans underfoot.”
“No…”
“Not like you care if we win tomorrow.”
“There is nothing here to fight. I would miss the fighting.” Illyria frowned. “And the cake.”
“Cake?” Spike said.
“The shell liked - ”
She paused.
“She liked cake,” Illyria said.
The crack of the opening portal echoed around the fallen stones.
“Settled, then,” Spike said, grinning. “Good fight, then a billionth birthday party. With cake. C’mon.”
They ran, back to the world.
P.S. No insult intended to Roman Catholics - I went to a Catholic school. The Spike in my head said it, and it sounded like him.
This has been made painfully clear to me this week in a couple of ways, but the relevant one here is apreludetoanend's birthday. Which was Monday. For which I hope someone wrote her some fabulous SPN fic, because she completely deserves it, but it was never going to be me. And for which I started writing her some S/X, got stuck, started a couple of something elses, and am finally posting this, two days late.
Erin, I wish you all good things in the world. Here there be no Spander, but there be about 1200 words of Wesley being brittle, Spike being annoying, Angel being ill-informed, and Illyria being, well, Illyria (I hope.) Set rather vaguely during or after late AtS season 5, ignores comics canon, may have some facts completely wrong, and should be avoided by creationists.
“There’s nothing here,” Spike said for the fifteenth time. “It’s ruins, yeah? Waste of time. We should just go and kick the information out of them.”
“They don’t know, Spike,” said Angel. “That’s the point. We need to know what defeated it last time round.” He heaved aside another slab of masonry blocking the stairs.
“And they call themselves Oracles? Bloody useless posers. Still don’t see why Percy can’t just look it up.” Spike sat on a column fallen crosswise in the aisle and lit yet another cigarette. “Bad idea bringing her back here, if you ask me.”
“There’s no residual power,” Wesley said, crawling along the floor and tracing a miniscule inscription through a magnifier. “The worst she can do is insult us. And since the events we’re looking for predate recorded history, I’m afraid even the Codex is useless.”
“Just about killed you to admit that, didn’t it?” Spike observed.
Wesley glared up at him. “Would it kill you to say something constructive for once?”
“Already dead.”
“You can be deader, you know.”
“Tried that. Doesn’t stick.”
“Will you two shut up?” Angel said. “We’re wasting time. Spike, get off your ass and have a look over in that room.”
“How about it, Blue?” Spike raised his voice and glanced over to where Illyria was toying with bits of smashed mosaic. “Gonna give us a hand?”
“It is pointless,” she said. “Why waste your time?”
“I don’t believe that,” said Angel. “We’ll find a way. We always do. Just… keep looking, Wes.”
“You find a way. Then what?” She kicked a piece of rubble down a drain by her foot and waited for the echo of its landing. “You defeat it, or you do not. The next threat will come, and you will defeat it. Or you will not. One hundred years from now, no human now alive will care. Why trouble yourselves? Your lives are an eyeblink to those with power.”
“I suppose, when you live forever, you take the long view,” Wesley said curtly. “Some of us prefer the idea of doing something constructive in life, short as it may be, instead of spending however long it’s been standing around doing nothing.”
He sat back on his heels and stuffed the magnifier into the kitbag with unnecessary force.
“Allowing for drift, and standardizing to the pitifully inadequate calendar you employ, it was one billion years precisely last Tuesday,” Illyria said, examining a frieze.
“What?”
“You said, ‘however long it’s been.’ It has been one billion years.”
“You’re saying the human race was a billion years old on Tuesday?” Spike tossed a stone in the air. “Should have a party.”
“The rise and continued existence of humans - and their parasites,” her gaze rested briefly on Spike, “is not something I feel any desire to celebrate.” She picked up a fragment of mosaic and began examining it. “And I did not say humans. Your pitiful race only became recognizable in the past two million years. I have been here a billion years.”
Her fingers clenched around the broken tile. A drop of blood splashed in the dust. “Watching slimy things crawl from the sea. And now I crawl among them.”
“Ah, come on, Blue.” Spike reached over and pried the fragment from her hand. “Just because your temple’s in ruins and your enemies rule the earth, no reason to be despondent. You’re a billion years old. Live a little. Have some cake.”
The cut across Illyria’s palm closed as he spoke, leaving no mark.
“Fred would have been thirty-two next month,” Wesley said. “She liked cake.” He stood and moved to the next aisle, brushing ash off a plinth.
“Humans have been around two million years?” Angel said bemusedly. “I thought it was more like four thousand.”
Spike looked at him pityingly. “That would be Father Murphy told you that? Serves you right for going to a Catholic school.”
“The fossil record suggests that humans became recognizable around two and a half million years ago.” Wesley pulled a knotted string and a laser level out of his bag. “Spike, come hold this.”
“The fossil record hadn’t been discovered when I was in school,” Angel pointed out.
Spike snorted. “Like you’d have known, even if it had been. Did you ever pay attention? It’s a wonder you learned to read.” He took the laser from Wesley and began aiming it at Angel, making red light dance around his crotch.
“Spike!” Angel swatted ineffectually at the light. “Wes, remember rule number four? Never give Spike any of the lab tools.”
“Of course not,” said Wesley absently. “Angel, go stand over there. No, in front of that pillar.”
Angel complied. The laser light followed him.
Wesley moved along the line of light with the string, making various measurements and muttering.
“You have found something?” Illyria inquired.
“What do you care?” Wesley reached Angel, turned and sighted over his shoulder. “You’ll still be here. It doesn’t matter if we win or lose tomorrow. You’ll still be crawling the earth, like a cockroach. Indestructible.”
“Yes.” She tilted her head and contemplated the decorated arch Wesley was now examining. “But a vessel shapes that which it contains. The shell was… curious.”
“Angel.” Wesley was running his hands over a series of bas-relief carvings. “This appears to depict an encounter with the entity you described from your dream.” He rummaged in the bag and took out the digital camera. “I’ll take some pictures and work on translation back at the office. The way the runes and carvings are triangulated is suggestive of an ancient Khwaric ritual - perhaps something that could be useful.”
“So there is information here?” Spike’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been holding out on us, Blue.”
Illyria shrugged. “I did not know.”
“The godlike, all-powerful King of the Primordium didn’t know?” Wesley said coldly. “Forgive me if I don’t believe that.”
“I walked the worlds. I talked with suns, ate hopes and drank despair. I did not always watch my temple closely.” She glanced at the arch. “What was done by my minions concerned me little - even less so, if what they did involved the humans. Do you look at that which disgusts you?”
Wesley didn’t answer.
“You will not look at me.”
Silence hung around them, finer than the dust in the air.
“No,” said Wesley finally, and took the laser back from Spike. “Angel, we’ve got what we came for. Shall we head back?”
Angel slung Wesley’s kitbag over his shoulder, and headed for the entrance; Wesley followed close behind.
Spike flicked his cigarette butt into the distance. “Coming, Blue?” He stood, stretching. “Could stay, you know.”
She turned her attention from contemplating the middle distance and stared at him, gaze uncertain.
“Nice quiet place to mope. No humans underfoot.”
“No…”
“Not like you care if we win tomorrow.”
“There is nothing here to fight. I would miss the fighting.” Illyria frowned. “And the cake.”
“Cake?” Spike said.
“The shell liked - ”
She paused.
“She liked cake,” Illyria said.
The crack of the opening portal echoed around the fallen stones.
“Settled, then,” Spike said, grinning. “Good fight, then a billionth birthday party. With cake. C’mon.”
They ran, back to the world.
P.S. No insult intended to Roman Catholics - I went to a Catholic school. The Spike in my head said it, and it sounded like him.