[FIC] Midas - S/A - R - (1a/4)
TITLE: Midas (1a/4)
AUTHOR: Jennie
EMAIL: Jenexell_fic@yahoo.co.uk
DISCLAIMER: All stuff BtVS and A:ts belong to joss and co. I’m not making any money from this so don’t bother suing me.
RATING: R for graphically disturbing imagery.
SPOILERS: general up to the end of both series.
DISTRIBUTION: My Site www.livingindreams.co.uk/whisper You want it? Take it! Just tell me where!
SUMMARY: Post NFA - If silence was golden then Angel truly had the Midas Touch.
PAIRING: S/A
Feedback: PLEASE.
Part One
November 2004
Spike slipped into the room with barely a sound. Stealth was something he’d perfected over the last hundred and twenty odd years although he wasn’t really the type to enjoy sneaking around. He much preferred crashing into places, large, loud and in your face; he’d done enough hiding before he’d died. But he wouldn’t even think of bursting in with a cacophony of sound now, not into this place. Not into this sanctuary of silence he’d painstakingly erected.
He moved over to the kitchen, his socked feet light as feathers on the bare wood floors. He’d left his boots in the car; they crunched the gravel outside, made the floorboards squeak and groan. His hands felt cramped and stiff from carrying the bags from the car, but he set them down gently on the kitchen counter, trying to avoid any kind of rustle. As soon as the bags were down Spike let out a long breath and flexed his hands, turning them upwards so he could examine the black lines that clawed out from barely healed scars on his wrists. A little less black today, a little more pink. He was healing; slowly.
Looking down into the bags, he scratched his head. Enough blood to last another night. There was no refrigerator here, no microwave, and no stove. He made a blood run everyday; it was a small price to pay for perfect silence, and it wouldn’t be forever. He hoped. He could remember noise, cheer and singing, but it all seemed like a life time away. So he held onto that hope more tightly than he had any other in his long existence. The hope that one day the silence would end, and that when it did, he wouldn’t be alone in the noise. Six months was long enough.
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May 20th 2004
“WEEEEEEE ARE THE CHAMPIONS AGAAAAAAAAAAIN!!! WEEEEE’LL KEEP ON FIGHTING TIIIIILLLLL THE END!!!!”
Spike threw open the doors to the Hyperion with a flourish, strutting inside and spinning round in circles, arms outstretched singing at the top of his voice.
“WEEEEEEE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!!!!! WEEEE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOO TIME FOR LOOOOOOOOOOSERS!!!! COZ WEEEEEEEEE ARE THE CHAMPIOOOOOOONS! OF THE WORLD!!!!!”
Angel laughed as he followed him in, a giddy smile on his face. Illyria followed a short way behind, her expression disdainful.
Spike crowed gleefully and jumped up on the counter. “HA!!! That’ll teach ’em to mess with William the Bloody!! William the Bloody Marvellous!”
“William the bloody up himself more like it.” Angel laughed again.
“Oi! None of that! You’ll kill the buzz! WE WON!”
“That we did,” Angel nodded then his lips twitched as he failed to contain his own mirth. He walked over to the counter and leaned his back against it as Spike jumped down and copied his position. “We really did, didn’t we?”
“Well let me see… you’re not dust, I’m not dust, Blue’s… does she go dust?” Angel shrugged, so Spike continued. “We’re alive and they’re not, so I’d say we won. Plus, dragon? Very dead.”
Angel’s grin turned self satisfied. “Very, very dead.”
“You over estimate yourselves, Vampires.”
Both vampires turned to Illyria in surprise; they’d forgotten she was there.
“Ok I’ll bite. How exactly do we overestimate ourselves?” Spike snapped.
“You have lost half your number and the wolf ram and hart will send others. They have gained much power here; they will not give it up easily.” The smiles slipped from their faces as Illyria spoke, the truth crashing down on them. Wesley and Gunn, both gone. Then as if reading their minds, or maybe just seeing the grief on their faces she spoke again. “There is no point to this petty celebration. I must search elsewhere to find relief for my grief.”
And with that she turned around and walked out of the door.
As the door clicked shut Angel seemed to lose control of his legs and he slid to the floor. Spike blinked a couple of times before he too seemed to run out of the requisite energy to remain on his feet and joined Angel on the floor.
“They’re all gone.” Angel said finally.
Spike said nothing just stared blankly ahead.
“I can’t believe…”
“Yeah…” Spike sighed.
“We should… We need to get cleaned up, and… we need a plan.” Angel said, starting off vaguely then gaining some determination. He nodded firmly and hauled himself to his feet, turning to face Spike and offering him a hand.
Spike drew a deep breath and took Angel’s hand, labouring to his feet. Looking at Angel he nodded, his face set then he spoke.
“Could use a drink too.”
***
It took a while but Angel finally found a bottle of Finest Irish single malt he’d hidden away a couple of years before. Spike rolled his eyes, but agreed to wait while Angel also found two unbroken glasses in the kitchen.
Sat on the dirty red couch below the main office window, they drank the first glass in silence. Then as Angel filled the second glass, Spike spoke.
“So…”
Angel tossed back his drink and poured another.
“Did you know you’re bleeding all over my couch?”
“Yeah, actually I did. Figured it wouldn’t show… red n’all.”
Angel didn’t reply just stood up and went into the office. He came back a minute later with a large first aid box.
“Take your shirt off and turn around.”
Spike downed his drink then Angel’s before complying. Angel stood there for a moment just staring at Spike’s shirtless back. Three long claw gashes from right shoulder blade to left hip, deep and bleeding freely. He took a deep breath through his nose. Thoughts unbidden and unwelcome stirring in cages long ago sealed and chained.
He settled himself on the couch behind Spike, placing the first aid kit that looked more like a mobile surgery than a place to store band aids, on the coffee table. He pulled a few things out; sutures, bandages, gauze, tape and an ointment for bruising Cordelia had sworn by and now more than ever he wanted to believe in because not doing so was one delusion shattered too many.
He poured himself a drink and drank it before he started. He had the strangest premonition that he’d need it.
“OW! Bloody 'ell! Hey Mengala, how about not tryin' to pull my ass up through my shoulder, yeah?"
Angel snorted and clipped the end of the suture. “Stop being a baby Spike.”
Spike grit his teeth but kept quiet. Eventually Angel pulled back and surveyed his handy work. “There, you’re done.”
“What the hell were you using back there? A knitting needle and tow rope?” Spike hissed, pulling his shoulder round to look. Angel swatted his hands away with a stern glare.
“Stop it, you’ll pull the stitches.”
Spike pulled a face. “Last time I let you patch me up.”
“God, do you ever stop whining?”
“Don’t know? Do you ever stop being a total fucktard?”
“I’m not a…” Angel exclaimed then frowned. “What the hell is a fucktard?”
“Cross between a fuckwit and a retard,” Spike said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He’d been distracted by a stain on the front of Angel’s shirt. “What about you? You need anything patched?”
“No.” Angel said a little too quickly for Spike’s liking.
“Yeah, OK Angelus, let’s get you off your cross for a minute and take a look shall we?” he started to pull at Angel’s shirt, until eventually the older vampire relented with a sigh and pulled it over his head.
“See… no stitches required.” Angel huffed, grabbing his shirt back from Spike.
Spike just stared. It was true, there were no stitches required. There were signs of injury, serious injury, but they were healing. Healing fast, too fast. “You been nibbling on slayers without telling me or something mate?”
Angel looked embarrassed. Embarrassed and guilty. Spike’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“If the words Wolfram and Hart and Special stock cross your lips I will beat you within an inch of your life,” Spike murmured threateningly as he remembered the blood stock Harmony had let slip existed.
“Ummm… it’s not what you think.” Angel cringed.
“I’m listening.”
Angel sighed. “While I was fighting Hamilton…”
“And you can stop right there. You drank from the offspring of the senior partners?” Spike enunciated slowly. Angel nodded. “Can I call you a fucktard again now? Or can we skip that bit mate? Bloody hell… oh bloody hell. You know what? I’m going to call you a fucktard anyway.”
“Spike…”
“No… No, I need a minute here mate, coz this is serious. We’re talking about you drinkin’ from someone who is in essence, the child of Satan. That’s… well dumb. Probably the dumbest thing you have ever done.”
“It got me through the fight,” Angel pointed out.
“True… But let me put it another way. You have a habit of drinking from things that are the exact opposite of what you are and in doing so getting monumentally screwed. Case in point, one gypsy girl.”
“Spike, it’s not like the senior partners could give me another soul,” Angel sighed.
“No… but they could use this to take yours away.”
Angel snorted. “They wouldn’t bother, they just want me dead.”
Spike rubbed his eyes tiredly. “My ’ead hurts. This is all a bit much ya know?”
Angel nodded pouring and drinking three shots in a row. Spike grabbed the bottle from him and chugged a few long swallows straight from it.
“How long’s it been since we came in ’ere?” Spike asked after watching Angel look at the bottle for a few minutes.
“Two hours? Maybe three? Sun’s coming up.” Angel replied looking up at the windows.
“We alright here?” Spike asked, following his gaze.
“Sun doesn’t actually make it into the lobby much; too many other buildings around.”
“Handy.” Spike muttered then waved the bottle at Angel. “You got any more of this stuff? This one’s dead.”
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