All Goes Onward and Outward (4/7)
Title: All Goes Onward and Outward
Chapter: 4. Love Is Not Dead
Author: whichclothes
Fandom: BtVS/AtS
Pairing (if any): Spike/Angel
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: This fic has 7 chapters, which I'll be posting over the next few days. It was based on the following prompt from maharet83, a lyric from Leonard Cohen's song, The Law:
Now the deal has been dirty
Since dirty began
I'm not asking for mercy
Not from the man
You just don't ask for mercy
While you're still on the stand
There's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand
I don't claim to be guilty
Guilty's too grand
Thank you to faketoysoldierfor the wonderful banners! Previous chapters here.
I always really appreciate feedback. :-)
Chapter Four
Love Is Not Dead
No, love is not dead in this heart these eyes and this mouth
that announced the start of its own funeral.
Listen, I've had enough of the picturesque, the colorful
and the charming.
I love love, its tenderness and cruelty.
My love has only one name, one form.
Everything disappears. All mouths cling to that one.
--Robert Desnos, No, Love Is Not Dead
He had thought he’d feel freer without the heavy burden of his soul. And at first, when the Council’s witches had chanted their incantations and waved their smelly bundles of herbs, he had felt better. It was is if he had been harnessed to a cart of rocks all these years, and the cart had suddenly been unhooked.
But after a short period of time, he realized that what he really felt was loss.
It wasn’t like with his grandsire. The demon Angelus had been forcibly enslaved, and had spent years festering somewhere deep in Angel’s consciousness, only able to effect its will in small and intermittent ways. It was bitter and not a little mad.
But Spike had wanted the soul, had welcomed it. Though he’d certainly gone through a brief period of insanity when he received it-with no help at all from the First Evil, which had been lurking about-and although he still was wracked with guilt over actions long past, he’d adapted. He’d gone on with his existence. Even, at times, enjoyed the depth of feeling the soul had enabled him to have, not to mention the knowledge that his ensouled behaviors were a matter of choice, rather than compulsion.
He’d seen his soul captured in a glass orb, glittering and sparkling like the most precious of jewels, and now he mourned it. It was a thing of great value, and he’d permitted it to be destroyed.
At least, now that he was without a soul or a chip for the first time in so very long, it would have been nice if he could have hunted again. Just one last time, acted like a proper vampire.
Instead, he was alone in his new and improved cage, waiting to see if they’d keep their promise about Angel.
They hadn’t lied about the cell. It was larger, perhaps five meters square instead of three. It contained a cot with a hard, narrow mattress, and scratchy sheets, and a thin pillow. There was a chair, too, quite a large and comfortable one, although the upholstery was an odd orange color that reminded him of the one Xander Harris had tied him to in his basement. They’d installed a holo screen, and given him a library of films he could access. There were books, several dozen all at once, a true bounty after the stingy rations he’d had. There was an entire loo area in one corner, with a toilet and sink and shower. And now there was soap, and a towel, and deliciously warm water. He had clothing as well-just a loose pair of grey trousers and a grey shirt, but it was something.
Best of all, though, in addition to the door that led out into the corridor, there was a second door. His keepers unlocked it at sundown each night, and if he wished he could slide it open then and go outside.
Outside was simply another enclosure, roughly the same size as the cell. The walls were too high and smooth to scale, and he could see nothing over them but sky. The ground was bare concrete. But when he first went outside, the concrete would still be radiating the heat it had stored during the day, and he could lie on it, taking that borrowed sunshine into his thankful body. And he could look up and see the stars and, at times, the moon, and watch clouds scudding by, and breathe in night scents. Sometimes he could even pick up the sound of a bird calling somewhere-an owl or a mockingbird-or crickets chirping, or the wind blowing through treetops.
It was, in the end, a collection of prizes as flimsy as those from a carnival game. Hardly worth a soul. Sometimes he felt as if he’d traded the Hope diamond for a Crackerjack toy. But he’d had little choice, and he was a bit more comfortable, and at least some of the harrying voices in his dreams had been silenced.
He was sprawled across the chair, half-watching a Bollywood film from a hundred years ago, when the door crashed open. He leapt hastily to his feet.
There were several guards, so many he couldn’t see them all through the narrow doorway. But front and center was a man dressed, like Spike, in thin cotton clothes, barefoot, his hands cuffed behind him.
Angel.
Spike stopped breathing.
Angel’s hair was a trifle long and disarrayed, and his eyes had deep shadows underneath. His shoulders were hunched and he squinted at Spike in confusion. He was still very pale. But even from across the room, Spike could hear his heart beating, could smell the humanity of him.
A guard unlatched the manacles and pushed Angel into the cell, then locked the door behind him.
Angel and Spike stood, silent, unmoving.
It was Spike who spoke first. “Angel?” he said softly, as if he doubted the identity of the man before him.
Angel backed away until he was up against the unyielding door. He slid along the wall, then, stopping when he got to the corner farthest from Spike and sinking to his arse in a protective crouch. His eyes never left Spike.
“Angel? Do you…do you remember me?”
“Go away,” Angel whispered, voice hoarse as if he’d screamed a long time. “Can’t fool me.”
“Can’t go anywhere. ‘M locked in here, same as you.”
Angel put hid his face on his knees and covered his head with his arms. “Go away.”
Spike hovered uncertainly. When he took a step closer to Angel, though, the man scrunched more tightly in on himself and actually whimpered. So Spike backed away. He sat back down in the orange chair and turned back to the holo screen. Periodically, he glanced at the man in the corner, who still had his long arms wrapped around himself, and who was rocking himself rhythmically forward and back.
By the time the overhead light dimmed, Spike was tired and Angel hadn’t budged from the corner. “All right then,” Spike said. “Going to get my beauty sleep. Wake me if you want to chat.” He skimmed off his clothes, folded them neatly, and set them in a pile beside the cot. Then he slipped between the sheets and closed his eyes and pretended he didn’t hear the quiet keening from across the room.
WHACK!
He woke abruptly when his head smacked into the metal floor and thirteen stone or so of Irish former vampire landed on his stomach.
“What the hell are you doing?” Angel snarled, the heels of his hands digging hard into Spike’s shoulders.
“Was having a nice kip,” he replied mildly.
Angel punched him in the nose. Cartilage snapped and Spike smelled his own blood. “Oi! Mind the face!”
“What the fuck is going on?” Angel slugged him again, this time cracking Spike’s head back against the floor again and, likely, blackening an eye. That was enough. With a roar, Spike bucked up, knocking Angel off him. He seized Angel’s biceps and rolled the man onto his back, and then Spike straddled him, much as Angel had been straddling him a moment ago.
Angel writhed and swore under him, but Spike easily held him in place. And then Spike laughed, because he realized that he was a vampire and now Angel was just a feeble human, and for the first time, Spike would have no trouble at all besting his grandsire in a fight. In fact, he could lean forward right now and drain him, and sod all the pillock could do about it.
He didn’t, though. Instead he simply held Angel down, watching the red droplets from his nose spatter onto the man’s broad chest, until finally Angel stilled. He was panting and his face was red.
“Ready to act civilized?” Spike asked.
Angel continued to glare daggers at him, but he nodded, and Spike released the pressure on his arms. He didn’t dismount yet, though. He wasn’t completely daft.
“All right, then. No more hitting, right?”
Angel nodded again. Spike took a deep breath and wiped the blood away from his face with his forearm.
“It’s really you?” Angel asked hesitantly.
“Yeah, mate.”
“What…where…how….??”
“Long story.” Spike got off of Angel and stood. Angel pulled himself into a sitting position while Spike tugged on his clothing and then sat sideways on the bed. Angel just stared at him in bewilderment, and Spike felt a twinge of sympathy for the git.
“Did the Watchers tell you anything? Or the guards?”
“The Watch-No. Nobody told me….” His voice died away and he rubbed his face hard.
“You’ve…you’ve been in hell, then? Again?”
Angel closed his eyes and nodded once.
“Well, now you’re not. You’re back in California, I think, and, well, you’re human, yeah?”
Angel looked down at himself as if this hadn’t yet occurred to him. He placed two fingers on his neck, feeling the pulse that beat there now, the pulse that Spike could hear from several feet away.
“How?”
“Remember Darla? They’ve done the same to you.”
Angel looked alarmed. “Wolfram and Hart?”
“No. They’re…pretty much out of the picture right now. It was the Watchers Council.”
“Why?”
“They needed…something from me. You were part of the price.”
Angel blinked at that. “Where are we?”
“A prison. They locked me up here for my crimes against humanity.”
“And me?”
Spike shrugged. “You get stuck here too. I expect it’s an improvement over your last home.”
Angel’s jaw clenched. “They’ll get me out. Gunn-“
“Charlie’s dead. Never made it out of the alley.”
“Wes?”
“Dead. Liam, they’re all dead. Every last one of them. I’m all that’s left.”
“No. No, that’s not-“
“Do you know what year it is?”
“No.”
“Actually, I’m not so certain myself. But it’s something like 2173.”
Angel stood and backed away from him. “Twenty-one-No. You’re lying.”
“No reason to.”
Angel abruptly turned and went to the door. He tried to pry it open, but there was no knob and the seam was barely even visible. So then he pounded on it instead, but that produced no response except bruised and bloody hands. He tried the other door, then, the one that led to the outdoor enclosure, but it was still locked, and he had no greater success there. Spike watched him silently as he paced around, looking in vain for some escape. Spike could hardly blame him. He’d done the same himself, and he hadn’t had the shocks that Angel just experienced.
Angel finally sank into his corner again, looking exhausted. For a very long time, he said nothing. Spike picked up the book he’d left next to the bed and began reading.
“What did you give them, Spike?” Angel asked a good deal later, the last word said with such venom that Spike actually flinched.
Spike looked up from his book. “My soul,” he said flatly.
Angel gaped for a moment. “Your…. You gave them your soul?”
“Sold it to them, for you and a few creature comforts.” He waved around the cell at the furniture and the holo screen.
“Why?”
“They needed it for some mojo. Stopping an apocalypse, all that usual rot.”
“No. Why did you do it? I thought…I thought you liked being ensouled.”
“I was used to it, yeah. But they didn’t give me any choice, did they? Would’ve taken it anyway. And my last cell…it wasn’t nearly as nice as this palace they have us in.” Angel looked around the room doubtfully.
“So they left me here, human and imprisoned with a soulless demon?”
Spike chuckled bitterly. “Told them you’d rather burn.”
“What do you want from me, Spike? You plan to kill me?”
“Yeah, that makes loads of sense. Barter to bring you back to life so I can murder you.” He couldn’t stop himself from grinning wickedly and patting his stomach. “Besides, not hungry right now.”
Angel narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re going to turn me.”
“Is that what you want, Peaches? Be rid of that pesky soul once and for all?”
“No.”
“Well, I reckon I’ve had enough of Angelus to last several lifetimes.” And the last thing he’d want was to be caged with that bastard.
“Then what do you want with me?”
Spike heard the lock to the outside door click open, and he put down the book and stood. He leered at Angel. “Gets lonesome in here, with just my left hand for company.” He waved the appendage in the air, waggling his fingers. “Fancied a nice, hot shag now and then.”
Angel looked truly alarmed and pressed more deeply into the corner. “Spike, look, I-“
“Was only taking the piss. Watcher told me you were in hell. I’ve seen the place, remember? I thought even in here, with me, was better than that.”
Angel looked at him, and Spike saw antipathy and disbelief in his eyes. “Bugger this,” Spike muttered, and he stomped to the door, slid it open, and flung himself down outside on the warm pavement.
Days passed without them speaking to each other.
The food slot in this cell was slightly wider, and there was a shelf just beneath it. Three times a day, it opened and a tray of food appeared. Angel stalked over and grabbed it, and then sat in his corner to eat it. Spike rather wished Angel would offer to share a bit; it had been so long since he’d tasted anything but animal blood. But Angel never did, and Spike wasn’t about to ask. When he finished, Angel put the empty tray back on the shelf, and it would be taken away at the next meal. Once a day a packet of blood appeared, and then it was Spike’s turn to eat.
They left Angel a safety razor, and he did a sloppy job of using it with no mirror. He was out of practice as well-it had been several centuries since he’d last grown facial hair.
Angel hated having to use the toilet, especially in Spike’s full view. When he saw the man heading in that direction, Spike turned his back to grant him a spot of privacy. He didn’t turn when Angel showered, though. He liked to watch him, to see the play of his bulky muscles. Angel glowered at him the first time or two and then ignored him.
It took Angel some time to suss out how to work the holo screen, and Spike didn’t offer to help. Once he did get it working, they fell without discussion into an informal sharing scheme, where one would watch the screen or read in the chair while the other slept in the lone bed.
Periodically, they were given fresh clothes, and ordered to pass the old ones through the slot.
The odd thing was, despite the silence, despite the death glares they exchanged, there was still something companionable about the situation. Spike had had so little interaction with others for so long, that even his grandsire’s brooding, frowning company was welcome.
Spike was watching the holo one night-thank the gods there was still football-when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Angel was sitting on the bed and staring at him, his big brow furrowed.
“What?” he asked defensively. It was the first word out of his mouth in over a week.
“I was just wondering.”
“What?”
“You really sold your soul?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why are you just…sitting there?”
Spike puffed in annoyance. “Not much opportunity for bloody mayhem, is there?”
“I mean…you’re acting pretty much the same as when you had a soul.”
“I’m not Angelus, berk. Never was. Besides, I carried that thing for a hundred and fifty years. I expect it had some lasting effects.”
“You really don’t want to kill me.”
“Not yet.”
“If our roles were reversed, I’d-Angelus would have torn out your throat by now.”
“Like I said. ‘M not Angelus.”
Angel stood and walked over, until he was between Spike and the holo screen. “So why did you bring me here?”
“Told you. Didn’t…didn’t want to think of you burning.”
“You felt bad for me.”
“Yeah.”
“You wanted to rescue me?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw you, you know. In the alley. You were trying to help me kill that dragon.”
“Yeah, well, that didn’t work out so well, did it?”
Angel crossed his arms on his chest. “Okay. So…so you cared about me.”
Spike looked away. “Yeah,” he whispered.
“But that was with the soul. Now….”
Spike’s voice was still very quiet. “Can still care, without a soul. I loved Dru without one. Loved Buffy. That was real.”
Angel shook his head. “I’ll never understand you, William.”
Spike smiled slightly. “You never did, mate.”
Angel didn’t reply. He just stood there, staring, and after a while he walked away. Spike went back to watching football, but every so often he glanced at the bed, and Angel was watching him.
The silence between them slowly dissolved. They still argued now and then, or Spike would snark and Angel would roll his eyes. But more often, they’d squeeze amicably together into the ugly orange chair, or they’d sit outside, leaning against the walls and reminiscing. Angel never spoke about hell, and Spike didn’t really need to hear about it. But Spike told Angel of the adventures he’d had since the alley, and they’d both talk about the times they’d had together, with or without souls, or about absent mutual friends.
So one day, when they were watching an ancient James Bond film together, it seemed almost natural when they turned to each other and began to kiss. And after that, the progression from snogging to groping felt so bloody good, and it had been so long, so long for both of them, and then they were tangled with one another atop the narrow cot until they rolled to the floor, and they were cold and hot at once, and remembering that one time, nearly three centuries past now, and still the taste of one another was fine and familiar and right.
It didn’t stop the bickering. It didn’t change the fact that they were stuck here, like animals in a cage, or that there was no hope of an end to it in sight for Spike, and only aging and death awaited Angel. But it was comfort, and it was good. It made their existence bearable. It was, even Angel admitted, better than hell.
Chapter 5
Chapter: 4. Love Is Not Dead
Author: whichclothes
Fandom: BtVS/AtS
Pairing (if any): Spike/Angel
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: This fic has 7 chapters, which I'll be posting over the next few days. It was based on the following prompt from maharet83, a lyric from Leonard Cohen's song, The Law:
Now the deal has been dirty
Since dirty began
I'm not asking for mercy
Not from the man
You just don't ask for mercy
While you're still on the stand
There's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand
I don't claim to be guilty
Guilty's too grand
Thank you to faketoysoldierfor the wonderful banners! Previous chapters here.
I always really appreciate feedback. :-)
Chapter Four
Love Is Not Dead
No, love is not dead in this heart these eyes and this mouth
that announced the start of its own funeral.
Listen, I've had enough of the picturesque, the colorful
and the charming.
I love love, its tenderness and cruelty.
My love has only one name, one form.
Everything disappears. All mouths cling to that one.
--Robert Desnos, No, Love Is Not Dead
He had thought he’d feel freer without the heavy burden of his soul. And at first, when the Council’s witches had chanted their incantations and waved their smelly bundles of herbs, he had felt better. It was is if he had been harnessed to a cart of rocks all these years, and the cart had suddenly been unhooked.
But after a short period of time, he realized that what he really felt was loss.
It wasn’t like with his grandsire. The demon Angelus had been forcibly enslaved, and had spent years festering somewhere deep in Angel’s consciousness, only able to effect its will in small and intermittent ways. It was bitter and not a little mad.
But Spike had wanted the soul, had welcomed it. Though he’d certainly gone through a brief period of insanity when he received it-with no help at all from the First Evil, which had been lurking about-and although he still was wracked with guilt over actions long past, he’d adapted. He’d gone on with his existence. Even, at times, enjoyed the depth of feeling the soul had enabled him to have, not to mention the knowledge that his ensouled behaviors were a matter of choice, rather than compulsion.
He’d seen his soul captured in a glass orb, glittering and sparkling like the most precious of jewels, and now he mourned it. It was a thing of great value, and he’d permitted it to be destroyed.
At least, now that he was without a soul or a chip for the first time in so very long, it would have been nice if he could have hunted again. Just one last time, acted like a proper vampire.
Instead, he was alone in his new and improved cage, waiting to see if they’d keep their promise about Angel.
They hadn’t lied about the cell. It was larger, perhaps five meters square instead of three. It contained a cot with a hard, narrow mattress, and scratchy sheets, and a thin pillow. There was a chair, too, quite a large and comfortable one, although the upholstery was an odd orange color that reminded him of the one Xander Harris had tied him to in his basement. They’d installed a holo screen, and given him a library of films he could access. There were books, several dozen all at once, a true bounty after the stingy rations he’d had. There was an entire loo area in one corner, with a toilet and sink and shower. And now there was soap, and a towel, and deliciously warm water. He had clothing as well-just a loose pair of grey trousers and a grey shirt, but it was something.
Best of all, though, in addition to the door that led out into the corridor, there was a second door. His keepers unlocked it at sundown each night, and if he wished he could slide it open then and go outside.
Outside was simply another enclosure, roughly the same size as the cell. The walls were too high and smooth to scale, and he could see nothing over them but sky. The ground was bare concrete. But when he first went outside, the concrete would still be radiating the heat it had stored during the day, and he could lie on it, taking that borrowed sunshine into his thankful body. And he could look up and see the stars and, at times, the moon, and watch clouds scudding by, and breathe in night scents. Sometimes he could even pick up the sound of a bird calling somewhere-an owl or a mockingbird-or crickets chirping, or the wind blowing through treetops.
It was, in the end, a collection of prizes as flimsy as those from a carnival game. Hardly worth a soul. Sometimes he felt as if he’d traded the Hope diamond for a Crackerjack toy. But he’d had little choice, and he was a bit more comfortable, and at least some of the harrying voices in his dreams had been silenced.
He was sprawled across the chair, half-watching a Bollywood film from a hundred years ago, when the door crashed open. He leapt hastily to his feet.
There were several guards, so many he couldn’t see them all through the narrow doorway. But front and center was a man dressed, like Spike, in thin cotton clothes, barefoot, his hands cuffed behind him.
Angel.
Spike stopped breathing.
Angel’s hair was a trifle long and disarrayed, and his eyes had deep shadows underneath. His shoulders were hunched and he squinted at Spike in confusion. He was still very pale. But even from across the room, Spike could hear his heart beating, could smell the humanity of him.
A guard unlatched the manacles and pushed Angel into the cell, then locked the door behind him.
Angel and Spike stood, silent, unmoving.
It was Spike who spoke first. “Angel?” he said softly, as if he doubted the identity of the man before him.
Angel backed away until he was up against the unyielding door. He slid along the wall, then, stopping when he got to the corner farthest from Spike and sinking to his arse in a protective crouch. His eyes never left Spike.
“Angel? Do you…do you remember me?”
“Go away,” Angel whispered, voice hoarse as if he’d screamed a long time. “Can’t fool me.”
“Can’t go anywhere. ‘M locked in here, same as you.”
Angel put hid his face on his knees and covered his head with his arms. “Go away.”
Spike hovered uncertainly. When he took a step closer to Angel, though, the man scrunched more tightly in on himself and actually whimpered. So Spike backed away. He sat back down in the orange chair and turned back to the holo screen. Periodically, he glanced at the man in the corner, who still had his long arms wrapped around himself, and who was rocking himself rhythmically forward and back.
By the time the overhead light dimmed, Spike was tired and Angel hadn’t budged from the corner. “All right then,” Spike said. “Going to get my beauty sleep. Wake me if you want to chat.” He skimmed off his clothes, folded them neatly, and set them in a pile beside the cot. Then he slipped between the sheets and closed his eyes and pretended he didn’t hear the quiet keening from across the room.
WHACK!
He woke abruptly when his head smacked into the metal floor and thirteen stone or so of Irish former vampire landed on his stomach.
“What the hell are you doing?” Angel snarled, the heels of his hands digging hard into Spike’s shoulders.
“Was having a nice kip,” he replied mildly.
Angel punched him in the nose. Cartilage snapped and Spike smelled his own blood. “Oi! Mind the face!”
“What the fuck is going on?” Angel slugged him again, this time cracking Spike’s head back against the floor again and, likely, blackening an eye. That was enough. With a roar, Spike bucked up, knocking Angel off him. He seized Angel’s biceps and rolled the man onto his back, and then Spike straddled him, much as Angel had been straddling him a moment ago.
Angel writhed and swore under him, but Spike easily held him in place. And then Spike laughed, because he realized that he was a vampire and now Angel was just a feeble human, and for the first time, Spike would have no trouble at all besting his grandsire in a fight. In fact, he could lean forward right now and drain him, and sod all the pillock could do about it.
He didn’t, though. Instead he simply held Angel down, watching the red droplets from his nose spatter onto the man’s broad chest, until finally Angel stilled. He was panting and his face was red.
“Ready to act civilized?” Spike asked.
Angel continued to glare daggers at him, but he nodded, and Spike released the pressure on his arms. He didn’t dismount yet, though. He wasn’t completely daft.
“All right, then. No more hitting, right?”
Angel nodded again. Spike took a deep breath and wiped the blood away from his face with his forearm.
“It’s really you?” Angel asked hesitantly.
“Yeah, mate.”
“What…where…how….??”
“Long story.” Spike got off of Angel and stood. Angel pulled himself into a sitting position while Spike tugged on his clothing and then sat sideways on the bed. Angel just stared at him in bewilderment, and Spike felt a twinge of sympathy for the git.
“Did the Watchers tell you anything? Or the guards?”
“The Watch-No. Nobody told me….” His voice died away and he rubbed his face hard.
“You’ve…you’ve been in hell, then? Again?”
Angel closed his eyes and nodded once.
“Well, now you’re not. You’re back in California, I think, and, well, you’re human, yeah?”
Angel looked down at himself as if this hadn’t yet occurred to him. He placed two fingers on his neck, feeling the pulse that beat there now, the pulse that Spike could hear from several feet away.
“How?”
“Remember Darla? They’ve done the same to you.”
Angel looked alarmed. “Wolfram and Hart?”
“No. They’re…pretty much out of the picture right now. It was the Watchers Council.”
“Why?”
“They needed…something from me. You were part of the price.”
Angel blinked at that. “Where are we?”
“A prison. They locked me up here for my crimes against humanity.”
“And me?”
Spike shrugged. “You get stuck here too. I expect it’s an improvement over your last home.”
Angel’s jaw clenched. “They’ll get me out. Gunn-“
“Charlie’s dead. Never made it out of the alley.”
“Wes?”
“Dead. Liam, they’re all dead. Every last one of them. I’m all that’s left.”
“No. No, that’s not-“
“Do you know what year it is?”
“No.”
“Actually, I’m not so certain myself. But it’s something like 2173.”
Angel stood and backed away from him. “Twenty-one-No. You’re lying.”
“No reason to.”
Angel abruptly turned and went to the door. He tried to pry it open, but there was no knob and the seam was barely even visible. So then he pounded on it instead, but that produced no response except bruised and bloody hands. He tried the other door, then, the one that led to the outdoor enclosure, but it was still locked, and he had no greater success there. Spike watched him silently as he paced around, looking in vain for some escape. Spike could hardly blame him. He’d done the same himself, and he hadn’t had the shocks that Angel just experienced.
Angel finally sank into his corner again, looking exhausted. For a very long time, he said nothing. Spike picked up the book he’d left next to the bed and began reading.
“What did you give them, Spike?” Angel asked a good deal later, the last word said with such venom that Spike actually flinched.
Spike looked up from his book. “My soul,” he said flatly.
Angel gaped for a moment. “Your…. You gave them your soul?”
“Sold it to them, for you and a few creature comforts.” He waved around the cell at the furniture and the holo screen.
“Why?”
“They needed it for some mojo. Stopping an apocalypse, all that usual rot.”
“No. Why did you do it? I thought…I thought you liked being ensouled.”
“I was used to it, yeah. But they didn’t give me any choice, did they? Would’ve taken it anyway. And my last cell…it wasn’t nearly as nice as this palace they have us in.” Angel looked around the room doubtfully.
“So they left me here, human and imprisoned with a soulless demon?”
Spike chuckled bitterly. “Told them you’d rather burn.”
“What do you want from me, Spike? You plan to kill me?”
“Yeah, that makes loads of sense. Barter to bring you back to life so I can murder you.” He couldn’t stop himself from grinning wickedly and patting his stomach. “Besides, not hungry right now.”
Angel narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re going to turn me.”
“Is that what you want, Peaches? Be rid of that pesky soul once and for all?”
“No.”
“Well, I reckon I’ve had enough of Angelus to last several lifetimes.” And the last thing he’d want was to be caged with that bastard.
“Then what do you want with me?”
Spike heard the lock to the outside door click open, and he put down the book and stood. He leered at Angel. “Gets lonesome in here, with just my left hand for company.” He waved the appendage in the air, waggling his fingers. “Fancied a nice, hot shag now and then.”
Angel looked truly alarmed and pressed more deeply into the corner. “Spike, look, I-“
“Was only taking the piss. Watcher told me you were in hell. I’ve seen the place, remember? I thought even in here, with me, was better than that.”
Angel looked at him, and Spike saw antipathy and disbelief in his eyes. “Bugger this,” Spike muttered, and he stomped to the door, slid it open, and flung himself down outside on the warm pavement.
Days passed without them speaking to each other.
The food slot in this cell was slightly wider, and there was a shelf just beneath it. Three times a day, it opened and a tray of food appeared. Angel stalked over and grabbed it, and then sat in his corner to eat it. Spike rather wished Angel would offer to share a bit; it had been so long since he’d tasted anything but animal blood. But Angel never did, and Spike wasn’t about to ask. When he finished, Angel put the empty tray back on the shelf, and it would be taken away at the next meal. Once a day a packet of blood appeared, and then it was Spike’s turn to eat.
They left Angel a safety razor, and he did a sloppy job of using it with no mirror. He was out of practice as well-it had been several centuries since he’d last grown facial hair.
Angel hated having to use the toilet, especially in Spike’s full view. When he saw the man heading in that direction, Spike turned his back to grant him a spot of privacy. He didn’t turn when Angel showered, though. He liked to watch him, to see the play of his bulky muscles. Angel glowered at him the first time or two and then ignored him.
It took Angel some time to suss out how to work the holo screen, and Spike didn’t offer to help. Once he did get it working, they fell without discussion into an informal sharing scheme, where one would watch the screen or read in the chair while the other slept in the lone bed.
Periodically, they were given fresh clothes, and ordered to pass the old ones through the slot.
The odd thing was, despite the silence, despite the death glares they exchanged, there was still something companionable about the situation. Spike had had so little interaction with others for so long, that even his grandsire’s brooding, frowning company was welcome.
Spike was watching the holo one night-thank the gods there was still football-when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Angel was sitting on the bed and staring at him, his big brow furrowed.
“What?” he asked defensively. It was the first word out of his mouth in over a week.
“I was just wondering.”
“What?”
“You really sold your soul?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why are you just…sitting there?”
Spike puffed in annoyance. “Not much opportunity for bloody mayhem, is there?”
“I mean…you’re acting pretty much the same as when you had a soul.”
“I’m not Angelus, berk. Never was. Besides, I carried that thing for a hundred and fifty years. I expect it had some lasting effects.”
“You really don’t want to kill me.”
“Not yet.”
“If our roles were reversed, I’d-Angelus would have torn out your throat by now.”
“Like I said. ‘M not Angelus.”
Angel stood and walked over, until he was between Spike and the holo screen. “So why did you bring me here?”
“Told you. Didn’t…didn’t want to think of you burning.”
“You felt bad for me.”
“Yeah.”
“You wanted to rescue me?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw you, you know. In the alley. You were trying to help me kill that dragon.”
“Yeah, well, that didn’t work out so well, did it?”
Angel crossed his arms on his chest. “Okay. So…so you cared about me.”
Spike looked away. “Yeah,” he whispered.
“But that was with the soul. Now….”
Spike’s voice was still very quiet. “Can still care, without a soul. I loved Dru without one. Loved Buffy. That was real.”
Angel shook his head. “I’ll never understand you, William.”
Spike smiled slightly. “You never did, mate.”
Angel didn’t reply. He just stood there, staring, and after a while he walked away. Spike went back to watching football, but every so often he glanced at the bed, and Angel was watching him.
The silence between them slowly dissolved. They still argued now and then, or Spike would snark and Angel would roll his eyes. But more often, they’d squeeze amicably together into the ugly orange chair, or they’d sit outside, leaning against the walls and reminiscing. Angel never spoke about hell, and Spike didn’t really need to hear about it. But Spike told Angel of the adventures he’d had since the alley, and they’d both talk about the times they’d had together, with or without souls, or about absent mutual friends.
So one day, when they were watching an ancient James Bond film together, it seemed almost natural when they turned to each other and began to kiss. And after that, the progression from snogging to groping felt so bloody good, and it had been so long, so long for both of them, and then they were tangled with one another atop the narrow cot until they rolled to the floor, and they were cold and hot at once, and remembering that one time, nearly three centuries past now, and still the taste of one another was fine and familiar and right.
It didn’t stop the bickering. It didn’t change the fact that they were stuck here, like animals in a cage, or that there was no hope of an end to it in sight for Spike, and only aging and death awaited Angel. But it was comfort, and it was good. It made their existence bearable. It was, even Angel admitted, better than hell.
Chapter 5