Buffy Season Eight: the Awful Truth!
Hi, it's my posting day today. First of all, thanks to cafedemonde for keeping the Spangel love going for another year. I'm sorry to say, however, that my Spangel muse has let me down, and the only thing I have to offer is a short, comic (as opposed to comics) interlude post-Buffy Season 8, the comic book.
More behind cut with spoilers for the Buffy comics, in case anyone should need those.
I suspect most of you won't have read the comics (and if you haven't, I strongly advise you not to bother), so suffice it to say that in Buffy Season 8 the villain of the piece was a masked figure called Twilight, who turned out to be a super-powered Angel in disguise. Lots of stupid stuff happened (some of which gets mentioned in my ficlet), and the reasons for it, and especially Angel's reasons for doing what he did, were always rather vague (possibly to do with licensing conflicts between Dark Horse, publishers of the Buffy comics, and IDW, who had the franchise for the AtS characters until a couple of years ago), so I decided to invent an explanation of my own.
Whi-ich I think is just as good as any.
Setting: Somewhere in the Buffyverse (comics version)
Rating: PG
Pairings: Spike/Angel, mention of Buffy/Angel
1600 words of sheer stupidity (almost up to Buffy Season 8 standard)
Buffy Season Eight: the Awful Truth
Spike stuck a cigarette in his mouth and flicked his lighter to life. The cigarette tip glowed red.
"So let me get this straight."
Angel only just managed to stop himself from clutching his head in his hands. They'd been over and over this already. But it wouldn't do to let Spike see his impatience. Not now, when everything still hung in the balance.
Spike inhaled smoke deep into his lungs, closed his eyes, savouring the moment, then exhaled through his nostrils. His eyes stayed shut. After a moment, a puzzled frown creased his forehead.
"Oh, sod it." Spike opened his eyes and glared at Angel. "I still don't understand a bloody word of this. Start again from the beginning, would you?"
Angel rolled his eyes, because how could anyone - even Spike -be that dense, then hunched his shoulders, feeling guilty when Spike gave him a Look.
Angel couldn't describe what kind of look it was -just that it was one of those looks with capital letters.
"Sorry. Yes, all right. Is there anything you're having trouble understanding in particular, or...or is it a more general...er, lack of comprehension?"
Spike took another drag on his cigarette. He tilted his head, pretending - blatantly pretending - to consider the matter.
"Well, s'all a bit incomprehensible, innit?" he said, at last. "Not to mention stark raving bonkers. Even for you. I mean, it beats becoming CEO of an evil pan-dimensional law firm into a bloody cocked hat."
He frowned again. "Hard to choose which bit's most bonkers really. Is it the part where you got kicked out of some hell dimension that very conveniently no one else remembers, or..?"
"But I explained that," Angel protested. "It's to do with licenses."
Spike raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Since when do hell dimensions need licenses?"
Angel shrugged apologetically. "It was a surprise to me too, okay? But it's not important. What is important is that I came back. In fact, I couldn't stay away, because I...."
"Yeah," Spike interrupted. "You came back all right. Wish I'd been around to see you break the Hollywood sign with your great fat arse." He smirked. "Bet that was fun!"
Angel gritted his teeth. His ass was not fat, and if Spike ever shut up and let him get a word in edgewise, he'd tell him so.
"It was an accident. I would never damage a cultural icon on purpose. Unlike some people."
Angel gave Spike a significant look , but Spike only smirked some more, as if deliberately flying a spaceship into Big Ben was nothing to feel bad about.
"Anyway," Angel went on, "then I discovered I was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than
a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings at a single bound. Oh, and fly." He shrugged again. "Kind of a shock really, but I decided to just go with it."
"Was this before or after you met the talking dog?" Spike asked.
Angel scowled. "Why do you have to keep going on about that damn dog? It's not important. Can't we just forget about it?"
"Bit difficult to do that." Spike stubbed out his cigarette on his boot heel. "Was an evil talking dog, for a start, an' you fell for its evil plan. But if you're gonna be all pissy about it..."
I am not being pissy, Angel almost said, but stopped himself just in time. Spike was trying to provoke him. He mustn't rise to the bait at this delicate moment. One false move could ruin everything.
"Can we please move on?"
"To the bit where you started wearing your underpants over your actual pants?" Spike smirked.
"Yeah," Angel muttered, sullenly. "To there."
Spike pursed his lips. "You might've passed that off as a bit of kinky fun, if it weren't so bloody pathetic." He leaned towards Angel as he said this last, imbuing the word with an extra dose of withering contempt.
"Especially that stupid code name. Twilight, for fuckssake! What the bloody hell were you thinking?"
Angel felt himself wilting under Spike's scorn. Not to mention the floor was hard and his knees were hurting. Still, it probably wasn't the moment to protest again that the name had been meant to be ironic.
He took a deep breath. So close. He mustn't blow it now.
"Buffy didn't think it was kinky either," he said, in a penitent tone to match his hangdog look.
"Yeah, well, "Spike just glared at him. "Doubt she had the time to think much of anything, what with you and your army of...well, soldiers hounding her at every turn."
"I explained that wasn't exactly what it..." Angel began, but Spike interrupted him again.
"No bloody wonder she ended up going loopy herself, is it?"
Angel blinked. "Loopy?"
Spike was toying with his lighter - flicking it on and off, on and off, which was really distracting. Angel hoped, rather uncharitably, that the damn thing would run out of gas.
"Dunno how else you'd explain her deciding that flying to Tibet in a bloody submarine was a good idea, then that the Slayer army were better off without their powers, even though your lot were still hunting them down like dogs, then not killing you when you fessed up and admitted everything."
He twiddled his finger around and around at the side of his head. "Loopy, with a side of stark raving bonkers. Nuttier even than Dru. And I bet the two of you shagging each others' brains out in outer space didn't help. Must've been bloody freezing."
Angel could vaguely remember Buffy saying the same thing - though not in so many words, of course. There'd been some complaints afterwards too about having to hold her breath for so long. On the whole, though, she'd been a real trouper, which reminded him, he must send her some flowers.
After all, nothing said thank you for helping out a friend in need like a nice bouquet, did it?
"It wasn't what you..." he began again, but Spike was still talking.
"By the time you two lovebirds came back down to earth, she was probably brain-fried by cosmic rays too, so's no wonder she bought all that bollocks about sentient universes giving birth to themselves, not to mention forgave you just like that for killing poor old Rupes by accident."
"It wasn't like that," Angel said, loudly. "As for forgiving me..."
But it was no use. Spike wasn't listening.
"Good thing I turned up just in the nick of time to bring her back to her senses. Never seen the poor bint so embarrassed. Hope that new bloke of hers - Detective Wet Blanket, or whatever his name is - can cheer her up."
"Dowling," Angel said, automatically. "Detective Dowling. And I thought them dating was your idea. Didn't you encourage him to ask her out?"
"Yeah, whatever." Spike shrugged. "Resurrectin' Giles'll probably help her feel better too, though why you had to bring him back as a bloody ankle-biter who the fuck knows?"
I didn't mean to, Angel thought. It just happened.
He'd given up talking out loud. It was pointless, and best Spike get it out of his system, or he'd be insufferable to live with.
More insufferable, that is.
Angel's knees were hurting more and more, and his right arm, which he didn't dare lower in case Spike thought he hadn't meant it, was beginning to ache.
Though he was currently wondering why he was bothering. Spike didn't seem interested in his offer, only in making fun of him.
Gloom settled over Angel like a dusty old blanket. All that effort wasted.
"So," Spike said, suddenly. He'd produced a hipflask from his duster pocket and unscrewed the cap. A fine aroma of single malt wafted around the room as he took a long swig and wiped his hand across his mouth.
"So?" Angel repeated. This sounded more hopeful. "So...what?"
Spike took another swig, screwed the cap on the flask and shoved it back in his pocket. He stepped forward a pace, looming over Angel.
"So, what I'm saying is, yeah, it was bonkers, but it bloody worked, all right?"
Angel kneeled up straighter. "Does this mean what I...?"
But yet again Spike didn't let him finish. Snatching the little box out of Angel's upraised hand, he extracted the diamond ring from its velvet bed and stuck it on his ring finger. "'Course it does. The answer is yes, you twat."
Suddenly, Angel's knees didn't hurt at all. Relief rolled through him in a great surge, like a giant wave breaking on the sunny shore of happiness.
He let Spike draw him up off his knees. They gazed into each others' eyes. Then Angel leaned down - or Spike leaned up, Angel wasn't sure which- and kissed Spike on the mouth. Spike's lips parted. He kissed Angel back.
The minutes passed.
By the time they broke apart, Angel's lips were numb with kissing, but other parts of him had perked up nicely, and going by the bulge at the crotch of Spike's jeans, Angel wasn't the only one who suddenly felt livelier.
Angel moved in for another kiss, but Spike put a hand on his chest, holding him back.
"One last thing."
"Oh?" Angel pushed against the restraining hand. All he wanted to do was kiss Spike again. "Wassat?"
Spike gave him a fond look.
"Just so you know, it's sweet you went to all this trouble, and sweet of Buffy to help you. But if you wanted me to marry you, Angel, all you really had to do was bloody ask."
More behind cut with spoilers for the Buffy comics, in case anyone should need those.
I suspect most of you won't have read the comics (and if you haven't, I strongly advise you not to bother), so suffice it to say that in Buffy Season 8 the villain of the piece was a masked figure called Twilight, who turned out to be a super-powered Angel in disguise. Lots of stupid stuff happened (some of which gets mentioned in my ficlet), and the reasons for it, and especially Angel's reasons for doing what he did, were always rather vague (possibly to do with licensing conflicts between Dark Horse, publishers of the Buffy comics, and IDW, who had the franchise for the AtS characters until a couple of years ago), so I decided to invent an explanation of my own.
Whi-ich I think is just as good as any.
Setting: Somewhere in the Buffyverse (comics version)
Rating: PG
Pairings: Spike/Angel, mention of Buffy/Angel
1600 words of sheer stupidity (almost up to Buffy Season 8 standard)
Buffy Season Eight: the Awful Truth
Spike stuck a cigarette in his mouth and flicked his lighter to life. The cigarette tip glowed red.
"So let me get this straight."
Angel only just managed to stop himself from clutching his head in his hands. They'd been over and over this already. But it wouldn't do to let Spike see his impatience. Not now, when everything still hung in the balance.
Spike inhaled smoke deep into his lungs, closed his eyes, savouring the moment, then exhaled through his nostrils. His eyes stayed shut. After a moment, a puzzled frown creased his forehead.
"Oh, sod it." Spike opened his eyes and glared at Angel. "I still don't understand a bloody word of this. Start again from the beginning, would you?"
Angel rolled his eyes, because how could anyone - even Spike -be that dense, then hunched his shoulders, feeling guilty when Spike gave him a Look.
Angel couldn't describe what kind of look it was -just that it was one of those looks with capital letters.
"Sorry. Yes, all right. Is there anything you're having trouble understanding in particular, or...or is it a more general...er, lack of comprehension?"
Spike took another drag on his cigarette. He tilted his head, pretending - blatantly pretending - to consider the matter.
"Well, s'all a bit incomprehensible, innit?" he said, at last. "Not to mention stark raving bonkers. Even for you. I mean, it beats becoming CEO of an evil pan-dimensional law firm into a bloody cocked hat."
He frowned again. "Hard to choose which bit's most bonkers really. Is it the part where you got kicked out of some hell dimension that very conveniently no one else remembers, or..?"
"But I explained that," Angel protested. "It's to do with licenses."
Spike raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Since when do hell dimensions need licenses?"
Angel shrugged apologetically. "It was a surprise to me too, okay? But it's not important. What is important is that I came back. In fact, I couldn't stay away, because I...."
"Yeah," Spike interrupted. "You came back all right. Wish I'd been around to see you break the Hollywood sign with your great fat arse." He smirked. "Bet that was fun!"
Angel gritted his teeth. His ass was not fat, and if Spike ever shut up and let him get a word in edgewise, he'd tell him so.
"It was an accident. I would never damage a cultural icon on purpose. Unlike some people."
Angel gave Spike a significant look , but Spike only smirked some more, as if deliberately flying a spaceship into Big Ben was nothing to feel bad about.
"Anyway," Angel went on, "then I discovered I was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than
a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings at a single bound. Oh, and fly." He shrugged again. "Kind of a shock really, but I decided to just go with it."
"Was this before or after you met the talking dog?" Spike asked.
Angel scowled. "Why do you have to keep going on about that damn dog? It's not important. Can't we just forget about it?"
"Bit difficult to do that." Spike stubbed out his cigarette on his boot heel. "Was an evil talking dog, for a start, an' you fell for its evil plan. But if you're gonna be all pissy about it..."
I am not being pissy, Angel almost said, but stopped himself just in time. Spike was trying to provoke him. He mustn't rise to the bait at this delicate moment. One false move could ruin everything.
"Can we please move on?"
"To the bit where you started wearing your underpants over your actual pants?" Spike smirked.
"Yeah," Angel muttered, sullenly. "To there."
Spike pursed his lips. "You might've passed that off as a bit of kinky fun, if it weren't so bloody pathetic." He leaned towards Angel as he said this last, imbuing the word with an extra dose of withering contempt.
"Especially that stupid code name. Twilight, for fuckssake! What the bloody hell were you thinking?"
Angel felt himself wilting under Spike's scorn. Not to mention the floor was hard and his knees were hurting. Still, it probably wasn't the moment to protest again that the name had been meant to be ironic.
He took a deep breath. So close. He mustn't blow it now.
"Buffy didn't think it was kinky either," he said, in a penitent tone to match his hangdog look.
"Yeah, well, "Spike just glared at him. "Doubt she had the time to think much of anything, what with you and your army of...well, soldiers hounding her at every turn."
"I explained that wasn't exactly what it..." Angel began, but Spike interrupted him again.
"No bloody wonder she ended up going loopy herself, is it?"
Angel blinked. "Loopy?"
Spike was toying with his lighter - flicking it on and off, on and off, which was really distracting. Angel hoped, rather uncharitably, that the damn thing would run out of gas.
"Dunno how else you'd explain her deciding that flying to Tibet in a bloody submarine was a good idea, then that the Slayer army were better off without their powers, even though your lot were still hunting them down like dogs, then not killing you when you fessed up and admitted everything."
He twiddled his finger around and around at the side of his head. "Loopy, with a side of stark raving bonkers. Nuttier even than Dru. And I bet the two of you shagging each others' brains out in outer space didn't help. Must've been bloody freezing."
Angel could vaguely remember Buffy saying the same thing - though not in so many words, of course. There'd been some complaints afterwards too about having to hold her breath for so long. On the whole, though, she'd been a real trouper, which reminded him, he must send her some flowers.
After all, nothing said thank you for helping out a friend in need like a nice bouquet, did it?
"It wasn't what you..." he began again, but Spike was still talking.
"By the time you two lovebirds came back down to earth, she was probably brain-fried by cosmic rays too, so's no wonder she bought all that bollocks about sentient universes giving birth to themselves, not to mention forgave you just like that for killing poor old Rupes by accident."
"It wasn't like that," Angel said, loudly. "As for forgiving me..."
But it was no use. Spike wasn't listening.
"Good thing I turned up just in the nick of time to bring her back to her senses. Never seen the poor bint so embarrassed. Hope that new bloke of hers - Detective Wet Blanket, or whatever his name is - can cheer her up."
"Dowling," Angel said, automatically. "Detective Dowling. And I thought them dating was your idea. Didn't you encourage him to ask her out?"
"Yeah, whatever." Spike shrugged. "Resurrectin' Giles'll probably help her feel better too, though why you had to bring him back as a bloody ankle-biter who the fuck knows?"
I didn't mean to, Angel thought. It just happened.
He'd given up talking out loud. It was pointless, and best Spike get it out of his system, or he'd be insufferable to live with.
More insufferable, that is.
Angel's knees were hurting more and more, and his right arm, which he didn't dare lower in case Spike thought he hadn't meant it, was beginning to ache.
Though he was currently wondering why he was bothering. Spike didn't seem interested in his offer, only in making fun of him.
Gloom settled over Angel like a dusty old blanket. All that effort wasted.
"So," Spike said, suddenly. He'd produced a hipflask from his duster pocket and unscrewed the cap. A fine aroma of single malt wafted around the room as he took a long swig and wiped his hand across his mouth.
"So?" Angel repeated. This sounded more hopeful. "So...what?"
Spike took another swig, screwed the cap on the flask and shoved it back in his pocket. He stepped forward a pace, looming over Angel.
"So, what I'm saying is, yeah, it was bonkers, but it bloody worked, all right?"
Angel kneeled up straighter. "Does this mean what I...?"
But yet again Spike didn't let him finish. Snatching the little box out of Angel's upraised hand, he extracted the diamond ring from its velvet bed and stuck it on his ring finger. "'Course it does. The answer is yes, you twat."
Suddenly, Angel's knees didn't hurt at all. Relief rolled through him in a great surge, like a giant wave breaking on the sunny shore of happiness.
He let Spike draw him up off his knees. They gazed into each others' eyes. Then Angel leaned down - or Spike leaned up, Angel wasn't sure which- and kissed Spike on the mouth. Spike's lips parted. He kissed Angel back.
The minutes passed.
By the time they broke apart, Angel's lips were numb with kissing, but other parts of him had perked up nicely, and going by the bulge at the crotch of Spike's jeans, Angel wasn't the only one who suddenly felt livelier.
Angel moved in for another kiss, but Spike put a hand on his chest, holding him back.
"One last thing."
"Oh?" Angel pushed against the restraining hand. All he wanted to do was kiss Spike again. "Wassat?"
Spike gave him a fond look.
"Just so you know, it's sweet you went to all this trouble, and sweet of Buffy to help you. But if you wanted me to marry you, Angel, all you really had to do was bloody ask."