Entry tags:
Fic: Divided Destiny. Chapter 26
First chapter & notes here (on LJ), for DW just follow the tags, and Master post of whole 'verse here (also tagged on DW).
Can also be found on AO3.
This chapter is one of those that had been in my head almost since I first thought of the story. Actually writing it was bizarre.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: Teen. (Same warnings as the show basically.)
Characters: Spike, Angel, Illyria, Buffy, Scoobies + cameos from more or less everyone in the 'verse.
Main Ships: Spike/Buffy, Angel/Nina
Feedback: Is bloody ambrosia! (The secret ingredient is otter...)
Word count (this chapter): 3600 words
Setting and Summary: As before. (Post-NFA epic quest thing.)
Beta: The ever wonderful![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kathyh
Chapter 26
The Home Office was simultaneously exactly and nothing like what any of them had expected.
Although it took a while before they could actually get there…
Spike had never given much thought to how they would actually accomplish their task; his job was to use the Dead Key, all this stuff about ‘the Home Office’ and magic rings he had left up to the experts (as it were).
To his surprise the ‘auspicious place’ turned out to be… Pylea. Not, apparently, because of the place itself, but because Illyria had tracked down a warlock with a long and well-documented feud with Wolfram and Hart who had hidden himself in that dimension — no one had noticed him, what with the burgeoning civil war. How exactly Illyria had found him was a bit of a mystery, but she wasn’t keen to share, just looked smug and imperious. There had probably been Plans B through to Z, all now discarded. Not that Spike cared…
By now he found himself almost light-hearted; the wait was over, it was finally time for action.
As they walked to the abandoned mine where the warlock had taken up residence, Angel explained (at some length) that the ring Dru had been in possession of was a ‘Band of Blacknill’, which — despite its very simple looks — was a powerful mystical ring that allowed the wearer to travel between dimensions. Angel had gotten hold of one some years previously — something about a review and Darla and a Senior Partner showing up and (incongruously) a glove. Spike, not really paying attention, was wondering what kind of glove, and by the time Angel clarified that it was actually a gauntlet Spike was having entirely too much fun imagining Angel fighting a demon whilst wearing an oven mitt.
The main point was that although the ring had been disenchanted, Illyria could — with the help of her beetle friend — ascertain where it had led. A bit like hacking a sat nav to find out where it had been programmed to go next. Unfortunately getting to a higher plane was not a simple matter, not even for a hell god, hence the need for magicks.
The warlock was charcoal black, with massive horns, and was dressed in robes so tattered and filthy that Spike was grateful that he didn’t have to breathe. Its name was something not unlike ‘Jozyxqe’, and Spike nicknamed it that in his own mind, as he needed something to smile about, whilst the warlock cackled and muttered to itself as it arranged the long-winded and elaborate ritual that would transport them into the higher realm.
Upon arrival at the site Spike had sat himself down with his back against one of the rough stone walls beside the opening of the ancient mine, kicking away a human skull as he did so. The demons who had been in charge had used human slaves to do their mining at some point — centuries ago, from the look of the skull and other bones and the dilapidated state of the mine. Not that he could see much as the night was dark, and the only light came from Jozyxqe’s torches which were oozing acrid smoke and smelled like they were made from tallow.
“Human sacrifices much quicker this ritual would make,” Jozyxqe said, as he daubed some more tar on the ground, completing the intricate design he’d been creating, and Illyria cocked her head.
“There are many humans in this realm,” she remarked, but Angel shook his head.
“Don’t start getting ideas your highness. And Yoda — we are trying to save people, not kill them. Keep with the programme.”
“My name is not ‘Yo-da’,” the warlock rebuffed, clearly offended, and Angel pinched the bridge of his nose.
“That was a joke. I’m… sorry. The point is, no human sacrifices, I don’t care how long we have to chant for.”
Jozyxqe turned to Illyria, questioning, and she nodded.
“Yoda is a mighty warrior and wielder of magic in the world of the humans, his tale handed down for millennia. It was an odd choice of title for my Champion to use, but he meant no disrespect.”
Spike blinked at the fact of Illyria of all people (for a very loose definition of ‘people’) being the one to soothe ruffled feathers — nevermind knowing who Yoda was; although if she’d spent all her free time hanging out on the internet with gigantic nerds he wasn’t surprised some of it had rubbed off.
Jozyxqe glowered, but went back to looking through old scrolls and books, warning them that the initial chanting would take most of the night:
“Opening access to higher realms fraught is, and hazardous. Very dangerous The Home Office is. No other warlock would this attempt make, remember!”
Then he thankfully started chanting, Illyria and Angel both folding their hands, observing him.
Their next remarks were very quiet, but Spike heard them, and smiled. Vampire hearing was very handy.
“Your remark. It was due to the odd structure of his sentences, yes? Yoda is very small and his colouring is green, so it cannot have been his physical appearance which spurred your words.”
A suppressed, but clearly pained sigh from Angel. “Yes. Yes that was the joke. He talks like Yoda.”
A slow head tilt from Illyria.
“The comparison was apt, but not worth the implied insult. You are not in Kansas anymore, vampire.”
Spike had to bite his knuckles to stop from laughing out loud, but the look on Angel’s face was worth it all. Sadly they then fell silent and Spike was left with his own thoughts to keep him company whilst the warlock warbled on in long-dead demon languages.
Thoughts that he wasn’t really able to process, if he was honest.
The chanting became distant, the night’s shadows faded away and all he could see was Buffy’s face in the sunshine, her words, angry and pained, screamed at him.
Buffy loves me.
It shouldn’t have been such a shock, she’d said it plenty, and he’d basked in it — and sometimes clung to the words, when other factors were unbalancing them.
And yet.
He’d always tried to be better, for her. To deserve her. To be someone worthy of her.
Hell, he’d set off to see her after the ghostliness had been sorted and just… stopped. And then turned back to LA (and Angel). The devil he knew (and who knew him) rather than the angel whom he loved with every fibre of his being, yet wasn’t sure he could offer anything.
‘Chronic insecurity, thy name is Spike,’ he thought wryly; and yet there was entirely too much truth in the statement. When they’d met again, in Rome, he’d held out the Shanshu to her, like a symbol of how he’d do better. He could be a proper hero, a real Champion.
Sure he’d saved the world already, and he’d rub Angel’s nose in it any day, but like he’d once said to Fred, he’d just… stood there, let the fire come. The Shanshu was somehow more important, something that had been Angel’s, now his, a real prophecy, something to bolster his claims to hero-ness.
Mostly though (if he was honest), it was the human part that he was hung up on. Scared of it, yes, but it’d be worth it for Buffy — to be a real man, not an undead creature of the night with a blood habit and a past with too many victims to count. To have his past washed clean…
It had been something to strive for, a journey towards becoming a better man (one he’d been on ever since realising he was in love with her), and the Shanshu was the last step.
Except then Buffy had gone and turned everything upside down.
She loves me. Exactly as I am. Now. A mess. A vampire.
And sure he’d always known he turned her on, that they had a special bond (sex and death and love and pain, the eternal Slayer/vampire dynamic), but he’d never suspected the state of affairs as something she was happy with as it was, as… endgame.
At this point Angel sat himself down next to him, breaking his train of thought.
“You OK?”
Spike shrugged.
“As OK as I can be, I guess.”
Angel nodded, and after a pause asked: “So did you…?”
He stopped, obviously unable to think of a good way to finish the sentence, but Spike knew what he was asking.
“Yeah. Came here, as a matter of fact.”
“Here?” Angel echoed, actually turning to him in surprise, and Spike smiled.
“Well, Pylea. Not this particular bit of prime real estate — the pretty parts. Grass and sunshine and trees and that. Thought it’d be nice. Which I guess it was. ’S how we met Lorne.”
A slow nod from Angel.
“What did he want?”
“The same as everyone else. Heard me humming a ditty, saw my future, suddenly very eager to talk to us.”
“Figures,” Angel replied.
They sat in silence for a bit, fantastical shadows dancing around the landscape and up the walls, golden torchlight fighting against the night’s breeze.
“You?” Spike finally returned, and Angel smiled. A proper smile that reached his eyes. It was good to see, Spike reflected. They were both of them going to get hit with the very worst of what Wolfram and Hart could dish out as soon as all the chanting was over, and there would be no smiles then, that was for sure.
“Went to see Venka and Raavi.”
“Really? How are they doing?”
There followed an account of what Angel had seen and the other things he had discussed with the sisters, and they managed to amiably skirt around all the issues they couldn’t talk about.
How long since Dru had died? It had been a sunny morning in LA, followed by a rainy afternoon in London, followed by best part of a day in Pylea… Maybe twenty four hours? Felt like so much longer. Felt like less. He could still hear her laughter. Her scream.
He’d drifted off again, and didn’t realise until Angel repeated a question and Spike looked at him blankly.
“Sorry, just… bit out of it, I guess. The past day…”
Their eyes met briefly, then Angel looked away, studying his hands.
“Yeah. I wish we could… that there was time for…”
His voice trailed off, and Spike studied the warlock, who was now waving his arms in the air along with the chanting. If it was for dramatic effect, or part of the ritual, was anyone’s guess. There were symbols all over the ground now, and painted onto the stone altar too.
“Me too,” he eventually replied.
But between the two of them, there really was nothing that could be said. They knew where they stood.
Settling down to an interminable wait, events suddenly accelerated.
Jozyxqe’s chanting had reached a fever pitch when without warning Illyria’s voice joined in.
As they looked up in surprise, they saw her slamming the warlock down onto the stone altar, before driving the sacrificial knife deep into his chest.
Jumping to their feet the world seemed to flicker around them, powerful magicks clearly at work.
As blood slowly began dripping off the altar, ruby-red drop by ruby-red drop hitting the ground, a shape began solidifying in the air, something tall and wooden and flat…
“It’s a door,” Spike said, somewhat superfluously, as Illyria’s smile practically lit up the darkness.
“Come!”
“But how-” Angel asked, as he stepped around the altar, and Illyria shrugged.
“He was right. A sacrifice greatly speeds up the ritual.”
A beat, then Angel shrugged as well, and stepped up to the now very solid wooden door, adorned with a small metal plate with the words ‘The Home Office’ neatly engraved.
“Well, here goes nothing,” he said, and pushed it open.
***
They were met with sleet.
The world of ‘the Home Office’ was murky grey, visibility non-existent, the ground consisting of jagged rocks, and whilst they were trying to get their bearings they were attacked by a pack of giant furry beasts with claws like knives and teeth like sharks.
The door had vanished as soon as they had stepped through it, so there was nothing for it but fight or be killed. And despite having fought together for so long that they barely had to think about it anymore, they didn’t seem able to get the upper hand. The beasts’ fur repelled any effort at stabbing, and even arrows seemed to bounce off before the crossbow was smashed.
How long the fought they couldn’t say; hours at the very least. Five, seven, nine? It seemed endless, and every time they managed to kill a beast two more would take its place. The rain had drenched them within minutes, making their clothing heavy and cumbersome, their boots like soggy puddles and it was impossible to get a good foothold on the uneven terrain.
The brute force was unexpected (they had presumed a web of deception and magicks), but it wasn’t until one of them sunk its teeth into Spike’s left shoulder and arm — even piercing the armour going by the cry of pain that escaped Spike’s lips — that Angel realised they might be in actual trouble. Managing to stab the creature in the eye he got Spike untangled from the lethal fangs, and they were forced to beat a retreat up the rock incline behind them. They had already been fighting for an interminable time, and he was beginning to tire, even as the monsters showed no sign of waning.
To his immense relief he spotted what looked like the opening of a cave through the gloom and the persistent half-frozen rain which was still falling down in heavy sheets.
Illyria defended the narrow mouth of the cave, and eventually the creatures gave up, disappearing into the darkness.
Spike had collapsed, and Angel realised that the other had also suffered several lacerations of his leg. Not that Angel hadn’t been hurt, but it was mostly surface wounds.
“What happened?” he asked, as he wrapped perfunctory bandages around Spike’s leg and upper left arm. They’d fought worse and for longer — not often, but it had happened. And Spike never slipped up like this.
“Guess I got sloppy,” he replied, inhaling sharply as Angel tightened a bandage. “Gave my amulet to Buffy — guess the protection spell was better than I thought, been keeping me safe…”
A pause as Angel took this on board.
“Well, here’s to hoping you don’t get yourself killed before using the Key,” he replied drily, and Spike shot him a sardonic look.
“Keep your hair on granddad, I’ll go down in flames yet,” he snorted, but didn’t complain when Angel gently moved him to a more upright position, making him lean his good shoulder against Angel’s side.
“Try to sleep while it heals,” Angel suggested, somewhat superfluously, and Spike merely nodded as he sank down, the pain on his face clear as day even though neither would mention it.
Angel half-wished they could build a small fire, except there was no wood, everything was wet, and it would undoubtedly attract the beasts again. He hoped Illyria would know where they needed to go, all their pent-up gung-ho attitude was flagging in the face of this grey nothingness.
For now there was nothing they could do except wait. He had a feeling that they were trapped here — if Illyria could have taken them away, she would have.
Eventually Spike succumbed to the blood loss and the pain and fell asleep — or possibly just lost consciousness — either way he sank further down against Angel’s side, and after a while Angel shifted him so he was lying down, his head in Angel’s lap.
Without meaning to, Angel gently stroked the bleached-blonde locks, unruly and dirtied from the battle. Let his finger follow the scar on Spike’s eyebrow, studied the exhaustion below the sleeping, bloodied features.
He’d looked just the same the night they’d… the night they’d let go of the past.
Spike in his bed, Spike in his arms. For one night only laying open their hearts and souls. Hands and lips that had so recently been used to hurt and injure, carefully soothing away the pain.
He couldn’t remember if they’d actually spoken. He didn’t think so… words had not been necessary.
The walls had come back up again of course — along with the snark and the jibes. And yet… everything had been different. The hate, the pain, the anger, the guilt — gone. Mostly gone anyway. Forgiveness was a gift Angel never knew how to quantify, and he had never expected it from Spike.
They had never talked about it afterwards of course, never discussed what it all meant. Knew no one else would ever understand; that fighting to the death, then ending up in bed would be illogical to anyone else.
‘I’m going to lose him’ he thought. ‘He’ll shanshu and become mortal and die and leave me like everyone else.’
And with a start he realised that his feelings about the Shanshu had come 180 degrees.
Back when Spike had first re-appeared in his life he had felt like a usurper, come to steal Angel’s destiny. And even after he had signed it away he had probably subconsciously resented Spike for inadvertently taking something away from him. But now…
Now, he resented the Shanshu for taking Spike away from him.
For the merest fraction of a second he felt jealousy of Buffy choke him — Buffy who would get Spike by her side ‘forever’.
‘He was mine first!’ he felt like telling her, except that ‘mine’ was so fraught with complexity that the word tripped him up. ‘Mine’? Since when had Spike been his? Nothing was his, that was the first lesson he’d taught Spike; so why did he feel so possessive now? (And when had he stopped feeling possessive of Buffy? Shouldn’t he feel jealous of Spike? Or had he finally let go of the idea that she would ever be his?)
Or — was it the fear of loneliness hanging over him?
These past years…
Trying to evaluate the past decade (all the way back to when Spike had first turned up, incorporeal, yet unavoidable), Angel pondered the way they had re-established and re-defined the bonds from the past — Spike was deliberately annoying about 90% of the time, but Angel wasn’t sure he’d want him any other way. It helped them skirt around all the things they couldn’t give voice to. They understood each other too well, that was the problem. Like living shadows or walking reminders of the past — and the fact that no one else knew what it was like to be a vampire with a soul… They didn’t talk, but then what could they possibly say to encapsulate everything they were to each other? He knew Spike would always have his back and vice versa, no words necessary.
The realisation that he would lose this certainty made him (foolishly) wish they could stay here forever. Cold, in pain, with nothing but monsters and darkness surrounding them, but at least they were together…
Looking up, he saw that Illyria had vanished.
There was nothing he could do, he realised. Well, he could wake Spike, but the other needed the rest. If the big hairy beasts came back… well there wasn’t much they could do about that either. Maybe they should have borrowed that Talnor creature, but thinking it over then if it could have helped, Buffy would have been certain to use that to her advantage.
There was something about how this was panning out — the big departure, the big moment, and then… grey wetness and no real enemy to fight.
He should be frustrated but in truth he was grateful. This moment of quiet was unexpected, an odd grace note of contemplation. Not the beauty and wonder of that last day with Nina, but something darker, more painful. The ties of blood, and their past. A moment to reflect before destiny sank its claws into them once more.
Then abruptly Illyria appeared again, looking like she had that time when she’d returned from the dimension where she had found her army, water and light crackling around her slender frame.
“They are trying to play us for fools. Rise vampires. They shall meet their doom yet!”
A protest died on Angel’s lips and reluctantly he woke Spike, wincing in sympathy as the other muffled a cry of pain.
“So, what are you saying?” he eventually asked after they had both gotten to their feet, and Illyria smiled, looking not unlike a wolf herself.
“This place is a glamour, a trap to delay us.”
“Well thanks for letting us know, I feel much better now,” Spike said drily, but Illyria either didn’t catch the tone, or she didn’t care. Instead, she appeared to rein the light in, closing her eyes and going dark and still, before reaching out and grasping hold of thin air.
And then as they watched the air seemed to scrunch up like a cloth, before she with a swift hard movement tore a rent in what looked like the fabric of reality.
“If they think I am so diminished I could not get through,” she muttered, before stepping through into the soft darkness on the other side.
Angel and Spike cautiously followed, but as the darkness receded Angel shook his head, feeling nausea rising at the sight that greeted them.
“Can we go back?”
Chapter 27 on LJ
Chapter 27 on DW
Note: The idea that Spike and Angel's 'that one time' was the night post-Destiny came from this fic, which is still one of my favourite things I have ever read, and pretty much my personal head canon:
Lament for the Dead
Can also be found on AO3.
This chapter is one of those that had been in my head almost since I first thought of the story. Actually writing it was bizarre.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: Teen. (Same warnings as the show basically.)
Characters: Spike, Angel, Illyria, Buffy, Scoobies + cameos from more or less everyone in the 'verse.
Main Ships: Spike/Buffy, Angel/Nina
Feedback: Is bloody ambrosia! (The secret ingredient is otter...)
Word count (this chapter): 3600 words
Setting and Summary: As before. (Post-NFA epic quest thing.)
Beta: The ever wonderful
kathyhThe Home Office was simultaneously exactly and nothing like what any of them had expected.
Although it took a while before they could actually get there…
Spike had never given much thought to how they would actually accomplish their task; his job was to use the Dead Key, all this stuff about ‘the Home Office’ and magic rings he had left up to the experts (as it were).
To his surprise the ‘auspicious place’ turned out to be… Pylea. Not, apparently, because of the place itself, but because Illyria had tracked down a warlock with a long and well-documented feud with Wolfram and Hart who had hidden himself in that dimension — no one had noticed him, what with the burgeoning civil war. How exactly Illyria had found him was a bit of a mystery, but she wasn’t keen to share, just looked smug and imperious. There had probably been Plans B through to Z, all now discarded. Not that Spike cared…
By now he found himself almost light-hearted; the wait was over, it was finally time for action.
As they walked to the abandoned mine where the warlock had taken up residence, Angel explained (at some length) that the ring Dru had been in possession of was a ‘Band of Blacknill’, which — despite its very simple looks — was a powerful mystical ring that allowed the wearer to travel between dimensions. Angel had gotten hold of one some years previously — something about a review and Darla and a Senior Partner showing up and (incongruously) a glove. Spike, not really paying attention, was wondering what kind of glove, and by the time Angel clarified that it was actually a gauntlet Spike was having entirely too much fun imagining Angel fighting a demon whilst wearing an oven mitt.
The main point was that although the ring had been disenchanted, Illyria could — with the help of her beetle friend — ascertain where it had led. A bit like hacking a sat nav to find out where it had been programmed to go next. Unfortunately getting to a higher plane was not a simple matter, not even for a hell god, hence the need for magicks.
The warlock was charcoal black, with massive horns, and was dressed in robes so tattered and filthy that Spike was grateful that he didn’t have to breathe. Its name was something not unlike ‘Jozyxqe’, and Spike nicknamed it that in his own mind, as he needed something to smile about, whilst the warlock cackled and muttered to itself as it arranged the long-winded and elaborate ritual that would transport them into the higher realm.
Upon arrival at the site Spike had sat himself down with his back against one of the rough stone walls beside the opening of the ancient mine, kicking away a human skull as he did so. The demons who had been in charge had used human slaves to do their mining at some point — centuries ago, from the look of the skull and other bones and the dilapidated state of the mine. Not that he could see much as the night was dark, and the only light came from Jozyxqe’s torches which were oozing acrid smoke and smelled like they were made from tallow.
“Human sacrifices much quicker this ritual would make,” Jozyxqe said, as he daubed some more tar on the ground, completing the intricate design he’d been creating, and Illyria cocked her head.
“There are many humans in this realm,” she remarked, but Angel shook his head.
“Don’t start getting ideas your highness. And Yoda — we are trying to save people, not kill them. Keep with the programme.”
“My name is not ‘Yo-da’,” the warlock rebuffed, clearly offended, and Angel pinched the bridge of his nose.
“That was a joke. I’m… sorry. The point is, no human sacrifices, I don’t care how long we have to chant for.”
Jozyxqe turned to Illyria, questioning, and she nodded.
“Yoda is a mighty warrior and wielder of magic in the world of the humans, his tale handed down for millennia. It was an odd choice of title for my Champion to use, but he meant no disrespect.”
Spike blinked at the fact of Illyria of all people (for a very loose definition of ‘people’) being the one to soothe ruffled feathers — nevermind knowing who Yoda was; although if she’d spent all her free time hanging out on the internet with gigantic nerds he wasn’t surprised some of it had rubbed off.
Jozyxqe glowered, but went back to looking through old scrolls and books, warning them that the initial chanting would take most of the night:
“Opening access to higher realms fraught is, and hazardous. Very dangerous The Home Office is. No other warlock would this attempt make, remember!”
Then he thankfully started chanting, Illyria and Angel both folding their hands, observing him.
Their next remarks were very quiet, but Spike heard them, and smiled. Vampire hearing was very handy.
“Your remark. It was due to the odd structure of his sentences, yes? Yoda is very small and his colouring is green, so it cannot have been his physical appearance which spurred your words.”
A suppressed, but clearly pained sigh from Angel. “Yes. Yes that was the joke. He talks like Yoda.”
A slow head tilt from Illyria.
“The comparison was apt, but not worth the implied insult. You are not in Kansas anymore, vampire.”
Spike had to bite his knuckles to stop from laughing out loud, but the look on Angel’s face was worth it all. Sadly they then fell silent and Spike was left with his own thoughts to keep him company whilst the warlock warbled on in long-dead demon languages.
Thoughts that he wasn’t really able to process, if he was honest.
The chanting became distant, the night’s shadows faded away and all he could see was Buffy’s face in the sunshine, her words, angry and pained, screamed at him.
Buffy loves me.
It shouldn’t have been such a shock, she’d said it plenty, and he’d basked in it — and sometimes clung to the words, when other factors were unbalancing them.
And yet.
He’d always tried to be better, for her. To deserve her. To be someone worthy of her.
Hell, he’d set off to see her after the ghostliness had been sorted and just… stopped. And then turned back to LA (and Angel). The devil he knew (and who knew him) rather than the angel whom he loved with every fibre of his being, yet wasn’t sure he could offer anything.
‘Chronic insecurity, thy name is Spike,’ he thought wryly; and yet there was entirely too much truth in the statement. When they’d met again, in Rome, he’d held out the Shanshu to her, like a symbol of how he’d do better. He could be a proper hero, a real Champion.
Sure he’d saved the world already, and he’d rub Angel’s nose in it any day, but like he’d once said to Fred, he’d just… stood there, let the fire come. The Shanshu was somehow more important, something that had been Angel’s, now his, a real prophecy, something to bolster his claims to hero-ness.
Mostly though (if he was honest), it was the human part that he was hung up on. Scared of it, yes, but it’d be worth it for Buffy — to be a real man, not an undead creature of the night with a blood habit and a past with too many victims to count. To have his past washed clean…
It had been something to strive for, a journey towards becoming a better man (one he’d been on ever since realising he was in love with her), and the Shanshu was the last step.
Except then Buffy had gone and turned everything upside down.
She loves me. Exactly as I am. Now. A mess. A vampire.
And sure he’d always known he turned her on, that they had a special bond (sex and death and love and pain, the eternal Slayer/vampire dynamic), but he’d never suspected the state of affairs as something she was happy with as it was, as… endgame.
At this point Angel sat himself down next to him, breaking his train of thought.
“You OK?”
Spike shrugged.
“As OK as I can be, I guess.”
Angel nodded, and after a pause asked: “So did you…?”
He stopped, obviously unable to think of a good way to finish the sentence, but Spike knew what he was asking.
“Yeah. Came here, as a matter of fact.”
“Here?” Angel echoed, actually turning to him in surprise, and Spike smiled.
“Well, Pylea. Not this particular bit of prime real estate — the pretty parts. Grass and sunshine and trees and that. Thought it’d be nice. Which I guess it was. ’S how we met Lorne.”
A slow nod from Angel.
“What did he want?”
“The same as everyone else. Heard me humming a ditty, saw my future, suddenly very eager to talk to us.”
“Figures,” Angel replied.
They sat in silence for a bit, fantastical shadows dancing around the landscape and up the walls, golden torchlight fighting against the night’s breeze.
“You?” Spike finally returned, and Angel smiled. A proper smile that reached his eyes. It was good to see, Spike reflected. They were both of them going to get hit with the very worst of what Wolfram and Hart could dish out as soon as all the chanting was over, and there would be no smiles then, that was for sure.
“Went to see Venka and Raavi.”
“Really? How are they doing?”
There followed an account of what Angel had seen and the other things he had discussed with the sisters, and they managed to amiably skirt around all the issues they couldn’t talk about.
How long since Dru had died? It had been a sunny morning in LA, followed by a rainy afternoon in London, followed by best part of a day in Pylea… Maybe twenty four hours? Felt like so much longer. Felt like less. He could still hear her laughter. Her scream.
He’d drifted off again, and didn’t realise until Angel repeated a question and Spike looked at him blankly.
“Sorry, just… bit out of it, I guess. The past day…”
Their eyes met briefly, then Angel looked away, studying his hands.
“Yeah. I wish we could… that there was time for…”
His voice trailed off, and Spike studied the warlock, who was now waving his arms in the air along with the chanting. If it was for dramatic effect, or part of the ritual, was anyone’s guess. There were symbols all over the ground now, and painted onto the stone altar too.
“Me too,” he eventually replied.
But between the two of them, there really was nothing that could be said. They knew where they stood.
Settling down to an interminable wait, events suddenly accelerated.
Jozyxqe’s chanting had reached a fever pitch when without warning Illyria’s voice joined in.
As they looked up in surprise, they saw her slamming the warlock down onto the stone altar, before driving the sacrificial knife deep into his chest.
Jumping to their feet the world seemed to flicker around them, powerful magicks clearly at work.
As blood slowly began dripping off the altar, ruby-red drop by ruby-red drop hitting the ground, a shape began solidifying in the air, something tall and wooden and flat…
“It’s a door,” Spike said, somewhat superfluously, as Illyria’s smile practically lit up the darkness.
“Come!”
“But how-” Angel asked, as he stepped around the altar, and Illyria shrugged.
“He was right. A sacrifice greatly speeds up the ritual.”
A beat, then Angel shrugged as well, and stepped up to the now very solid wooden door, adorned with a small metal plate with the words ‘The Home Office’ neatly engraved.
“Well, here goes nothing,” he said, and pushed it open.
They were met with sleet.
The world of ‘the Home Office’ was murky grey, visibility non-existent, the ground consisting of jagged rocks, and whilst they were trying to get their bearings they were attacked by a pack of giant furry beasts with claws like knives and teeth like sharks.
The door had vanished as soon as they had stepped through it, so there was nothing for it but fight or be killed. And despite having fought together for so long that they barely had to think about it anymore, they didn’t seem able to get the upper hand. The beasts’ fur repelled any effort at stabbing, and even arrows seemed to bounce off before the crossbow was smashed.
How long the fought they couldn’t say; hours at the very least. Five, seven, nine? It seemed endless, and every time they managed to kill a beast two more would take its place. The rain had drenched them within minutes, making their clothing heavy and cumbersome, their boots like soggy puddles and it was impossible to get a good foothold on the uneven terrain.
The brute force was unexpected (they had presumed a web of deception and magicks), but it wasn’t until one of them sunk its teeth into Spike’s left shoulder and arm — even piercing the armour going by the cry of pain that escaped Spike’s lips — that Angel realised they might be in actual trouble. Managing to stab the creature in the eye he got Spike untangled from the lethal fangs, and they were forced to beat a retreat up the rock incline behind them. They had already been fighting for an interminable time, and he was beginning to tire, even as the monsters showed no sign of waning.
To his immense relief he spotted what looked like the opening of a cave through the gloom and the persistent half-frozen rain which was still falling down in heavy sheets.
Illyria defended the narrow mouth of the cave, and eventually the creatures gave up, disappearing into the darkness.
Spike had collapsed, and Angel realised that the other had also suffered several lacerations of his leg. Not that Angel hadn’t been hurt, but it was mostly surface wounds.
“What happened?” he asked, as he wrapped perfunctory bandages around Spike’s leg and upper left arm. They’d fought worse and for longer — not often, but it had happened. And Spike never slipped up like this.
“Guess I got sloppy,” he replied, inhaling sharply as Angel tightened a bandage. “Gave my amulet to Buffy — guess the protection spell was better than I thought, been keeping me safe…”
A pause as Angel took this on board.
“Well, here’s to hoping you don’t get yourself killed before using the Key,” he replied drily, and Spike shot him a sardonic look.
“Keep your hair on granddad, I’ll go down in flames yet,” he snorted, but didn’t complain when Angel gently moved him to a more upright position, making him lean his good shoulder against Angel’s side.
“Try to sleep while it heals,” Angel suggested, somewhat superfluously, and Spike merely nodded as he sank down, the pain on his face clear as day even though neither would mention it.
Angel half-wished they could build a small fire, except there was no wood, everything was wet, and it would undoubtedly attract the beasts again. He hoped Illyria would know where they needed to go, all their pent-up gung-ho attitude was flagging in the face of this grey nothingness.
For now there was nothing they could do except wait. He had a feeling that they were trapped here — if Illyria could have taken them away, she would have.
Eventually Spike succumbed to the blood loss and the pain and fell asleep — or possibly just lost consciousness — either way he sank further down against Angel’s side, and after a while Angel shifted him so he was lying down, his head in Angel’s lap.
Without meaning to, Angel gently stroked the bleached-blonde locks, unruly and dirtied from the battle. Let his finger follow the scar on Spike’s eyebrow, studied the exhaustion below the sleeping, bloodied features.
He’d looked just the same the night they’d… the night they’d let go of the past.
Spike in his bed, Spike in his arms. For one night only laying open their hearts and souls. Hands and lips that had so recently been used to hurt and injure, carefully soothing away the pain.
He couldn’t remember if they’d actually spoken. He didn’t think so… words had not been necessary.
The walls had come back up again of course — along with the snark and the jibes. And yet… everything had been different. The hate, the pain, the anger, the guilt — gone. Mostly gone anyway. Forgiveness was a gift Angel never knew how to quantify, and he had never expected it from Spike.
They had never talked about it afterwards of course, never discussed what it all meant. Knew no one else would ever understand; that fighting to the death, then ending up in bed would be illogical to anyone else.
‘I’m going to lose him’ he thought. ‘He’ll shanshu and become mortal and die and leave me like everyone else.’
And with a start he realised that his feelings about the Shanshu had come 180 degrees.
Back when Spike had first re-appeared in his life he had felt like a usurper, come to steal Angel’s destiny. And even after he had signed it away he had probably subconsciously resented Spike for inadvertently taking something away from him. But now…
Now, he resented the Shanshu for taking Spike away from him.
For the merest fraction of a second he felt jealousy of Buffy choke him — Buffy who would get Spike by her side ‘forever’.
‘He was mine first!’ he felt like telling her, except that ‘mine’ was so fraught with complexity that the word tripped him up. ‘Mine’? Since when had Spike been his? Nothing was his, that was the first lesson he’d taught Spike; so why did he feel so possessive now? (And when had he stopped feeling possessive of Buffy? Shouldn’t he feel jealous of Spike? Or had he finally let go of the idea that she would ever be his?)
Or — was it the fear of loneliness hanging over him?
These past years…
Trying to evaluate the past decade (all the way back to when Spike had first turned up, incorporeal, yet unavoidable), Angel pondered the way they had re-established and re-defined the bonds from the past — Spike was deliberately annoying about 90% of the time, but Angel wasn’t sure he’d want him any other way. It helped them skirt around all the things they couldn’t give voice to. They understood each other too well, that was the problem. Like living shadows or walking reminders of the past — and the fact that no one else knew what it was like to be a vampire with a soul… They didn’t talk, but then what could they possibly say to encapsulate everything they were to each other? He knew Spike would always have his back and vice versa, no words necessary.
The realisation that he would lose this certainty made him (foolishly) wish they could stay here forever. Cold, in pain, with nothing but monsters and darkness surrounding them, but at least they were together…
Looking up, he saw that Illyria had vanished.
There was nothing he could do, he realised. Well, he could wake Spike, but the other needed the rest. If the big hairy beasts came back… well there wasn’t much they could do about that either. Maybe they should have borrowed that Talnor creature, but thinking it over then if it could have helped, Buffy would have been certain to use that to her advantage.
There was something about how this was panning out — the big departure, the big moment, and then… grey wetness and no real enemy to fight.
He should be frustrated but in truth he was grateful. This moment of quiet was unexpected, an odd grace note of contemplation. Not the beauty and wonder of that last day with Nina, but something darker, more painful. The ties of blood, and their past. A moment to reflect before destiny sank its claws into them once more.
Then abruptly Illyria appeared again, looking like she had that time when she’d returned from the dimension where she had found her army, water and light crackling around her slender frame.
“They are trying to play us for fools. Rise vampires. They shall meet their doom yet!”
A protest died on Angel’s lips and reluctantly he woke Spike, wincing in sympathy as the other muffled a cry of pain.
“So, what are you saying?” he eventually asked after they had both gotten to their feet, and Illyria smiled, looking not unlike a wolf herself.
“This place is a glamour, a trap to delay us.”
“Well thanks for letting us know, I feel much better now,” Spike said drily, but Illyria either didn’t catch the tone, or she didn’t care. Instead, she appeared to rein the light in, closing her eyes and going dark and still, before reaching out and grasping hold of thin air.
And then as they watched the air seemed to scrunch up like a cloth, before she with a swift hard movement tore a rent in what looked like the fabric of reality.
“If they think I am so diminished I could not get through,” she muttered, before stepping through into the soft darkness on the other side.
Angel and Spike cautiously followed, but as the darkness receded Angel shook his head, feeling nausea rising at the sight that greeted them.
“Can we go back?”
Chapter 27 on LJ
Chapter 27 on DW
Note: The idea that Spike and Angel's 'that one time' was the night post-Destiny came from this fic, which is still one of my favourite things I have ever read, and pretty much my personal head canon:
Lament for the Dead
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This was just a fantastic chapter!
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And I hope the next chapter will now live up to expectations...