Grandsire and Childe Together Again
May. 16th, 2016 08:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katleeptTitle: Grandsire and Childe Together Again
Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Angel
Character/Pairing: Spike/Angel, past implied Spike/Angelus
Rating: PG-13/T
Challenge/Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
bad_swa Bingo: Painting
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 1,486
Date Written: 16 May, 2016
Summary:
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Whedon, not the author, and are used without permission.
Aching hands with the flesh torn from them shake as he slips them carefully into an inside pocket on his ragged trench coat. Gently, he pulls out an old piece of black velvet. He unwraps it slowly, every movement full of pain and determination. The painting unfolds before him. The bottom half, where Drusilla and Darla once sat, was ripped over a century ago, but it's not their faces Spike is seeking now.
Instead, he stares into the dark gaze of his grandsire. His bloodied lips rise into a smirk as he remembers how annoyed he always was every time he called him that; half the times he used the name was simply to tick him off. The Great Poof was always a riot when annoyed, but he was also too cute for his own damn good.
He wonders where he is now. Surely he must have survived the fight, if he survived. He knows the others are dead, but with the exception of Illyria, they were only mortal. They were good people, but with their lives, it's surprising they lasted as long as they did. He'll miss Wesley's prattling and Gunn's boldness. He miss Illyria . . . not for anything she herself did or was but for the body she wore.
Spike closes his tired, blue eyes and leans back as the world whirls around him again. He tried to make it to England, tried to find the Slayer at long last, but he couldn't do it. Now he's too tired to move again. He's a sitting duck -- he knows Wolfram and Hart have Hellhounds on his trail --, but he's just too weary to care any longer. Let them find him where he sits here. Let them find him with his long, pale fingers curled around his grandsire's grin.
Thoughts of Angel are the last thing on his mind before he fades out entirely. He wonders again where he is, wonders if they found him or he managed to escape. Knowing that sod, though, he probably gave himself over to them in grief, but if he did, Spike thinks, at least they should be reunited again real soon.
He doesn't stir again until another hand touches his. His eyes snap open, and he jerks instinctively away from the hand. A cold voice that seems to have death itself resounding itself it remarks, "Thought I taught you to hide better'n that, boy."
Spike blinks rapidly to clear his vision. Slowly, his eyes come to focus on Angel, but there's something different about him, something different, more primal in the way he moves, something more fierce in the glower of his dark eyes. Spike's fingers curl protectively around the scrap of painting he still holds as he asks uncertainly, "Angel?"
"Who else?"
Spike continues to watch him uncomfortably as Angel takes note of his injuries. They're healing; it's just a slow and pain staking process. Still, it's far more than any recovery for which the others could have possibly hoped. They never had a chance. "It should've just been us," he croaks out, not realizing he's saying the words until they hang in the space between them.
Angel looks at him, long and hard, but he sees the old, familiar haunts there in his eyes. He's still the Great Poof, still so burdened with grief and regret. It's almost with relief that Spike realizes Angelus didn't find a way to throw over his soul and gain control after all. "They wouldn't take 'no' for an answer," Angel finally speaks. He shakes his head, and Spike notices the blood matting his dark hair that isn't nearly as spiky as he usual. The Poof must be out of his hair gel; Spike makes a mental note to lift a bottle the very next opportunity they get.
"You tried to send them away?"
Angel's quiet for another long moment, then finally admits more than he actually says with his answer. "They wouldn't have listened."
Spike knows he can't blame him. After all, he didn't try to send them away, either, and besides, he's right. Gunn, Illyria, and even Wes would have stood by them until the bitter end, and they did. He doesn't know when it happened -- he must've still been out cold --, but Angel's built a fire. The shadow of the flames flicker across his face as Spike watches him in silence. He wants to ask him where they go from here, but he doesn't. He still doesn't want to seem weak before him, and he knows Angel has no more answers than he himself does. Asking, therefore, is moot.
He drops his gaze from his. His eyes fall back onto his cold hand that still grips the painting. He cringes inwardly, realizing Angel has seen it, even if he doesn't know what it is yet. Angel's gaze follows Spike's, and he asks softly, "You still have it?"
"Have what?" Spike asks with an air of innocence he still can't pull off. He curls the scrap of velvet more tightly together in his hand, pushing its torn edges with his thumb and forefinger as he tries to ball it into hiding.
Angel reaches over and touches his hand. His touch is so surprisingly gentle that Spike freezes. His own eyes are big and wide as he looks back up into his grandsire's face. God, he used to want this man's approval so bloody bad!
"You still have it," Angel repeats, but this time, it isn't a question. It's a quiet observation breathed out in surprise and . . . It's not disgust, but surely, Spike thinks, he's not reading him right now. Angel can't be touched that he still has the painting he once tried to destroy when he was Angelus.
Angel plucks the painting from Spike's long, agile fingers and unrolls it with great care. He gazes into their faces, but then he frowns. "Dru's not on it."
"You ripped it apart, remember?" Angel nods quietly in admission. "You burned most of these pictures, but I . . . I managed to save those and piece 'em back together."
Angel's eyes try to look into his, but embarrassed, Spike won't meet his gaze. Angel licks his lips and tries again, but Spike refuses to look at him. He doesn't want to see the disgust that always used to rile up within Angelus whenever Spike screwed up and let his feelings be known back in their early days together. "Spike?" Angel tries, but still, he won't face him. Finally, his voice a mere breath of a whisper, Angel asks, "Why?"
"Why what?" Spike frowns.
"Why would you keep this," Angel asks again, "without . . . without Dru in it?"
"Because I didn't sodding keep it for Dru." He finally steals another glance up at him and is surprised to find Angel watching him, wide-eyed, ashen faced, and clearly astonished. "I kept it for you." His words end in a growl, and he tenses, expecting a blow.
Instead, before his startled eyes, Angel seems to melt. "You kept it for me?" he breathes. Spike nods only once. Angel shakes his head in amazement and gently, gingerly folds the painting back together. He hands it to him, still uncertain what to say. Wordlessly, Spike takes the painting and returns it into its hiding place on his duster.
Angel hesitates a moment more, then steps closer and closer again. He almost seems scared as he nears Spike. Spike sits still, equally uncertain what to expect. The old Angelus would have walloped him good by now, or at least tried, but Angel is no longer the same Vampire who used to beat the crap out of him and laugh at him every day. He's not even the same Vampire he tried to kill a few years ago in L.A. and Sunnydale. Neither of them, Spike realizes as Angel's hands drop slowly onto his shoulders, is the same, but yet, their connection is still there. They're always be bonded; Spike's known that since his very early days as a fledgling Vampire.
Angel's hands are so gentle on Spike's shoulders, but Spike still doesn't dare to move. Slowly, inch by inch, Angel steps closer until his arms are wrapped around his childe and he's holding him close to his torn and battered chest. He leans down and kisses the top of his blonde head, and only then does Spike let himself return Angel's hug. His face presses closes against his chest, just where his dead heart no longer beats inside of him. Angel kisses his head again and again, and if Spike releases a few tears in the cold, still dread of the night, neither Vampire ever speaks of them. But they've found each other now, and in the light of the next moon, they escape together from the remnants of Wolfram and Hart's forces to once again build a new life together.
The End
Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Angel
Character/Pairing: Spike/Angel, past implied Spike/Angelus
Rating: PG-13/T
Challenge/Prompt:
bad_swa Bingo: PaintingWarning(s): None
Word Count: 1,486
Date Written: 16 May, 2016
Summary:
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Whedon, not the author, and are used without permission.
Aching hands with the flesh torn from them shake as he slips them carefully into an inside pocket on his ragged trench coat. Gently, he pulls out an old piece of black velvet. He unwraps it slowly, every movement full of pain and determination. The painting unfolds before him. The bottom half, where Drusilla and Darla once sat, was ripped over a century ago, but it's not their faces Spike is seeking now.
Instead, he stares into the dark gaze of his grandsire. His bloodied lips rise into a smirk as he remembers how annoyed he always was every time he called him that; half the times he used the name was simply to tick him off. The Great Poof was always a riot when annoyed, but he was also too cute for his own damn good.
He wonders where he is now. Surely he must have survived the fight, if he survived. He knows the others are dead, but with the exception of Illyria, they were only mortal. They were good people, but with their lives, it's surprising they lasted as long as they did. He'll miss Wesley's prattling and Gunn's boldness. He miss Illyria . . . not for anything she herself did or was but for the body she wore.
Spike closes his tired, blue eyes and leans back as the world whirls around him again. He tried to make it to England, tried to find the Slayer at long last, but he couldn't do it. Now he's too tired to move again. He's a sitting duck -- he knows Wolfram and Hart have Hellhounds on his trail --, but he's just too weary to care any longer. Let them find him where he sits here. Let them find him with his long, pale fingers curled around his grandsire's grin.
Thoughts of Angel are the last thing on his mind before he fades out entirely. He wonders again where he is, wonders if they found him or he managed to escape. Knowing that sod, though, he probably gave himself over to them in grief, but if he did, Spike thinks, at least they should be reunited again real soon.
He doesn't stir again until another hand touches his. His eyes snap open, and he jerks instinctively away from the hand. A cold voice that seems to have death itself resounding itself it remarks, "Thought I taught you to hide better'n that, boy."
Spike blinks rapidly to clear his vision. Slowly, his eyes come to focus on Angel, but there's something different about him, something different, more primal in the way he moves, something more fierce in the glower of his dark eyes. Spike's fingers curl protectively around the scrap of painting he still holds as he asks uncertainly, "Angel?"
"Who else?"
Spike continues to watch him uncomfortably as Angel takes note of his injuries. They're healing; it's just a slow and pain staking process. Still, it's far more than any recovery for which the others could have possibly hoped. They never had a chance. "It should've just been us," he croaks out, not realizing he's saying the words until they hang in the space between them.
Angel looks at him, long and hard, but he sees the old, familiar haunts there in his eyes. He's still the Great Poof, still so burdened with grief and regret. It's almost with relief that Spike realizes Angelus didn't find a way to throw over his soul and gain control after all. "They wouldn't take 'no' for an answer," Angel finally speaks. He shakes his head, and Spike notices the blood matting his dark hair that isn't nearly as spiky as he usual. The Poof must be out of his hair gel; Spike makes a mental note to lift a bottle the very next opportunity they get.
"You tried to send them away?"
Angel's quiet for another long moment, then finally admits more than he actually says with his answer. "They wouldn't have listened."
Spike knows he can't blame him. After all, he didn't try to send them away, either, and besides, he's right. Gunn, Illyria, and even Wes would have stood by them until the bitter end, and they did. He doesn't know when it happened -- he must've still been out cold --, but Angel's built a fire. The shadow of the flames flicker across his face as Spike watches him in silence. He wants to ask him where they go from here, but he doesn't. He still doesn't want to seem weak before him, and he knows Angel has no more answers than he himself does. Asking, therefore, is moot.
He drops his gaze from his. His eyes fall back onto his cold hand that still grips the painting. He cringes inwardly, realizing Angel has seen it, even if he doesn't know what it is yet. Angel's gaze follows Spike's, and he asks softly, "You still have it?"
"Have what?" Spike asks with an air of innocence he still can't pull off. He curls the scrap of velvet more tightly together in his hand, pushing its torn edges with his thumb and forefinger as he tries to ball it into hiding.
Angel reaches over and touches his hand. His touch is so surprisingly gentle that Spike freezes. His own eyes are big and wide as he looks back up into his grandsire's face. God, he used to want this man's approval so bloody bad!
"You still have it," Angel repeats, but this time, it isn't a question. It's a quiet observation breathed out in surprise and . . . It's not disgust, but surely, Spike thinks, he's not reading him right now. Angel can't be touched that he still has the painting he once tried to destroy when he was Angelus.
Angel plucks the painting from Spike's long, agile fingers and unrolls it with great care. He gazes into their faces, but then he frowns. "Dru's not on it."
"You ripped it apart, remember?" Angel nods quietly in admission. "You burned most of these pictures, but I . . . I managed to save those and piece 'em back together."
Angel's eyes try to look into his, but embarrassed, Spike won't meet his gaze. Angel licks his lips and tries again, but Spike refuses to look at him. He doesn't want to see the disgust that always used to rile up within Angelus whenever Spike screwed up and let his feelings be known back in their early days together. "Spike?" Angel tries, but still, he won't face him. Finally, his voice a mere breath of a whisper, Angel asks, "Why?"
"Why what?" Spike frowns.
"Why would you keep this," Angel asks again, "without . . . without Dru in it?"
"Because I didn't sodding keep it for Dru." He finally steals another glance up at him and is surprised to find Angel watching him, wide-eyed, ashen faced, and clearly astonished. "I kept it for you." His words end in a growl, and he tenses, expecting a blow.
Instead, before his startled eyes, Angel seems to melt. "You kept it for me?" he breathes. Spike nods only once. Angel shakes his head in amazement and gently, gingerly folds the painting back together. He hands it to him, still uncertain what to say. Wordlessly, Spike takes the painting and returns it into its hiding place on his duster.
Angel hesitates a moment more, then steps closer and closer again. He almost seems scared as he nears Spike. Spike sits still, equally uncertain what to expect. The old Angelus would have walloped him good by now, or at least tried, but Angel is no longer the same Vampire who used to beat the crap out of him and laugh at him every day. He's not even the same Vampire he tried to kill a few years ago in L.A. and Sunnydale. Neither of them, Spike realizes as Angel's hands drop slowly onto his shoulders, is the same, but yet, their connection is still there. They're always be bonded; Spike's known that since his very early days as a fledgling Vampire.
Angel's hands are so gentle on Spike's shoulders, but Spike still doesn't dare to move. Slowly, inch by inch, Angel steps closer until his arms are wrapped around his childe and he's holding him close to his torn and battered chest. He leans down and kisses the top of his blonde head, and only then does Spike let himself return Angel's hug. His face presses closes against his chest, just where his dead heart no longer beats inside of him. Angel kisses his head again and again, and if Spike releases a few tears in the cold, still dread of the night, neither Vampire ever speaks of them. But they've found each other now, and in the light of the next moon, they escape together from the remnants of Wolfram and Hart's forces to once again build a new life together.
The End
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-05-16 10:02 pm (UTC)This is lovely. It's just right. The snark, the longing on both sides, the hesitation., the finding. Love it. :D
no subject
Date: 2016-05-17 08:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-05-26 02:21 pm (UTC)