Future Imperfect
Disclaimer: Not mine. Yet.
Author’s Note: Takes place about four years on. Some bad stuff has happened, but that will be made evident. Also, this isn’t Spuffy fic, because I don’t write that. But it is dedicated to Swirly Head. Rated R for one very bad word.
It was done, and Spike wondered how he had come to this point.
The chip, of course, had played a large part, this sliver of silicon no bigger than his thumbnail, embedded somewhere deep in his brain. It had driven him from rage to despair and finally to a kind of acceptance. It had forced him to think instead of merely act, something two decades with Angelus and a century with Dru had not been able to do.
It had taken him places he would never have gone, otherwise. Into the midst of those bound to destroy his kind, into alliance with them, and with the Slayer herself, into love.
Not that she had reciprocated, but they had come to a mutual respect, even friendship, after a fashion, though a spark always burned for her in his heart.
Spike still could see her body in his mind’s eye, even smaller and more fragile than in life. Only those closest to her would have recognized it, and he could only pray that the things that had been done to her had been done after she had breathed her last. But he doubted it. She was always so strong, so brave. Did you curse them all, Slayer? Did you spit on them?
And because the rest had the patience to make the plan, and because Spike could grudgingly admit that at least two of them were smarter than he was, but mostly because they had loved her in a way that he simply wasn’t capable of, he became their weapon, their instrument, and he allowed them to use his supernaturally powerful body as the means by which their enemy was destroyed.
And afterwards, there was no place for him.
Of course the Watcher and the Witches had offered to take him in, and in keeping with his new, more thoughtful personality Spike had given it serious consideration, but in the end there was only one place he could think of that might be something like home.
He walked across the parquet floor, his well-worn boots slapping on the marble.
He sensed Angel on the landing above him a moment before raising his eyes.
Spike didn’t know what reaction he’d expected, but this complete lack of emotion, the unnatural stillness, had not been on the list. But it was Angel’s loss, too, and only fifteen months after the girl seer had been taken, snatched from her bed with only bloody bed-clothes left behind. Spike had heard the sweet-faced hoodlum got the visions now. Wouldn’t suit the Powers That Fuck with You to leave their favorite puppet with loose-ended strings.
He waited for Angel to order him out, or at least ask why he was here, but the dark vampire merely waited with the patience borne of a century of waiting, so Spike decided to speak first.
“Missed you at the funeral,” he said.
“Funerals are for the comfort of the living,” Angel said. “I’m not alive and my presence would comfort no one.”
It was on the end of Spike’s tongue to say, “that’s not true,” but Angel would no doubt point out that he was not of the living either.
“It was beautiful,” he said instead, and Angel gave a small nod.
The silence between them stretched out, past the point where it was uncomfortable to the kind of quiet that any sound would not simply disturb but shatter. And they could have stood that way for hours, as still and quiet as the living corpses they were, but Angel spoke at last.
“Are you hungry?”
Again, the words were so unexpected that it was long moment before Spike could gather the presence of mind to nod slowly.
“Come on up,” Angel said, not waiting for the younger vampire to move before starting back to his rooms.
Spike ascended the stairs without really being aware he was doing so. He entered Angel’s apartment to find the older vampire in the Spartan kitchenette with a container of blood in his hand. He seemed almost confused by what to do with it, and finally asked, “warm or cold?”
“Cold is fine,” Spike said.
Angel opened a cabinet and took down two glasses one at a time, then filled each one. He stood staring at them, until Spike took the butcher container from his hand and replaced it in the fridge, then handed Angel his glass.
The older vampire seemed to wake from his daze and turned to the table. “Sit down,” he told Spike, and the blond did. “I have some whiskey, too,” he added. “I can get it if you’d like.”
“What are you doing?” Spike said, his voice edging towards anger.
“What do you mean?”
“You hate me,” Spike said. “You should be kicking me to the curb, or at least demanding to know why the hell I’m here, not serving me blood like we’re members of the undead Junior League.”
Angel stared at the younger vampire, his dark eyes unreadable. “I don’t hate you,” he said.
Spike didn’t answer.
“And anyway,” Angel went on, “since you bring it up, why did you come here, if you feel that way.”
There was a long moment before Spike turned his eyes away and answered. “You were the only one I could think of to go to.”
“For what?”
“To help me figure out what to do now,” Spike burst out. “I’m not human. With this chip I’m less of a vampire than you are. The Slayer’s gone. Even Drusilla is dust. You help the hopeless, don’t you? I guess I’m you’re ultimate bloody case.” His hand went automatically to his duster pocket and extracted his cigs and lighter. As he raised one to his lips and lit it, Angel saw that the last two fingers and part of his right hand had been bitten off. The older vampire wondered if there were more scars he couldn’t see.
The silence stretched out again and Spike muttered, “I was stupid to come here.”
“No. You weren’t,” Angel said. “You spent the last four years protecting the most precious thing on earth to me…”
“To me, too,” Spike said. “For all the good it did.”
“No,” Angel said sharply, and Spike turned his eyes back to him. “No self-pity,” Angel continued. “You did everything you could. I’m grateful for that. She was grateful for that.”
Spike lowered his head and swallowed hard.
“You’re right,” Angel said. “I understand what it’s like, to have these two impulses warring inside you. If you really mean it, if you really want to find the goodness in you, I’ll help.”
Spike swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his duster. “I do want to,” he said. “For her sake, if I can. If it’s possible.”
“I’ll be honest with you,” Angel said, “I don’t know if it is. Not without a soul. But at this point, I’m just crazy enough to make the attempt.” He shook his head, a bemused smile starting to play across his lips. “You always did know us better than we knew ourselves,” he said. “If you think I can do it… maybe I can.”
Spike allowed himself a small, bitter laugh as he brushed more tears from his eyes. “I could really use that whiskey now,” he said.
To read more of Kuzibah's stories go to: Kuzibah's Stories.
To return click here.