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Epiphany
By spikeNdru, September 5, 2004
Rated R, 7025 words
Written as part of the Spikesquared Moving On Challenge
In 1,000 words or more explore the ending of one relationship, obsession, flirtation or crush and the beginning of another. Why didn't it work? Where did it go wrong? What made the difference with the new lover/crush/flirtation?
There is a catch.
Here's how it works:
You pick the character moving on and the character he/she settles with in the end, but the old love/crush is the organizer's choice. Keep in mind that it can be any character from the Angel/Buffy verse, although plausibility/character interaction will be taken into consideration.
Name/LJ Name: spikeNdru
Email: spikedru@ptd.net
Character #1: Spike
Character #2: Illyria
Restrictions (1): What character can you absolutely not write? I can't think of a character off-hand that I absolutely can't write, but I can't do dark/angst.Your assignment: Lindsey
Many, many thanks to my wonderful betas, makd and denny--what would I do without you guys?
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Prologue
Lindsey McDonald was an inventor. Oh, not of technology or household helpers or other things for which patents were available. Lindsey McDonald invented—and reinvented—himself.
Lindsey had always known he was made for better things than a hardscrapple existence in a slowly dying Oklahoma town. The oil that had created the town in the post-war boom was already drying up by the time Lindsey was born. The town’s inevitable slow slide into decay and death mirrored that of Lindsey’s mother, who had never recovered from the birth of her sixth child. In Lindsey’s eighth year, both the oil and Bonnie McDonald were gone, leaving Lindsey to the tender mercies of his ham-fisted, hard-drinking, roustabout father. The day they buried his mother was the day Lindsey McDonald swore to get out of Oklahoma and never look back.
Small, slight, brilliant, too pretty for his own good, and cursed with a “girl’s name”, Lindsey’s youth in Oklahoma was a hell from which he vowed nightly to escape. He studied hard and read everything he could get his hands on. Law was the answer—Lindsey was going to be a lawyer, no matter what it took. He had the brains to make it, a scholarship was a good possibility, but he needed something extra—something to help him stand out from the crowd.
He’d heard about a shaman—a brujo—that lived alone out in the desert. The whispered rumors said he had real power; he could make things happen. Lindsey tracked him down and hung around outside his hogan, patiently waiting day after day, until the brujo finally recognized his commitment and agreed to teach him. Lindsey was willing to learn whatever he could from whatever sources he could find. Knowledge was power. And Lindsey McDonald wanted power.
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Part One
Lindsey sat in a shadowed corner of the Peppermint Stick Lounge. He ignored the gyrations taking place on stage, fixing his attention on the leather-clad vampire sitting alone, wearing an attitude that looked suspiciously like brooding. What was it with these guys? Becoming corporeal again after months of ghosthood should have had Spike out painting the town red, instead of morosely sitting in a dive like the Peppermint Stick, quietly drowning his sorrows. Well, he wouldn’t be alone for long. He was about to meet his new best friend. And his ‘new best friend’ would use him to take down Angel. Somehow, for Lindsey, it always came back to Angel.
**********
Spike was just so bloody lonely. He hadn’t expected this crushing emptiness. It wasn’t so bad while he was non-corporeal. He couldn’t touch anything then, so he didn’t feel the loss. But now, he could touch—and there wasn’t anyone to touch. For the first time in 120+ years he was utterly alone. He had no one who truly cared if he continued to exist.
Spike wrapped his arms tightly around himself in the vain attempt to feel some warmth. Buffy and Dawn were lost to him; gone as if they’d never existed. They had their lives to live and didn’t need an ex-dead undead former ‘champion’ back in the picture muckin’ up their chance for a normal life. There was no one else he cared about enough to live or die for. That’s the crux, innit it?, he thought. Love defined him. He’d always been love’s bitch and now there was no one to love. Without love, he really was just an animated corpse; cold and dead inside.
Spike shuddered and ran his hands through his hair, then picked up his glass and drained it. He blinked as another was set down in front of him and looked up to see who dared to approach him when he was so obviously in a blue funk.
A pretty-boy come for a spot of slap and tickle? No. He was definitely pretty, but this one was much more. He exuded power and danger. Used to bein’ cock o’ the walk, was he? But there was an undercurrent of desperate need running through the bravado. Spike could smell it, and he couldn’t handle anyone else’s desperation right now. He had enough of his own, thank you very much.
He pushed the drink away.
“Ah. Uh. Yeah, thanks . . . but not really my type, Mary. So be a good lad and push off.” **
No, he didn’t really have a ‘type’—not like Angel. Angel always went for the deceptively fragile-looking blondes like Darla . . . Buffy . . . himself. Made Angel feel all big, hulking and manly. Now as for Spike; Spike’s interest was always caught by the person, not a ‘type’.
His musings abruptly broke off as he realized the pretty-boy was still there, staring at him.
“What are you gawkin’ at?” **
His ‘new best friend’ claimed to be responsible for bringing him back, claiming he had a ‘destiny’. Well, maybe he did. Sure as hell didn’t have anything else in his life. . .
**********
Spike grinned as he strode into his basement bed-sit, shrugged out of his duster and threw it over the back of a chair. Place wasn’t really half bad—he’d lived in far worse. Now he really did have all the amenities. Water, electricity, heating and even a Korean market on the corner—but as he’d told Doyle, he wasn’t anyone’s kept boy.
Spike had held out for cable.
He opened the fridge and took out a pint of blood. Shifting into game face, he tore it open with his teeth, poured it into a mug and put it in the microwave. He morphed back to human, took a packet of crispy fried noodles out of the paper bag on the counter and sighed. The fried noodles just didn’t have the same texture as the Weetabix—but try explaining Weetabix to a Korean whose bloody vocabulary consisted of “No touch”, “Four dollar”, and “Have a nice day”. He’d’ve had better luck describing Weetabix in Fyral!
The microwave dinged and Spike crumbled the noodles into the blood, carried it to the sitting room and flopped on the couch. He desultorily flipped through the channels. Passions just wasn’t the same with both Timmy and Joyce Summers gone. Bloody hell! CSI and Law and Order had completely taken over the airwaves! Hmmm. That bird looked a lot like the detective the Great Poof had been playin’ footsie with when he’d tried to reclaim the Gem of Amarra. Wonder what had happened to her?
Spike threw the remote at the TV in disgust. Next time he saw Doyle, he’d bloody well demand HBO!
**********
Lindsey breathed a sigh of relief that Eve had finally gone. Oh, she definitely had her uses; her position as liaison to the Senior Partners was the main one, but her not insignificant talents in bed were nothing to sneeze at, either. What did they teach at UC Santa Cruz? But, all in all, Eve was just too . . . easy.
He missed the convoluted machinations he had engaged in trying to one-up Lilah. Fuck it, he missed Lilah; period. She always kept him on his toes, brought out the best in him—you couldn’t just be good if you were competing with Lilah Morgan. You had to be the best. She was a barracuda; once she scented blood in the water, you could be damned sure there was gonna be a lot more spilled—probably yours.
The corners of Lindsey’s lips turned up in a rueful smile. The one thing he could always count was that Lilah wanted Angel’s downfall as much as he did. Eve didn’t seem to care one way or the other about Angel. Oh, she’d help him and she was supportive of him in his quest to bring down Angel, but she was doing it for him—to please him, not out of any personal vendetta.
With Lilah, it was always personal. Lindsey didn’t know for certain, but he could make a pretty good guess that Lilah had made a play for Angel—tried to corrupt him—and been turned down. He didn’t blame her. Hell, he’d made overtures to Angel, himself, before the bastard had cut off his hand!
Unfortunately, he no longer had Lilah as his reluctant ally. And Eve just wasn’t . . . Machiavellian enough for what he needed. Eve was too obviously in love with him, and that made her weak. Lilah was beyond his reach—and under perpetual contract to the Senior Partners. He wasn’t about to let them get even a whiff of what he was doing until he could present them with a fait accompli. But it wouldn’t hurt to have an ally. Lindsey smiled again.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
And just who was Angel’s most formidable enemy? William the Bloody, AKA Spike—that’s who.
Lindsey had spent years researching the twisted relationship of Angelus and Spike. He figured Spike hated Angel as much as he did.
Angel’d been a thorn in his side ever since he killed Russell Winters. The loss of a client that important had cost Lindsey valuable points with W&H for which Angel was responsible. But that loss paled in comparison to the loss of his fucking hand . . . and Darla. He’d never forgive Angel for Darla.
But then Spike went and got a goddamn soul—and died a fucking champion! Lindsey had really had to scramble to come up with a new plan.
It seemed to be working, though. He had Spike out on the street helping the hapless already. When he totally annihilated Angel, he’d have Spike all ready to just plug into the Vampire with a Soul Champion position, and everything would work out.
Only problem was, he was starting to like Spike. He was good company and Lindsey found himself looking forward to their time together. He felt a certain reluctance to play Spike. And that could get them all killed.
**********
Over the next few weeks, Spike found himself actually looking forward to Doyle’s visits. Doyle’s visions gave him a purpose, and he relished the irony of his actually helping the helpless while Angel sat behind a big desk and signed checks.
Tattoo-boy wasn’t bad company, either. He was quick-witted, intelligent and gave Spike a run for his money in the sarcasm department. Not like he had a lot of other visitors. Crockett and Tubbs had dropped by once, but the great CEO didn’t seem to miss him at all. Never bothered to drop in for a pint to see how old Spike was getting’ on.
He’d felt a connection with Fred; she was the only one who had tried to help him—who’d believed in him—when he’d first been brought back, but he hadn’t seen her in awhile. Either she was exceptionally busy dealing with all the badness that was drawn to W&H, like flies to a corpse, or she had lost interest in him once he became corporeal. He had thought they were becoming friends, but maybe it had been just the scientific conundrum of his ghosthood that had intrigued her.
Still, he most missed the verbal sparring with Angel, although, in the snappy comeback department, Angel was a total loss. It was like fighting an armless man. Spike fully expected to eventually hear “I know you are, but what am I?” each time they got into it. Spike used words with the delicacy of a rapier; Angel was all brute force—Ugh! Crush! Destroy!
Still and all, after having dealt with the ramifications of a soul for a hundred years, you’d think Ol’ Grandsire would be eager to lend a helpin’ hand to the newest member of the club. Spike wearily shook his head. No; there was too much history between them to ever be friends, culminating in the inescapable fact that he would never forgive Angelus for Drusilla and Angel would never forgive him for Buffy.
It was Doyle and him against the world, or nothing.
**********
Lindsey sat on the roof top watching Spike stalk his prey. The sword in his left hand flashed silver as it caught the light from the passing headlights. Spike was liquid grace as he silently slipped from shadow to shadow, eyes cold and distant, the flare of his cheekbones leaving the rest of his face in darkness, so that all one noticed was the blue ice of his eyes.
The trio of K’rwmchek paused as they belatedly sensed Spike’s presence, but it was too late. Spike inexorably moved toward them like death incarnate. High, keening wails rose from the K’rwmchek as they tried to snare Spike in their webs of sticky, glutinous venom, spewing from dozens of tentacles, but he was too fast for them.
Spinning, ducking and leaping, the web-like spurts struck where Spike had been a fraction of a second ago, but was there no longer. The sword flashed in a blur of motion as Spike dispatched all three K’rwmchek in a matter of minutes.
Lindsey clambered down the fire escape, gracefully dropping the last ten feet, to land in the alley. Carefully stepping over the remains of the K’rwmchek, he found Spike cradling the body of a tall, slim girl that looked about 14. Long, shiny, dark hair spilled over his forearm as he gently stroked the hair back from the wide, terrified blue eyes, already clouding in death. The K’rwmchek webbing was wound tightly around her chest and her skin had a bluish tinge.
Lindsey dropped a comforting hand on Spike’s shoulder, and was surprised to see tears glittering in the anguished eyes that looked up at him. Lindsey dropped to the ground and wrapped both arms tightly around Spike’s shaking body. Spike clutched at him, pulling Lindsey tighter, needing his warmth.
“Dawn,” Spike’s voice was the barest whisper of sound. “It could have been Dawn. I was too late. I couldn’t save her . . . she had to die . . . to save the world.”
Lindsey caught the word “Dawn” and glanced at the brightening sky.
“Yeah. It’s almost dawn . . . we’ve got to get you home.”
Spike looked at Lindsey but didn’t see him. His eyes were filled with visions of a golden-haired Champion, willingly diving into a pool of mystical energy that wracked her body, stealing all the fire, beauty and goodness that was Buffy, finally spitting out an empty shell that crashed to the ground.
“C’mon, Spike! We’ve got to get you home.”
Those extraordinary blue eyes focused on his face and a ghost of a smile crossed Spike’s lips.
“Let’s go home, then, Doyle.”
**********
Lindsey sat on one end of the couch, leaning back against the armrest, booted left ankle resting on his right knee. Spike was hunched over at the other end, elbows on knees, clasped hands loosely dangling between his legs. They’d been sitting in silence for some time now, and Lindsey was getting antsy.
Spike seemed to be in a world of his own, eyes blank and unfocused, sitting absolutely still. It was . . . creepy. Spike was always in motion—fidgeting, pacing, gesturing with his hands—and now he just sat there, not even breathing. Lindsey had never seen Spike not breathe.
When he couldn’t stand it any longer, Lindsey got up and went into the kitchenette for a beer. He placed one on the end table by Spike, but there was no reaction.
Lindsey cleared his throat.
“Uh, Spike? You did good tonight. Totally cleaned out that nest of K’rwmchek. It’s too bad we didn’t get to save that girl, but the world’s a lot safer now for others and . . .”
Spike’s voice was so low, Lindsey had to lean forward to hear it.
“I didn’t save her. I failed. Wasn’t fast enough . . . good enough. I fucked up, and so she had to die . . . to save the world.”
Lindsey gave a nervous laugh.
“You did the best you could. It’s sad, but let’s put things into perspective, here. It’s not like her death really affected the world one way or the other. People die every day-----and, you’re not talking about that girl in the alley tonight, are you? Her death just reminded you of . . . another girl you couldn’t save?” Lindsey’s mind made the connection. “Dawn. That was the girl! Was she your girlfr—”
Lindsey never saw Spike move. One instant he was slouched at the other end of the couch and the next, he was right here—pressing Lindsey painfully into the arm of the couch, hand gripping Lindsey’s throat. His eyes glittered dangerously.
“You don’t talk about Dawn like that! The Lit’le Bit was just a kid. Pawn of a Hellgod, just lost her mum and lost her sister, too, ’cause of me. I couldn’t save her, you git! Couldn’t save either of ’em.”
Lindsey’s face had turned the color of a ripe pomegranate, and, with a horrified look, Spike let go.
“Oh, bollocks! ’M sorry, Doyle, I just . . . Doyle. . .”
Lindsey didn’t seem to be able to breathe, and Spike feared he had crushed Doyle’s windpipe. Taking a deep breath, Spike covered Lindsey’s mouth with his own and blew. Vampires didn’t produce oxygen, so he couldn’t resuscitate Doyle if he passed out, but if there was an obstruction or swelling, maybe he could force an opening . . .
He drew back as Lindsey began to cough. Several drops of blood splattered on Spike’s face and his tongue absently flicked out to lick them off.
Lindsey drew a gasping breath and rasped, “Sweet Jesus! What the hell’d you do that for?”
Spike wrapped his arms around himself as guilt and loathing washed over him like ocean waves.
“Doyle, I . . .”
Spike desperately wanted to be anywhere but here. The urge to be out killing something was nearly overwhelming. His body needed the release of a down and dirty fight—just fists and fangs. He needed to be kicking, punching, moving—but he couldn’t leave Doyle here, injured. An injury he had inflicted. He made up his mind.
“’M takin’ you to Wolfram and Hart. They’ve got doctors there can check out the damage, help you.”
Lindsey grabbed his arm. “No!” He coughed again. “No Wolfram and Hart. I’ll be . . . water,” he gasped.
Spike jumped up and hurried to the kitchenette for a glass of water.
Lindsey drank it down. His throat hurt like hell, but there was no permanent damage. Probably no worse than what Eve suffered when Gunn tried to choke the life out of her when that spell of Sirk’s had gone bad. Eve! Eve couldn’t know about this.
“Tell ya what. How ’bout if I just crash here and if it gets worse or anything, then you can get me a doctor?”
Spike’s eyes probed searchingly into his.
“You’d trust me to stay here? After what I just did to you?”
Lindsey grinned. “Yeah. I trust you.”
Spike continued to hold his gaze for a long moment and then nodded.
“Right, then. You’d best take the bed. Get some sleep.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be here. Make sure you’re okay.”
Lindsey got up and started for the bathroom.
“Doyle?”
He stopped and turned back to look at Spike.
“I’m sorry.”
With a brief wave of his hand, Lindsey turned to the bathroom again.
“Forget it. These things happen.”
**********
Eve started at the slightest noise. She was in over her head and she knew it. Playing this kind of a double game was tearing her nerves to shreds.
She had been raised human, had thought she was just a normal girl with a normal family—until she turned 16 and met her real ‘father’. She’d had no idea such things as the Senior Partners existed. Suddenly, her ‘normal life’ came crashing down around her in ruins. She learned she was being groomed for something important—she had a ‘destiny’.
Eve didn’t want a destiny! She wanted to go to the mall, hang out with her friends and talk about boys. No matter what genetics she had, she wasn’t some evil princess of doom or something. She just wasn’t!
But, at 16, she had been dazzled by the promise of power and immortality, so she had agreed. Having to sign a contract with her own blood gave her second thoughts, but she pushed them aside. She went on to college and continued to live her life, nearly managing to forget the strange encounter six years ago.
Then the Senior Partners had called in their marker.
She was made liaison between the SP and this extremely strange group of people who had taken over W&H. She was out of her depth from the very beginning. She sucked at being mysterious and evil! Plus, she didn’t really know what she was doing here and what was expected of her. The SP didn’t really tell her anything.
Her nerves were frayed almost to the breaking point when she met him. Lindsey McDonald. Eve rolled the name around in her mouth as if it had texture and flavor. She had never met anyone like Lindsey. Her breath had caught in her throat the first time she had seen him; he was so unbelievably gorgeous! And he was strong, powerful, magnetic—and he actually seemed to be interested in her. She’d been half in love with him before they even spoke. Their time together was magical, and when Lindsey finally told her he planned to supplant Angel and take over as CEO of W&H, she believed in him. Lindsey could pull this off, and she’d be right there with him, every step of the way. She’d be his consort and they’d be together forever.
Time seemed to be crawling by and this day seemed to be taking forever! Lindsey hadn’t come home last night. She knew he was on a mission with Spike, but she missed him just the same. When they were together, she felt safe and strong and invulnerable. She just needed to get through today and she’d be in his arms again. She just needed to keep everyone away from Angel.
She’d put Fred and Wesley to work on a relic Lindsey had given her. He’d said it was older than the Old Ones and would keep them busy, as they’d never be able to solve it. But she had seen Angel’s team do things no one had ever expected them to be able to do—again and again.
This day was interminable! Her nerves were shot and she desperately wanted Lindsey now!
**********
Doyle had finally woken up and gone home with nothing worse than a dark purple bruise on his throat and a rasp in his voice. Spike still felt guilty . . . for everything.
This wasn’t like him. Brooding guilt was Angel’s domain, not his. He understood you couldn’t change the past—you just had to accept it, live with it and soldier on.
Yet, soul or no, he still managed to hurt everyone he cared about. And he couldn’t seem to save anyone who really mattered. He hadn’t saved his mum—he’d destroyed her. He couldn’t save Joyce; he hadn’t been able to stop Doc from cutting the Nibblet; couldn’t save Buffy or Tara. Some “champion” he was! Saved the world, but still hurt everyone who mattered.
He’d hurt Buffy—the woman he’d claimed to love more than life itself—and in the process, had irrevocably hurt Dawn. Their relationship had never recovered. And now, he’d hurt Doyle.
Spike realized that he cared about Doyle. Not just for giving him a purpose—for believing in him. He cared about Doyle, himself. He didn’t feel so alone when he was with Doyle. The howling abyss of grief and despair and aloneness that stalked him, threatening to suck him in, was pushed back by Doyle’s presence.
Doyle had made him feel needed, and that counted for a lot.
**********
Lindsey entered the apartment to find Eve already there. She looked like hell. She was as frazzled and jumpy as a June bug on a griddle.
Eve threw herself into his arms, her thin, demanding lips pressing against his. He couldn’t prevent the involuntary flinch as his body remembered the sensation of cool, soft, full lips on his. He covered immediately, though, and kissed her back. Her lips felt like sandpaper from her nervous habit of licking and biting them when she was tense. This must have been a doozy of a day, if the condition of her lips was any indication.
Eve’s tension communicated itself to Lindsey and he started feeling twitchy. He began to doubt her ability to carry this off.
“They don’t have a clue what’s happening, do they?” **
Eve didn’t answer as she began kissing his neck. Lindsey gritted his teeth.
“Hey . . . come on, babe. Focus. Are you sure Team Angel hasn’t been checking up on him?” **
Eve didn’t want to focus. She didn’t want to relieve the stress and anxiety she had felt all day. She wanted to be kissed and held and made love to. She wanted . . . reassurance. But Lindsey wasn’t cooperating. She pushed away from him, her annoyance evident in her voice.
“Fine. Let’s talk more. How’s our blond crusader? He buying into it?” **
“So far. I mean, he hasn’t sewn a big red S on his chest yet, but he’s getting’ there. We keep building him up and we tear Angel down. Pretty soon the Senior Partners are gonna start thinkin’ they’re backing the wrong horse.” **
Lindsey smiled. The immature Selminth parasite had been pumping toxins into Angel’s body all day, causing nightmares and hallucinations. He hoped they hurt like hell. He wanted Angel to suffer. It wasn’t time for him to die, yet . . . but insane and suffering would do fine, for now.
**********
As soon as Eve had gone to up the ante, courtesy of Mama Selminth, Lindsey headed over to Spike’s to send him to ‘save’ Angel.
Spike had stared at him for a long moment after he’d had his ‘vision’, and Lindsey felt a twinge of nervousness as Spike’s eyes bored into his. Spike had a gift for reading people—for seeing beneath the surface to what was really going on. Had he given anything away? Nah. Probably just Eve’s anxiety rubbing off on him. Eve was gonna be pissed when she found out he’d set the whole thing up to get Angel out of the picture, then sent Spike to rescue him. She’d accuse him of jeopardizing the whole plan just so he could savor his revenge. But, hey! What good was revenge if it wasn’t fun? Angel slipping off to never-never land without the knowledge that Lindsey had sent him there—that Lindsey had beaten him—wasn’t good enough.
But what about Spike? Spike was still a wild-card in all this. He’d been sure Spike hated Angel. . .would want to help bring Angel down. But now . . . Lindsey was no longer sure. Of anything. Things were starting to get complicated. He felt . . . attracted to Spike. As he had to Darla—and Angel. Maybe it was the vampire thing? The knowledge that these were demons at heart; capable of things Lindsey probably couldn’t even imagine—and he had a creative imagination. All that power—evilness—tightly leashed, but still there, under the surface. It excited him. Even when human, Darla had it. The humanity, like the souls, was an ephemeral thing—a veneer. Scratch the surface, and the unpredictability was right there, ready to claw its way out. Vampires—well, at least these three—were never boring, that’s for sure.
Lindsey helped himself to a beer from the fridge and sat down on the sofa to wait for Spike.
**********
Another helpless victim saved, good on me, Spike thought as he made his way back to his apartment—alone. Ol’ Grandad hadn’t exactly been brimming over with the thanks and gratitude, had he? Spike steps in to save the day, and what does he get? Respect? Gratitude? A drink? Recognition that he’s part of the team? Nope. None of the above.
Sod that! I don’t bloody well need Angel’s validation, right? I’m doin’ just fine. Lone wolf, helpin’ the helpless. But ’m not really alone, am I? Have Doyle, and Doyle needs me, even if Peaches doesn’t.
Spike and Doyle are a team—like Riggs and Murtaugh. Axel Foley and Billy Rosewood. Kirk and Spock. Bugger! Definitely spent too much time with Andrew last year! Butch and Sundance. Better. Duncan and Joe. Hope and Crosby, even—as long as it wasn’t Martin and Lewis.
Spike was in a better frame of mind as he approached his flat. He grinned as he scented Doyle within. A celebratory drink with Doyle at the Peppermint Stick would be just the ticket!
**********
“You can’t always get what you want . . . You can’t always get what you want . . . but if ya try sometime, you just might find . . . you get what ya need!”
Lindsey’s Oklahoma drawl was stronger as he and Spike, who appeared to be channeling Johnny Rotten rather than Mick Jagger, belted out the chorus. There was a moment of confusion at the door, as they each accused the other of having the key.
Lindsey produced it just in time to prevent Spike from kicking in the door, but it took several tries before he could figure out which of the two blurry keyholes he saw was the actual one. Spike’s dead weight—hee hee, ‘dead’ weight! Lindsey giggled—draped across his back, as he was attempting to perform a feat of prodigious hand-eye coordination didn’t help, but the door finally decided to cooperate—Good door. Lindsey patted the wooden panel affectionately—and unlocked itself.
Arms around each other, neither entirely sure which one was holding the other up, Lindsey and Spike staggered to the couch and collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs, followed by embarrassingly high-pitched giggles. Spike patted Lindsey on the head.
“You’re m’ friend, Doyle. M’only frien’.”
Lindsey nodded emphatically, but as he began seeing stars and felt his stomach lurch, he decided emphatic nodding might not be in his best interest at the moment.
“Beautiful frien’,” popped into Lindsey’s head.
Spike nodded sagely. “Th’ Doors.”
“More doors?” Lindsey fumbled for the key again.
“No, the song. The Doors. I said ‘my only frien’ an’ then you said ‘beautiful frien’. ‘S by The Doors.”
“Bee-yoo-ti-ful. Beautiful Doors. Beautiful Spike.”
“You think I’m beautiful?” Spike asked.
Lindsey looked deeply at the four electric blue irises, framed by rose pink sclera and long black lashes.
“Beautiful eyes. All four ov’em. Like th’ sky at sunset . . . all blue an’ red an’. . . gold? You vamped!” he accused.
Spike morphed back into human face. “Did not.”
“Did too!”
Spike looked sheepish. “Sorry, Doyle. Didn’t mean to.”
Lindsey patted Spike’s shoulder. “’S okay. Still m’ friend.” And then he put his head on Spike’s shoulder and passed out, a blissful smile on his face.
**********
Lindsey stirred and opened one eye. His tongue felt like sandpaper and he’d smelled a lot of demons that were ambrosia compared to the current state of his breath. He remembered falling asleep on Spike’s couch . . . the sound of running water finally penetrated he haze that enveloped his brain, and within a few more seconds, he had identified the sound as ‘shower’. Spike was in the shower.
Lindsey carefully got to his feet and slipped out of the apartment as quietly as he could. Each footfall sounded like a thundering herd of elephants and made a throbbing counterpoint to the jackhammer that had taken up residence in his skull.
The morning sunlight hit him like the afterburn of a nuclear explosion, and he fumbled for his sunglasses with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He somehow managed to make it to the bus stop—why were there never any taxis available when you really needed one?—and after an interminable amount of time, finally slipped into his lovely, cool, dark, warded apartment.
He took eight Ibuprophen, gargled first with salt water and then with Scope, brushed his teeth, drank almost a quart of water and went back to bed. His last coherent thought was one of thankfulness that Eve was blessedly absent.
She was also absent from his dreams.
Strong, cool hands gripped his biceps as soft, firm lips touched his own. Gently, at first, then demandingly. Lindsey gasped for breath and a knowing tongue entered his mouth, tangling with his own. His heart rate sped up and those lips curved into a smile as they traced the corded muscles in his neck, blunt teeth nipping at the carotid pulse before nibbling their way down his chest, tongue tracing the glyphs magically tattooed into his flesh.
The teeth bit his left nipple, causing a brief flash of pain, before sucking it into the waiting mouth. The cool lips and tongue traced their way lower, following the glyphs and pausing to lick and suck at the flesh around his navel and in the hollow of his hipbone before finally reaching his cock.
Lindsey was rock hard as that wicked tongue traced the vein on the underside before the cool mouth finally closed over the source of his want, sucking him deeply into the strong throat.
“Angel,” Lindsey gasped and the mouth withdrew as Lindsey looked into defeated blue eyes instead of the brown ones he had been expecting . . .
With a gasp, Lindsey woke.
The bastard had taken enough from him already; now Angel was co-opting his fantasies? Not gonna happen! No matter what his subconscious thought, Angel was goin’ down—in the permanent, non-pleasurable way—and it was gonna be soon!
**********
Lindsey was wracked with guilt. That was . . . unexpected. What was it about Spike that tapped into these feelings Lindsey had thought long exorcised—guilt, tenderness, an aversion to causing Spike pain; to using him?
Lindsey shuddered. He’d never have sent Spike after that psycho-slayer if he’d had any idea she would. . . mutilate him like that. Cut off both his hands. Lindsey broke out into a cold sweat as the sympathetic phantom pain in his right wrist seared his brain.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this! He wasn’t supposed to give a shit what happened to Spike. He wasn’t supposed to be sucked back into the nightmare of pain and helplessness he’d felt during the Raising—Lindsey saw again the flash of torchlight on the Scythe of Vocah as Angel raised it; he felt the heat of the brazier as he held the Scroll of Aberjian into the flame. A flash of silver blinding him and then blood everywhere, pumping out of the stump that had been his right hand.
Lindsey began to shake uncontrollably.
He had to get himself under control. He had to see Spike—see how he was doing; if he was okay. Cool and collected, that’s how he’d play it. Disinterested. Like it didn’t matter. The mission was all that mattered, he reminded himself, even if he no longer quite believed it. Getting Spike hurt, betraying Spike’s trust, was collateral damage. It didn’t affect the ultimate goal.
You are so full of shit a little voice whispered inside his head as he left the apartment.
************************************************************************
Part Two
Doyle—no, Lindsey—was gone. Sucked into a portal to who knows where. Doesn’t really matter; his Doyle had never existed. His Doyle was but a pale shadow—an imitation—of the real Doyle, who had been Angel’s, of course.
Just as his Buffy had been a pale shadow of Angel’s?
His Buffy fucked him and used him, but still thought about Angel. When she thought about the future, it was Angel she pictured. Their kiss, when she hadn’t known they were being observed, had shown him that.
Oh, she had said ‘the words’ to him, and he was grateful; but when she said “I love you”, he knew it meant ‘I forgive you’, and that was enough. Something had changed for Spike during the time he was gone—had ceased to exist. He had no conscious memory of those nineteen days, but wherever he had been, whatever had happened; he thought maybe he had grown up a bit.
So, for now, ‘I forgive you’ was enough. He hadn’t betrayed her trust. This time, he saved the girl.
And Angel hadn’t. Angel’s girl was dead. Spike knew how that felt. He remembered every single one of those 147 days, and it didn’t matter now where she was or what she was doing, because somewhere in the world she was alive.
Spike had seen the electricity between Angel and Cordelia; it was palpable. Yet, underneath all the sexual chemistry was a deep and abiding friendship. Buffy and Angel might have had passion, but they would never be friends. Angel and Cordelia were, and that made all the difference.
And, in spite of everything, so were he and Doyle. That’s how Spike would remember him—as Doyle.
Lindsey was a player, trying to bring Angel down and be the new Big Bad in town. Spike could accept that. But Doyle . . . what he and Doyle had was real.
And maybe friendship was the basis for a real relationship.
He and Cecily were never friends. He had admired her from afar, written her bloody awful poetry, but had never really known her. He and Dru weren’t friends, either. They were a lot of things to each other, but never friends.
Spike went into the kitchenette and opened the refrigerator. He was reaching for a beer, when he paused. Hang on, this was important; he might be on the verge of a bloody epiphany here. His hand closed around the packet of blood, instead.
He heated it in the microwave, and leaned a hip against the miniature sink while his thoughts whirled around in his brain like a soddin’ tornado. He’d always known that ‘Spike’ wasn’t a deep thinker. But ‘William’ was. Spike was all passion and action—fighting, fucking, fists and fangs. William did nothing but think, and dream. Maybe it was time to integrate the two aspects of himself in a way Angel never could.
Maybe if he knew who he really was, he’d finally be whole. And wasn’t that what being ‘a real boy’ was all about? It wasn’t about the heartbeat or the ability to freckle. It was about knowing who you were and being okay with that. It was about letting go of the ‘Big Bad’ defensiveness and really letting people in. Knowing what you needed to make a real go of your un-life. And then, maybe it wouldn’t be an un-life, but an actual life. Spike wanted a life. He didn’t care to be human, that was Angel’s thing, and Angel didn’t get it.
Angel thought becoming human would solve all his problems. It would mean he’d been forgiven. He’d been redeemed. What Angel didn’t get, was there was no redemption. Humans fucked up all the time and human Angel would be no different. Human Angel would still be imperious, bossy, conflicted, decisive, broody and fallible. Whether you were human or demon or something else, best you could do was figure out who you were, what you wanted, and forgive yourself for your mistakes.
Doyle had helped him a lot. He’d shown Spike what was important—what Spike needed. He’d shown Spike how to move on.
Spike needed friendship. He needed to love—and he needed to be needed. He needed a goal. He needed to help and he needed to do his best to make this world a better place. He’d had the friendship he wanted with Dawn, he’d loved Buffy with all his heart, Drusilla had needed him, but it was Doyle who had given him a goal; had shown him how to be a better man. Couldn’t do a bloody thing to cancel out all the bad he’d done. But he could try and do better. Retribution might be coming for him yet, but not today. Today he’d be a real boy. He’d live his own life on his own terms and on the day Spike could integrate all the aspects of himself—the violence, the passion, the bloody awful poetry—that’s the day he’d be whole. And maybe there’d be someone there that wanted all of him.
Guess it was an epiphany, after all.
Spike could forgive Lindsey, because what ‘Doyle’ had given him was real. And it was time to get on with his life.
*************************************************************************
Part Three
Spike stood in the mezzanine, looking through the large windows into the lab where Illyria stood motionless, head tilted, trying to make sense of this foreign world in which she could no longer hear the green.
Proud, majestic and utterly lost, her essence spoke to Spike. He’d loved Fred, as they all had, but this wasn’t Fred. This was an entirely new being, and Spike felt drawn to her.
Drawn to her pain and confusion and loneliness. He’d been there. He knew how it felt to be suddenly thrust into a world that wasn’t yours. He’d been a ghost. Illyria had been a god, but maybe what they could be was friends. And, in spite of all that ice blue coldness, Illyria was bloody fucking hot!
Spike grinned. He guessed maybe he was moving on.
Now, about that bloody awful poetry . . . maybe Illyria’d like to hear some of it. In between pummeling each other, of course.
The End
Footnotes:
** Dialogue written by Brent Fletcher, Angel episode 10: “Soul Purpose”.
Song lyrics from You Can’t Always Get What You Want, by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, 1968. Released on the Let It Bleed album, 1969.
Famous buddies Spike is referring to include: Martin Riggs and Roger Murtaugh from Lethal Weapon, Axel Foley and Billy Rosewood from Beverly Hills Cop, Captain James T. Kirk and Science/First Officer Spock from Star Trek, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Duncan MacLeod and Joe Dawson from Highlander, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby from a plethora of Road pictures, but he definitely does not picture them as Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis!
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