Title: Trusting Intuition, 1/1
Author: DC
Email: dcofmanymeanings@yahoo.com OR devils_symphony@hotmail.com
Spoiler: None, really. It's a past fic, so it's out of the seasons.
Content: Slash, language, disturbing imagery, AngelAngst, Angel POV, other warnings
withheld - go on at your own risk.
Summary: AU. Some say your heart and your intuition are two and the same. But
they're different. It's just hard for Angel to know whether or not he should
follow his heart or his intuition.
Disclaimer: I'm not making any profit, none of the characters are mine. They
belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and whatever network it's at and whoever
has any copyrights over 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer'. No intent on infringing
upon copy rights. Don't sue me.
Author's Note: Again, there's other warnings that I've with held. I'll not tolerate
flames. The warning ain't that bad, just signifent. It's not bestiality, or
guttery. I blame this fic upon Buffy Slash Tarot Tales- it's challenge based
on the group's theme, even if
no Tarot is mentioned. And feedback? I like both constructive critisms and hero
worship. Send 'em. Now. Gogogo. Well, read the fic first...
---
Wet, grey sand was caking itself on my boots, but I didn't care. Salt-tainted
seawater soaked the bottom half of my trousers when an unpredictable wave crashed
to the shore, but I didn't care about that either. I didn't care about much,
really. Well, no, there's a lie - I care about a lot of things, too many things,
except myself. Before the gypsy, it was the reverse. None of the things that
I care about give me feelings of warmth or contentment. Nay, they give me feelings
of self-loathing and bottomless depression, if I were to put into words the
empty hole in my gut. The one with the claws and the fangs that enjoy slashing
me apart mentally and emotionally.
Slash - my second kill ever, a young man who had just proposed to a girl, a
conversation I had overheard. I just wanted to kill him, because he was happy.
Slash - the maid under the stairs during that period of insanity that I had
decided to grow a beard.
Slash - a family, a father and his wife, and her wee children. He had come home
to find their lifeless bodies nailed to the walls.
Slash - the heart I ripped out of that little boy, while his mother was forced
to watch. Darla silenced her screams after I ate the heart in front of her.
Slash - the death of Holtz's family, the turning of his daughter. I'll bleed
a million tears and cry a million drops of blood and fly through the sun without
a single burn before I'll ever forgive myself for that.
Slash - that gypsy, the one that cost me this soul that burns me like the bloody
sun.
'The sun - it'll rise in an hour,' I thought as I approached the seaside manor
Spike and Drusilla lived in. 'Just enough time.' I didn't knock. No need, really,
when you get right down to it. I knew that Drusilla would be asleep by now,
she usually did so, because she claimed that you never knew if the sun would
just sneak up on you.
Spike would be prowling his new house in boredom, not wanting to sleep, not
wanting to leave the house without Drusilla.
I opened the door, which squeaked predictably. The scents of both Spike and
Drusilla were easily detectable. The stale smell of old blood wafted up from
the light blue carpeting beneath my feet. I looked down as I closed the door
behind me - a large
patch of red made a gruesome, telltale centre piece in the middle of the fashionable
living room. I wondered about its story, who the person that once owned the
blood was, where they - Spike and Drusilla - had hid the body. Maybe they didn't
hide it. Maybe Drusilla ate it, from tongue to eyeball, from spleen to tendon.
Every hair, every fingernail, every bloody god awful morsel. She had done it
before, explaining that it was the best way to hide a body. Darla had found
it disgusting and left the room, though Spike and I had watched with sick fascination,
the boy kneeling in front of her as she sometimes kissed him, staining his lips
with cooling blood.
"Thought you'd come along at some point." I looked up to see Spike walk down
the stairs, blue eyes watching me with avid inquisition. "Sent my letter a month
ago, and here you are. You're trailing mud." I look down and mumble an apology.
Spike doesn't respond to it and I wonder if he caught it. Not really caring
about trailing mud, in truth, a take a few steps forward, feeling wind torn
now that I'm out of the cold, Irish weather. "Romania not quite your cup of
tea?" he asked, stopping a foot away from me. "Or did Darla just get a bit too
much?"
"Both," I say absently. I looked at him with new eyes. Without my soul, I saw
him as something pretty to fuck, something strong and overbearing to beat down,
Drusilla's creation, playmate and devotee. Spike would lay down life and limb
for my horrible, dark queen, the one I made - because of me, so many people
are dead at her talon-like fingernails. Because of me.
But now, I, with a soul, look at him differently. A beautiful creature, sharp
and angular, eyes to get lost in, hair to run fingers through, soft and light
and slightly fluffy. He was beautiful. He was also evil and violent and blood-tainted.
He was a twisted creature that the world would rather see as ash. But he was
*my* twisted creature, and I loved him
in a way that wasn't really love at all. He was everything I hated about myself,
but hate equals attraction just as strong as love, and it's hard to tell the
two apart sometimes. I both loved and hated Spike. Not simple, but not overly
complex either.
"Well, sun's up in an hour," Spike said, looking behind me and at the heavily
curtained windows. "Come on in, I got some of that whisky you're so bloody fond
of - y'know, the one that feels like you're drinking liquid fire-"
"Can we go outside?" I asked, interrupting him.
"Outside?"
"The jetty."
Spike shrugged nonchalantly and walked passed me towards the door. I stopped
him and he gave me a confused look. "I thought you wanted-" I cut him off with
a strong, firm kiss, like an oral assault. How could something that tasted *this*
damn good be evil?
He kissed back, and I felt familiar tears seep out the corners of my eyes, tears
that I have shed a thousand times since I got my soul. God, yes, this was love,
I could feel it. But as I duck my head down to kiss his neck, I catch a glimpse
at the blood stain, and I suddenly smell the fresh blood in him - not the same
blood as the dried puddle on the floor, but blood all the same. He's evil -
and for that I also hate him. I knew, deep down, what I had to do - and no love
or lust for the young vampire would stop me now.
He whispered a question but I didn't catch it. Putting a hand on the small of
his back, I guided him outside, where the sky was now tinted a dark purple.
Guided him like I had when he had surfaced from the grave - born to an eternal
existance of evil. I mentally screamed out in frustration. Why couldn't I have
gotten a soul before this young beautiful man became a heartless demon? I could
have stopped it, could have taken the human into my arms and kissed lips that
would be tepid instead of cool, could have let him have a human life, marry
a woman, have children, grow old...could have could have could have. It went
on.
We sat at the end of the pier, him lying on his side, head propped up by his
hand, back to the sea and the approaching dawn, me sitting cross legged, facing
the sea, watching him and watching the sky. He chatted endlessly about how he
had found the house, asking
about Romania which I answered with short, simple, vague questions, answers
Spike didn't bother to pursue, talked about Ireland and comparing it with England.
He chatted like a human (with the exception of gory details about how he killed
the owner of the seaside manor), and I couldn't find it in me to believe that
he was a heartless demon. Maybe he wasn't...'No,' I told myself firmly. He was,
I've seen it, seen the sadistic glint in his eye as he murders, rapes, drinks.
I knew what I had to do. I *had* to.
Finally, he stood, glancing at the sky. "Okay, toff, let's get back inside,
sun's comin'." The sky was now a lighter shade of purple, and the warning, faint
glint of an orange line was making the edge of the sky blush mixed hues.
"Just a bit longer," I said. He didn't say anything, but he sat down on the
edge of the jetty, legs hanging over the edge, trusting me completely. Gulping
a little, just wanting to go back inside with him - but I knew what would be
best, I sat behind him, hanging less of my legs over the edge as well, so he
was resting between my thighs. I rested my head on his shoulder, arms around
his waist, and he lent into me peacefully, watching the horizon warily. "M'not
saying I don't like this, but it is getting late," he said with a touch of worry.
"I know," I manage to choak out, my voice hoarse. That happens to a man when
he cries endlessly, on the outside, and, when he can't on the outside, on the
inside. Constantly. Always. Never ending. Unless things change. Things that
I don't want to happen -but I need to follow my gut instinct, or redemption
can't even think about starting.
There's a pause and he looks at me, blue eyes that normally reflect cynicism
and arrogance, now showing me emotions like worry, confusion and perhaps a little
bit of fear. "Angelus?" he asks, voice gentle.
"Shh," I said, kissing him softly. He looks back at the horizon, muscles becoming
tense. I can feel it too- instinctive vampiric warning bells going off, telling
you to run like hell. He starts to shift backwards, as if moving back a few
feet would prevent the inevitable. I allow the distance, but I hold on, so he
isn't able to stand. I expect him to struggle. To claw and fight and bite and
hit.
But, to my complete and utter shock, he swivels around, arms wrapped around
my neck and shoulders. "It's okay," I soothe, holding him equally as tight.
The sun's practically up. A tense minute passes, and then I can feel the warm
tickle start scratching at the skin of my face, and I close my eyes.
"Why?" I hear my William ask, and I don't answer, letting tears fall down my
face. He's shaking. So am I. The sun's half up, the rays scorching my face and
my arms, the rest of me protected by William. No, that's not how it should be.
But it's how it will be. He's crying silently, I can smell the tears. Or maybe
they're mine. Under my burning hands, I feel the fabric of his shirt becoming
white-hot, ready to ignite. The pain is unbearable, but oddly comforting - I
need the pain, and Spike deserves it equally as much, the little murdering,
blood-thirsty demon he has become.
See, he's evil. So am...*was* I. The world would be a better place without me.
How else can I even hope to redeem myself, other than a willing death and the
slaying of one of the world's most evil killers? If I take myself down, I may
as well take down another that could cause the deaths of thousands. And at the
same time, I'm in the arms and holding one that I love completely and utterly.
At the last moment, as Spike and I start to catch fire, I open my eyes, seeing
nothing but white. 'I'm sorry,' I say to the world at large, tears evaporating
even as I cry them. 'I'm sorry,' I say to the families I've killed. 'I'm sorry,'
I say to the families *Spike* has killed. But this is my sacrifice, my tribute,
my apologies, to
you. My death and the death of one I both hate and love with all my newly acquired
and now short lived soul. I thousand times, I'm sorry. I'll say it for as long
as I exist.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, before my throat no longer continues to be able. That
apology was for Spike, who evaporated into dust just as I did. And then? Well,
then no more apologies could possibly be given.
The End