[BTVS/ATS] Cigarettes And Love Letters
Title: Cigarettes And Love Letters Author: cozzybob Pair: Angel/Spike-ness with some Ripper tossed in for good measure. mentions of Angel/Spike/Dru and Spuffyness. Warning: character death (canon), angst, character study(s). Mostly gen. Takes place: Post-Buffy, just before Angel s5
Note: My first Buffy fic, and I'm too nervous to post in my own journal, primarily because I told myself that it just wouldn't happen. But it did, and I'm here, so. Weee! Any pointers?
Summary: Giles delivers a letter from Spike to Angel after the events in Chosen.
Giles swore that upon the final battle with the First, if he were still breathing, the first thing that he would do would be to smoke a good, long, heavy cigarette. The young Ripper was a chain-smoker, loved sticking two, even three Slims into his mouth at a time, knowing perfectly well that he was slowly killing himself by doing it, and that was all the better reason to hold his breath and let the poison linger, riding through his bloodstream to become one with his soul. Yes, he was a bit of a prat in those days... but contrary to popular belief, the craving for a good fag never really left, and every time Spike pulled one out, lit the glowing embers, his eyes flashing sardonically, daring Ripper as only a fellow troublesome member of society knew how, Giles could barely repress the twitch of his fingers, yearning to taste, touch, inhale the curling-blue goodness. If Giles were a vampire, his blood-hunger would be nicotine, and every cigarette sitting on every solemn shelf in every 7-11 from Sunnydale to Rome would learn the meaning of fear. He was only lucky that his craving was life threatening and not the kind that sustained life, i.e. the blood to a vampire analogy. Knowing what color his lungs were was one of the many things that finally persuaded Giles to quit upon becoming a Watcher... and, technically speaking, he wasn't a Watcher anymore. With the Potentials awakened, Faith making good as a leader, Buffy finally back to being a girl and not the bitter piece of work she'd become, not to mention the entire world saved from yet another terrible end, what did it matter if he was short-winded, and hacked off a few more years of his life span?
He was getting old, and by God, he was going to enjoy every last day that he breathed until he finally stopped doing so.
That is, if constant responsibility did not kill him first, but that was another matter. Giles stood back before the Hyperion, a Slims cigarette twirling with absent expertise in his left hand. Team Angel was, apparently, making some sort of major move--there were large trucks outside the building, and the backside that Giles recognized as Wesley was loading a tremendous box of books into one of them. Inside the truck, a tall black man was cursing the weight and demanding to know just what all the books could possibly be for in the first place. Wesley, with an edge that Giles had not seen in their prior meetings, proceeded to remind the man that they had saved his life on numerous occasions, which only brought forth cave-man quality gruntings. The black man reminded Giles vaguely of Xander what with the outlook, if a bit more muscular, and, if the weapons he lovingly gave a glance to were any indication, an able fighter as well. Must be the one they called Gunn.
Gunn--if that was indeed the right name--saw Giles standing there and lifted an encouraging hand; a greeting, warning, and summoning rolled into one casual, seemingly harmless gesture. Ripper smiled with appreciation at it, but Giles simply nodded when Wesley turned and gave an exclamation of surprise.
"Rupert! I was not expecting--oh please, come in, come in!" His clothes were much more to the city, Giles noticed, not so... nerdy, or as so, rather... not so Watcher-esque anymore, as Buffy would say. His eyes brightened with the old flair at Giles' presence, but there were too many changes to Wesley not to note that their years apart had not been without hardship. It almost gave cause for Giles to accept the other man's automatic offer of tea and conversation, but he forced himself to remain firm on his goal. He came to do one thing, and then he was going straight to Rome.
"Things are a bit hectic right now, I'm afraid," Wesley said absently. "But would you like some tea?" The younger man stumbled for the door and held it out for Giles, leading him inside. "I don't think we packed the tea yet--"
Giles gave a wave of his hand, the one still holding the unlit cigarette, and Wesley's eyes followed it curiously. "No, no," he said, with a softer voice than he expected of himself. It was a mourning voice, and Giles wasn't so sure if he was supposed to be ashamed or proud of it. It was hard, mourning a vampire, world-saving not withstanding. Especially when that vampire was Spike. His words stumbled over themselves, blinded by the last meaningful words ever spoken between them, and a cigarette he couldn't wait to have once this ordeal was over. "I-I just... I came to see... Is-is Angel here?"
Wesley, much more observant than Giles ever remembered him being, frowned. "Is everything alright, Rupert?"
Or perhaps he was just that obvious. "Fine, fine," he said, shaking his head. "Angel. Where is he?"
Wesley pointed up the stairs. "In his rooms, brooding," as if this summed up the entirety of anything Angel did when he was not slaying demons, and it was probably was. "You're welcome to interrupt, I'm sure, but do be careful. He's been... especially bad of late."
Right. Giles didn't like Angel, not even a little, and though he agreed not to be petty about Angelus, Jenny Calender and a torture session that was never to be remembered, he still wouldn't mourn if the vampire's life found itself perpetually drenched in misery. Something about the glint in Wesley's eyes stated that whatever had happened was very bad, but it couldn't be any worse than what had happened in Sunnydale. Giles thought about asking Wesley where the team seemed to be moving, what with the boxes and the moving trucks, but he didn't have time, and honestly, he didn't care. The longer he held the cigarette, the stronger the urge to smoke it, and he vowed that he wouldn't light it up until this duty was done. He owed Spike at least that.
"Right," Giles said alloud, nodding to himself, and forcing his feet toward the stairway. "If you'll excuse me..."
He didn't even wait for Wesley's reply.
**
(a few days earlier)
Feeling guilty about trying to kill Spike--an incident with Robin, said vampire, and a song which shall never be uttered again--Giles had slipped into the Summers' basement just hours before that final battle against the First, determined to make amends for his actions. He wasn't about to admit that he was wrong, because no matter how many times Spike or Angel might've saved his life, they had also tortured him, humiliated him, killed the love of his life, and viciously hurt his Slayer on more than one occasion. But unlike Angel, he had also grown to... well, not like Spike per say, but maybe... perhaps, if just a little, to respect him. It was one thing to be cursed with a soul, but to go through hell willingly for his Slayer because of his own sins, to admit his mistakes, to sacrifice himself over and over again for a human being, someone that by all accounts Spike considered food... Giles had watched Spike suffer in rage, in misery, in love, in madness, and there was something so naked between them now, so bare with all the things that had been seen and done, that it was shameful that he should toss all of it aside for a vengeance that wasn't his, a chip that had long ago ceased to save lives, and a mental trigger that he'd known all along Spike had been fully capable of overcoming, if given even half a chance. Giles had known Spike a lot longer than he'd known Robin, after all; he'd seen the vampire change more than any vampire had a right to, kept him chained to his bloody bathtub for Christ's sake, and if that didn't deserve the benefit of the doubt...
Well, there was no use brooding over it, because he couldn't take it back, and in another hour it wasn't going to matter anyway. Steeling himself, Giles took a breath and stepped down into the basement, where Spike was sprawled in his cot, amulet already around his neck and a letter written on yellow legal pad in his hands. He was still writing when Giles came to the bottom of the stairs, said nothing and hardly moved when the man closed the distance between them and sat down in a chair. He knew perfectly well that Spike had known just who had entered the basement without ever looking up, and he was sure that the cold shoulder was part of the punishment Giles would bare for trying to kill him, regardless of Buffy's assurances and affection. He'd never seen that kind of hurt from Spike directed at him before, hadn't expected it to force such guilt from him--Buffy was one thing, with her tear-stained eyes and hoarse how-could-you-do-this-to-me, but Spike? It was Spike for God's sake. But that sharp furrow in his brow, eyes glittered with a pain entirely of emotional doing, betrayed, soul finally bared for Ripper and Giles and Watcher to see, oh, how terribly ashamed he'd been... Giles, once again the traitor, and this time it was in the eyes of a vampire. A souled, chipless vampire, but a vampire nonetheless.
Life was amusing, sometimes.
"Whatever you came down to say, you better say it, mate. I've got two hours, and I want to make the best of it."
Giles shifted in the chair, itching to polish his glasses in a classic moment of trying to clear what was so thoroughly blurred, regain focus on this thing with Spike--was he a friend, a foe? Was he a neighbor or was he family? But Giles forced his hand back down again and stared right into Spike's eyes, challenging. He didn't know where to categorize the vampire in his life, but he was almost sure he knew where Spike categorized him.
Traitor.
"I'm not going to apologize for what I tried to do," Giles said, and somehow he felt like a stubborn child before those hundred twenty four year old eyes. They sapped his courage, left him straying for a point, forgetting what he'd come down to say in the first place. "At the time, it was necessary. But..." How could Spike, of all beings, make him feel so young and foolish?
He left it lingering, the said and the unsaid. What could he possibly say to make this better? With his piercing logic, Spike knew that Giles had only come down to make amends so that if it came to it, Giles could die with some sense of dignity, one less reason to go to Hell. No doubt it pissed the vampire off entirely, but Spike, Big Bad withdrawn ever since they'd found him babbling like a loon and eating rats by the Hellmouth, remained silent. It was the silence that bothered him the most, because it was so strange to see that for all their differences and all their quarrels, when they brooded, Spike and Angel looked exactly alike.
Giles stranded in a land of discomfort, Spike returned to his letter and continued to write whatever it was he was writing. The ex-Watcher was tempted to glance down and read the words over the vampire's shoulder, but as a long-time keeper of such things, Giles knew and respected not to try it. At least not at so obvious an angle.
Nearly five minutes passed by like that until the pen stopped moving and Spike sat up, tearing the paper off the pad, and folding it.
He handed it to Giles. Without hesitation, his eyes firm. Knowing, but knowing what, Giles couldn't possibly say.
"Put that in your pocket," Spike said, voice softer with seriousness, or weariness, or age, or something that was left for vampires with souls to understand. "If I don't make it, you're going to give it to Peaches, yeah?"
Giles stared at the folded letter, found himself nodding his head, and putting it into his pocket. It was so matter-of-fact, really. If he had been any other man, he'd have thought Spike knew that he was going to die that day. But Spike was just being prepared. Like all of them.
The vampire dug into his jeans for his cigarettes and lighter. He gave one to Giles off-handedly, as if it were natural, as if they had been friends--family--for years, as if Giles had ever smoked in Spike's presence before, or since he'd met Spike at all. But somehow, Spike had always known anyway, because Spike was like that.
The vampire lit up, then, but when he offered the ancient lighter to Giles, Giles shook his head. He pocketed the lighter, didn't ask for the cigarette back. Giles kept it, considering it in a deeply philosophical manner.
And in the quiet, Spike relaxed. He took a long drag, let it out, sighed.
"You're alright, Rupert," the vampire said, flicking burning ash onto the cement floor. "I still think you're a fucking bastard, mind, but you're alright... you remind me of me mum. Who was also a bitch toward the end like that, but... well, you know." Giles didn't, but he left it for what it was. He didn't want to read into the subtext of being compared to William the Bloody's mother. "Loved her anyway, I did, right up 'til I killed her."
Spike patted Giles on the knee and swaggered to his feet, slipping Nikki Wood's duster on like a second skin, her blood still lingering somewhere in that coat for the last several decades. He couldn't help but wonder what Robin felt every time he laid his eyes on it; his mother's coat worn like a prize by the vampire that killed her. Tragic. And then he couldn't help but wonder why, quite suddenly, it didn't really affect him at all, if it ever had in the first place. Ripper would've thought Spike was a work of art, and that was why Giles couldn't stand him.
With a wink and a grin, Spike was gone.
**
Giles pocketed the cigarette and knocked on the door. The shriek of smashed glass answered him, with a softly muttered, "Go away."
So he knocked again. "Angel, I've been on the road for four hours and I am not going away, I assure you."
Sliding locks, the door cracked opened just enough to see one cruel eye and a mouth that did not smile.
His breath was solidified in the stench of rum when he said, "Giles," taking a careful breath to compose himself. It failed miserably, but Angel opened the door further and led his apparent guest inside, as if he'd been expecting him, which he hadn't. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Spike is dead."
Angel, not so terribly sober, tripped over his own feet at the words and slurred something barely coherent with a heavy, Irish accent. He landed on the broken glass of what had once been his seventh bottle of rum, slicing his palm in a gush of dark red. He laughed, then, at the pain and the blood and the irony, and swung his bloody hand carelessly into the air, punching emotions that pierced through his heart like jagged oak. Licking the wound clean as it sewed itself shut again, Angel struggled to his feet, little noises of distress thrumming from deep in his throat. No one had contacted the older vampire about it after the destruction of Sunnydale, but it seemed like Angel was somehow already aware, and Giles was sure that this and whatever prior events was the cause for the current drunken hysteria.
Standing, Angel sighed, laughter gone, soul burning him alive from the inside out. "I know," he said, with a slight paranoia. "I heard the whispers." Then he turned away, shrugging again, denying that he even cared. "Wasn't sure, you see, but I knew. And I do. Now." Frown. "Or... something. Anyway, thanks for the notice. Rum? Blood? Tea?"
"No... thanks."
He casually gestured for Giles to sit at a table blanketed in bottles of booze, which Angel shoved clear with a clatter and smash of his hulking arm. Giles noted boxes already packed and labelled neatly nearby, ready for shipping, their neatness in stark contrast to the filth of the rest of the place--bottles broken and half-empty, drained blood packets, the single bed unmade, sheets and clothing stranded across the floor in wrinkled, musty heaps. The air was thick with denial, and Angel cleared his throat in vain attempt to gather his wits, but they both knew that he would climb toward sobriety only to tumble downward like a towering game of Jenga. The state of his mind made the state of his room appear pristine.
"Is that what brings you, then? William?"
It was hard not to notice the emphasis on that name, referring to a person and not a monster. It gave him pause.
"Yes," Giles said, clearing his throat. "He... wrote a letter. He told me to give it to you, if he were to pass on." Pass on, he truly hated that, passing on, like Spike was ever going to pass back into the land of the living singing Sex Pistols and chain-smoking his Slims, begging Giles for another pint of blood; Please, Watcher, we've got a sexy body to look after, give us another share! People don't stay dead anymore, but Spike had already been dead. Didn't that mean anything?
Giles produced the letter from his inner-coat pocket and handed it to the vampire, shaking away his own brands of bitterness. He'd considered mailing it earlier, but that seemed utterly callous for some reason, even for the likes of Angel. When Angel frowned, taking it, Giles was glad that he had done this, to feel the passing of hands, the weight of the world and an unspoken promise lifted from his shoulders. Spike was dead, and this was done, and he sighed at it, let the moment pass by, pass on. Deed done, he stood up, turning for the door. Off to Rome, then.
"Giles, wait."
He stopped when his hand touched the knob to leave, but he did not remove his back from Angel. Dear God, he wanted to be in Rome, chain-smoking over Wordsworth and tea. He'd promised. He always kept his promises.
"Rupert... please."
Slowly, he turned to look at Angel. The vampire was clutching the letter tightly, the paper crinkled as the only remaining proof of Spike's existence on this Earth. He noticed the blood on the paper, smeared from that earlier cut. It was so fucking tragic, the way Angel stood at the table with his pathetic stare, swaying, silent, starving for answers.
Strange, that agony, that heart-wrenching loss. He knew there was deep history in the passage of this letter, but Angel had lost so many over the years. What was one more? Even Spike. Just one more in a long line of Angelus' mistakes.
"He had a soul."
Giles nodded.
"Willingly?"
Another nod.
Angel sighed, some foreign emotion flittering across his face; the soft and barely-there brushes of a furious butterfly.
"I hated him," he said. It took a moment for Giles to recognize the tone as reluctant affection, tainted with the same vehement pride that tore the two vampires apart and back again for over a century. "Still do."
He wondered, stunned, if Angel even realized that it was there, for the vampire shook his head, then, stuttering through the rum, "A-And anyway, I-I was just... just wondering."
I hated him, and now I won't get to hate him ever again. Isn't that terrible? Of all the tragedy to befallen me, they have taken my hate. I hate it when they take away my hate...
Angel sat down again, and stared out the window, looking terribly lost. The letter crinkled further in that punishing grip, and Giles knew that he hadn't even read it yet. He hadn't even read it yet, and already it was smeared with his blood.
Giles, life-tired, finally pulled out Spike's cigarette. He lit it, inhaled, savoring.
Nodded goodbye.
He knew the vampire recognized the scent, and it made his heart go pitter-patter in remembrance, but before Angel could comment or fall into a thousand little (more) pieces, he left, door slammed softly behind him.
And Angel read:
Peaches.
You used to find deep amusments in my love for Dru. Remember? You would take her before my eyes, and you would hurt her. You would hurt me, and you would force me to hurt her too. You would hurt us both, and you would make us hurt each other so beautifully--she liked it, always, for her Daddy, but it was all wrong, and that was the point. You would make her love you, and you would laugh at the rage while I watched, because you loved to make me watch, and you loved me more when I hated you. Do you still? You used to love to make me love you. Oh, sweet Peaches, you would call me such a fool. You would tell me that there is no place for love among vampires, only take, and you took with greed that surpassed Judas, Brutus and the Scourge of Europe. You took, and then you returned to your Darla, and you loved her.
I used to believe that you were lying, see. I used to believe that vampires did love, even you and that bitch, just a little irresponsibly is all. But how could Dru really love me, and do all the things that she did? If it wasn't you, it was someone or something else, always, for a hundred years, and oft it was hard not to touch her knowing she had been touching someone, something else. Your fault, getting her mad, teaching any self-respecting vampire to love that way. She was my first, and you were my second, and every time I bed, I bed a virgin. She carried a virgin's love for a hundred years. When she left, you saw it. It bloody hurt. I thought something was wrong with me, and you know what?
There was. You only loved with a soul, but me, Peaches, I don't need a soul to show me my own heart. Always been a freak, yeah? You'd said that more than enough in the past. William, the Bloody Fool. Love's bitch. Kneel down and love me, bitch, that was your philosophy.
This soul, it really helps to understand some of the things I never really grasped before, even when I'd had it last time. Funny the way that works--you go without one for so long, that when you get it back, the mind sizzles with memories remembered in an entirely different manner--a blessing, really, to see a new path and take it. I'd thought for sure before all this that I was done, or at the very least in store for a very long, dreary future. Spike, the pathetic shell of a vampire, chipped, tragically in love with a Slayer that could never return the favor even if I hadn't done what I'd done, reliant upon the Happy Meals to survive when it's the Happy Meals that could kill me with one fell swoop, and what am I to do about it? My mind laced in fire, oh, you haven't the faintest... I did get it for Buffy and for love, this is true, but I had gotten it for me most of all. I had shattered, and the only way to fix it was to break it completely. You've been there, yeah? I fell so hard that Hell grinned from above, and laughed at me. I remember her mocking smile. The First came as Buffy, and she would laugh, laugh, laugh, because she knew.
Don't get me wrong, I still hate you. I hate you with a passion even fucking couldn't overrule--my passion of hate for you is second only to my passion for the Slayers--once, the greatest battle, now, the greatest admiration.
Even then. Somehow, even then, I hate you even more than I love Buffy. And that's a lot of fucking hate--taken literally, of course.
If you're reading this, I'm dead. Obviously. I'd predict you throwing a party, but I know you miss the hate already. I know, because I'm the only one around that hates all of you, and it's good to be solid every now and then, isn't it? You killed the girls, you killed Penn, and I'm the last. You're going to miss me, and I'm bloody touched. Really. Go on, shed the tears, Peaches. Let them go. I promise I won't hold it against you--after all, how am I ever going to know enough to insult your manhood again?
There's something wrong with you. Has been for a while now, I imagine. This version of you, you've admitted it, right? You love. So love this, Peaches--take the very last of my love, be amused, go on, haven't got all century... it's what you wanted, isn't it? Three words.
I love you.
Still amused?
You can stay in the past and trip over your burning bridges, but me, I want to see how it ends. I'll save a seat if you ever decide to join me. Hell has the best view from here.