InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "We don't need rings or vows..."

✞ facies angeli ✞ (angelorum) wrote in wariscoming,
@ 2010-04-11 23:34:00

Entry tags:

angel, spike

Who: Angel and OPEN
What: Somebody very unlucky is about to get impaled out of the blues in place of the Dragonlord. (Maybe Spike? Somehow seems fitting for a comic encounter...)
When: Early hours of the morning with the songbirds chirping and all that jazz
Where: We're not in Kansas anymore...or are we?
Rating: PG-13
Status: In Progress

2004, Los Angeles.

Madness.

The great dragon's scales shone an angry crimson green, gleaming with so many colours beyond the meagre descriptives of men. Its breath was a furnace of behemothic proportions, each scorching fume out of its nostrils withering the animate and the inanimate so unfortunate to be within its all-consuming reach. The overgrown reptile was a travelling desert--and it hadn't even begun to bring out the fire yet.

Having carved out some semblance of a path in the endless sea of Hell's minions, Angel made a sweeping stroke with his favourite broadsword (in all probability his last broadsword) to clear the area and leapt a hundred feet onto the sagging skeleton of a once impervious glass and steele structure. The blazing leviathan was too preoccupied playing Godzilla to notice the dark speck of a vampire fighting its way towards it, allowing the Powers That Be's champion to spy its movements. After all, it was the unspoken law of the universe that no creature was without some semblance of a vulnerability. Balance of powers. It was what made the world go around. All creatures, apparently, except for the one casting one spectacle of a silhouette across the skyline: a colossal dark blotch against a sky painted in sanguine red below the rumbling grey clouds. Its impossibly thick hide glistened like the plumage of a magnificent peacock in patches where light fell and its two eyes burnt with an intense ferocity that threatened the now absent sun. Its predatory frontal limbs ended in hook-like claws that curled menacingly into the empty air, its impressive wings unfurling with enough power to keep the full weight of the creature afloat against gravity with no apparent effort.

And, curiously, a gleam of metal pressing deeply against its throat. That same gleam of metal trailed back down to ground zero, a misleadingly thin sliver of a chain with the strength to hold the specimen captive. Some heavy duty enchantment right there. That put things in a new perspective. Angel's vision trailed back to the beast. All its galvanising about, all its pent-up rage...maybe, just maybe, it wasn't about destruction or an arbitrary show of its power and might. It wasn't even about the apocalypse or hell breaching the surface. It was about escape from imprisonment. Freedom. And Angel understood a little something about that, especially where it involved the Senior Partners. The dragon let out a rumbling, high pitched wail which could be heard all across the rain-soaked city. It echoed somehow pathetically to Angel's ears despite the distance it carried.

That was his way in. It was a slim chance and more like to backfire on him than not. But hey, a dragon roaming free was going to do its former captors more damage than to anybody else, right? If the creature became a problem, it was going to become a problem for everybody. That was more than he could say for driving a steele toothpick into its unbreakable hide and hoping for the best. Turning his focus from the dragon to the chain, Angel wielded the familiar leather grip of the broadsword in his hand and followed the moss-coloured metal straight to the Dragonlord. Less impressive looking than he'd expected. Well, all the better for him then. The army surrounding the procession might pose a bit of a problem. But on the contrary, they had seemingly lulled the Dragonlord into a false sense of security and complacency.

Was this going to work? He honestly could not tell. He hadn't exactly been making the best judgement calls lately, what with the Circle of the Black Thorn and all. Backing up a few steps, the figure in the dramatically billowing black duster took off on a run and leapt off the ledge of the crumbling construct with the blade raised high above his head. As though he sensed the danger plummeting towards him, the Dragonlord lifted his head just as the hard edge of the sword drove cleanly into its target.

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blondie_bear
2010-04-12 04:43 pm UTC (link)

It wasn't the Dragonlord that found himself being impaled by the sword between Angel's fingers; the master of the fire-breathing beast was now worlds away from the dangerous path of L.A's knight in not so shining armor, continuing on it's reign of terror as Angel was transported directly into the path of a far less threatening foe. At least, the figure clad in his favored leather jacket was far less threatening prior to feeling something sharp, large, and painful being rammed straight through his chest. Because while Spike had been in a perfectly content mood prior to the rude interruption, he was now staring across the dark street corner at Angel with nothing but pure fury ringing through his gaze. Fury, mixed in with a touch of surprise, and a well-rounded lick of disgust. Because, you see, of all the things that Spike had been expecting on his walk back to the apartment complex? Being stabbed through the chest by the Angel look-a-like was certainly not one of them. Growling in a combination of pain and pure dislike, Spike reared a foot up and aimed a kick straight for the sword wielding moron's gut. Pain sparked through Spike's chest in retaliation, happily twisting it's way deep into his body as if it was more than happy to be re-visiting the old vampire once again. Pain. He just did this, didn't he? The whole being in pain thing, that was. He'd been Glory's bitch for the second time around not too long ago, and now he was standing in the middle of the fucking street with a sword in his chest. Oh, he hated people. He hated them. Particularly this Booth fellow. Even though he told himself he'd go easy on the bloke for looking like Angel (easy, as in he wouldn't viciously rip him apart - anything else was free for all, wasn't it? It wasn't like hurting the man's feelings was going to do him in, now was it?), Spike was no longer feeling terribly generous anymore. Booth? Yeah, he was dead.

"Why you little -" Yet, before Spike could get the statement out, something stopped him. Something...familiar. Booth had looked like Angel. That was as far as their similarities had gone. But this...there was something here. Something that Spike could sense wasn't right. Or, to put it better, was right. His chest was screaming in agony, but Spike could still pick up the scent of the vampire that he'd worked alongside for years without even thinking about it. This wasn't Booth. It was him. Angel.

Falling down onto a knee, Spike brought a pair of pale hands upward and gripped at the handle of the sword, teeth gritting together tightly as Spike dragged the blood stained blade from his body. It clattered against the pavement as Spike dropped it onto the ground, his dark clothes already soaking in the red that trickled from the hole in his chest now that the sword had been removed from it entirely. At this point, any other man would have fallen. They would have uttered their final words, toppled over, and would have been pulled from this world to the afterlife or wherever the fuck the dead went when they were gone. Probably Hell. Either way, a moment like this one was usually spent in tragedy or basked in the importance of the impaled victims final words. It was not expected to be comical, yet in a way it was, because Spike was not dying. He was a vampire - it was going to take a lot more than a sword through the chest to off him. The sword had hurt though, he'd give Angel that.

His eyes narrowed all the same, a very large feeling of resentment and dislike all around overpowering the pain as Spike snarled, "What in the bloody hell did you do that for, you stupid, useless, pain the ass!"

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Sorry, I am horrible for taking so long to get back! :(

angelorum
2010-04-19 06:48 am UTC (link)

Angel felt a small jolt of triumph as the blade wedged firmly into what was unmistakeably flesh and bones. He doubted the Dragonlord would be quite so easy to dispense with, but there was a certain pleasure to be derived from sticking it (in the literal sense) to the proverbial man while he figured out how to defeat the creature for good. He jerked the blade in just a little deeper for good measure, hoisting the weight of the body in a not so friendly embrace before preparing to shove the body unceremoniously aside with the kamikaze determination of one vampire about to stand off against an army of hell's finest. There he stood in the downpour and hail of fire, completely balanced, muscles flexed and reflexes at ready, absolutely prepared to strike at whichever misfortuned foot soldier of the Senior Partners that dared to make the first move. Nobody could accuse him of not going out in style.

Unless, of course, there was no army at all.

Unless, of course, he'd just skewered the wrong target.

'Spike?' he managed with his motions halted mid-action, experiencing a rather colourful kaleidoscope of emotions from confusion to astonishment to unmeasurable annoyance and back to confusion again. Had it been anybody else, he might have been alarmed and quite probably devastated provided that it wasn't an obvious hellspawn that he had just run through with the pointy end. Only, this was Spike. Given this simple fact, all he could muster up was mild bemusement. Put the two of them together and this type of thing had a way of becoming a regular occurrence, no harm, no foul. But whoa. Deja vu. Was it just him or did this scenario feel a little bit too familiar? It was like the whole amulet business all over again, except for the part where he'd apparently just pierced through Blondiebear's torso with a sharp edged object. Also, it was hard to tell which of the two had just materialised out of nowhere. The whole sky not being on fire, city not being in ruins thing was a bit of a giveaway though. Angel was not liking where this was going, but his priority had just fled from the poor sod to whom he'd dealt grievous wrongful bodily harm to the single question: where was the Dragonlord? More importantly... 'Where's the dragon?' he demanded, finally releasing the hilt. Could it have been Illyria? His eyes roamed the unfamiliar skyline, not caring if he looked like a tourist doing so. A very unhappy, broody tourist that had just discovered after disembarking that he'd gotten on the wrong bus.

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