Dressed Like a Human
Dressed Like a Human
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style='mso-ansi-language:EN-US'>Titlestyle='mso-ansi-language:EN-US'>: Dressed Like a Human (1/4)
Author: Kimmy Jarl
Rating: R
Warnings: M/M sex
Pairing: Spike/Angel
Disclaimer: This is fanfiction. I do
not own Angel the Series, and I get no money from writing this story.
Setting: Post NFA
Summary: When Angel fought in that
alley behind the Hyperion, one part of him wasn’t there. One part of him was in
the rainforest.
AN: Written for the
that we meet for the first time.”
Part I
When Angel
fought in that alley behind the Hyperion, one part of him wasn’t there.
One part of
him was in the rainforest.
Angel had
never actually been to the rainforest, but he could imagine the place, could
imagine the humid air, the warmth and the vines. A place where new trees grew
out of the trunks of old ones and leaves, even as they fell, was sprout and
sustenance and life. The floor was
layers and layers of fallen leaves and that was a place of calm and purpose and
truth.
Drogyn,
who could not lie, had tasted like the rainforest.
Gunn had
fallen long ago, but Angel hadn’t seen him die, so at the back of his mind Gunn
was still alive, and there might still be time to get Gunn to a hospital, if
they could win this.
Angel
fought with a shield on his left arm, a shield he had yanked from one of the
troll-creatures right before it died. It became a pattern – deflect with the
shield, find a place to stick his sword, and the sword was there. The blood was
warm as it ran from the blade to Angel’s hand.
A brick
wall behind them serving as protection, Spike had been able to toss his coat
aside in favour for a chain-mail shirt with a hood that covered half of his
face. At least once Angel had seen that shirt save his life. Mostly, he didn’t
look at Spike, but he was aware of him, there to the left, and he was aware of
the enemies, as they fell for Spike’s sword.
Illyria
screamed as she fought, an unearthly howl. Her long,
thin limbs deflected attacks with impossible ease, and it was she, above all,
that made their assailants hesitate sometimes, made them approach with care and
circle with caution.
None of
them died as easily as their enemies, but the enemies never seemed to end.
And above,
perched on the roof like a bird, was the dragon.
Chaos and precision. Screaming. Angel fought – fast – and he didn’t
seem to tire. He felt like it could go on forever. Inside, the chaos didn’t
follow. He felt calm, a spot inside that was in balance, a spot right behind
his throat, the balance that was the life-in-death place of the rainforest.
Spike and Illyria fought on each side of him, they together. Nothing
to do except fight.
Then, a difference, a different tone to the chaos.
The sound of helicopters.style='mso-ansi-language:EN-US'>
All at
once, the battle had shifted. The alley lit up with gunshots and explosions.
The ground shook, and demons were dying out of sight. The calm place of the
rainforest was forgotten – it was like waking up. The enemies, no longer
united, became individuals, stumbling over each other and turning around in
confusion.
Angel left
the protective wall and went for the demons, meeting their scattered defense.
One of the troll-creatures struck Angel with a big club, felled him to the
ground – and screamed, Spike’s sword in the troll’s chest, the flick of
Illyria’s across his throat. Angel, on his feet again, took the head off
something that looked like a dog more than anything else. The demons, they were
cornered. So few of them now. Some ran, and they were
met with the dull coughs of automatic weapons. Each side of the alley was
blocked. A great roar, for a moment, made everything stand still. The dragon, a
gust of wind from its wings, as it left the rooftop and was gone, climbing
higher and higher into the sky.
It didn’t
seem very long before they killed the last of them – two demons who fought back
to back, red eyes glowing, no weapons except their claws. Looking down at their
corpses, Angel briefly wondered what lies they had been told, to make them come
after him in this alley.
Then, he
heard shouting. Shouting in English.
“Here!” And
“Hold your fire!”
“Wait,”
Angel said. Wait…
He felt
like he was vibrating. To his right, Illyria lowered her sword, and Angel saw
her hand tremble. A spotlight from one of the buildings found them, and they
waited, bathed in white light.
Black clad
figures appeared from all sides, guns raised and ready. Round, smooth helmets
covered their heads.
“Hey!” One
of the figures lowered his gun. He walked up to them, gloved hand outreached,
palm out.
The man
stopped a few steps away and raised the visor of the helmet, an act distinctly
reminiscent of a military salute. Angel experienced a strange aha moment, when
he realized the probable origins of that gesture. The face behind the helmet
was older than Angel had expected, creased with wrinkles, smiling.
“Angel, sir!” The man’s voice was loud, as he shouted. “I should have known we would
find you in the thick of this.”
“Do I know
you?” Angel’s hand clutched the sword. Who…? Wolfram and
Hart? Surely not.
“You don’t
know me, but I’ve heard all about you.” Grinning.
Winning a battle might make a man grin like that. “Angel of
LA. You’re famous.” The man saluted, a proper salute his time. “Major
Samuel Hemmingway, US Marine.” He lowered his hand and grinned again. “Third
branch Demon Initiative.”
“
He lowered
his sword.
“A demon
army came in through a portal, huh?” The major crossed his arms and shook his
head. “Hate it when that happens.”
Spike took
a step closer. “Happened a lot, has it?”
“Not
really, no.” The grin slipped from the major’s face. “Just trying to be funny,
I guess.”
“Yes,”
Spike murmured. “Well done.”
Something
in Spike’s voice made Angel turn towards him, just in time to catch Spike’s arm
as he staggered.
Angel
frowned. “What’s the matter?”
Spike
didn’t answer, and his face was turned away. All Angel could see through the
opening in the hood of the chain-mail was the outline of Spike’s brow and
cheekbone and the sweep of his eyelashes, when his eyes fell shut.
“Are you…?
Do you…?” It was a possibility. Angel had to whisper.
style='mso-ansi-language:EN-US'>Keep your voice down.
style='mso-ansi-language:EN-US'>
style='mso-ansi-language:EN-US'>This is a house of prayer.
“Do you
feel… human?”
Spike
turned his head to look at him. It was a look that clearly said: “No, you
enormous idiot.”
Oh. Angel
let go of Spike’s arm.
“Felt a bit
knackered, is all,” Spike muttered.
“Hey.” The
major yanked off his helmet, revealing a head of close-cut grayed curls. “Are
you injured? I’ll call for the medics.” He spun around and started shouting.
“No,” Angel
said. “Not for him.”
Spike was
now completely steady on his feet. He stood still, perfectly still, by Angel’s
side. The rain had washed the chin-mail free of blood, and it shone coldly in
the white light. Angel looked away.
How could
he for one second have thought that Spike was human?
“Were…” The
Initiative soldier cleared his throat. “Are there more than the three of you?
“Yes.”
Angel said.
Gunn had
fallen somewhere further down the alley. Somewhere… over
there. Beyond that pile of bodies.
Angel
raised his gaze, straightening as he took it all in. Blood like tar over the
cracked asphalt, the ground covered with the bulbous, twisted shapes of the
dead. Roaming lights and billowing shadows. Weapons – spears – tilted upwards
from clutching, lifeless hands. This…
This was a
battlefield.
Angel
wondered what was different, and then he knew.
It had
stopped raining.