Champions

Angel sat alone in a quiet corner of the dark house, brooding in silence. Gunn was dead. Wesley was dead. Lorne was gone forever. He had seen too much death in his time. Too many lives had been cut short. He’d seen them wither away, and he’d seen them plucked suddenly from existence before they’d truly had a chance to grow. And too many of those deaths had been his fault. He might not have inflicted the killing wounds, but his friends were dead because of him. He had walked in guilt for so long, Angel was actually surprised that he had room in his soul for more.

He gazed at Spike, dozing fitfully on the floor in the other room. Most of his body was blocked by a defiant section of the crumbling wall, which steadfastly refused to give in to time, but Angel still had a clear view of the younger vampire’s face. He shook his head in despair as he saw what was unmistakably a smile steal across Spike’s features. Whatever his dreams were, he found them pleasant. Angel cursed him silently. His own dreams were steeped in the blood of the innocent, and the knowledge of deeds to dark to ever be truly forgiven, let alone forgotten. For what seemed like the millionth time, Angel wished, secretly, that he could be more like Spike. Always so close to his humanity, Spike had acquired his soul with barely a hitch, as far as an immortal being was concerned. Angel wondered what would have happened, had he retained Liam’s humanity when he was turned. Perhaps he could have grown more. Perhaps the curse would not have been as devastating. Perhaps there would have been no Angelus, no Angel, only himself. Perhaps…

“What will we do with the body?” Illyria’s calm, commanding voice interrupted Angel’s musing. She had entered through a door which lead to what might have once been called a kitchen.

Angel ran a hand through his hair. All semblance of order had left the short black locks, leaving them soft and unruly, and highly annoying. For a moment, Angel scolded him for becoming distracted by such a meaningless and vain observation, and sighed. There would never be a happy medium for him. Spike’s frivolity would never be attainable. Angel knew he could never let himself accept the darkness. As Liam, maybe he could have, but never as Angel.

“He deserves a proper burial,” Angel responded at length. “We owe him that at least.”

“Do we?” Illyria asked coldly. “What of Wesley? No dirt shall cover his bones. Do you mourn for that?” She sounded bitter, a feeling he knew she had become all too familiar with. In spite of herself, she had come to care for the man who had loved the shell she now wore.

“There is nothing we can do for Wes now,” Angel answered. “But we can still take care of Gunn. I’m in and out of the coroner’s office pretty often…at least…I was…before…” The familiar feeling of guilt rose in Angel’s chest. IF he had never accepted the senior partners’ offer, none of this would have happened. He shook his head to clear the fog. “I can call in a favor or two.”

Illyria nodded. A strange burning sensation had crept into her eyes. She rubbed the butt of her hand across them and pulled it back wet. This was an anomaly that she had come to associate with thoughts of Wesley.

“Curse this human body,” she muttered weakly.

“It does have its downfalls,” Angel responded, “but it’s not all bad.”

“On wouldn’t know, watching you,” she said with disdain. “All you know of life is pain…” She paused, searching for words. “You are surrounded by it…suffering, guilt…” She glanced over her shoulder to see Spike lying on the floor, “…jealousy.”

Angel remained silent, there being little to say against his own, admitted truth.

After a moment, he looked up at her. “It’s really a shame you never got to meet Fred. She could have taught you more about the joys of life than any of us could. No matter how dark things got, she always found a reason to smile.”

“Wesley loved her. It made him weak.”

“But it also made him strong.”

Illyria nodded, a pensive look on her face. “But not strong enough.”


* * *

Spike twitched fitfully in his sleep. His dreams were not quite as pleasant as his sire supposed, but they were, in a way, no more than Spike expected. Just as he did in his day to day life, he focused on the parts that amused him and let the rest fade into blackness. This was actually one of his favorites.

Like many others, this one centered around a small, blonde woman. She looked at him with sadness in her eyes that spoke of a loneliness he could never know or understand, but that she’d be willing to forget about in the circle of his arms…at least for awhile. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling her warm body pressed against him, marveling at how such a strong woman could feel so frail.

“Buffy,” he whispered, as a smile flitted across his face. He pressed his nose into her hair and breathed deeply. He expected to smell vanilla, and maybe strawberries from her lip-gloss.

Instead, he smelled sulfur, and fire, and, close at hand, blood. He opened his eyes and found his arms empty. White light shone all around him, and something burned deep inside. Buffy stood beside him, an image of power and beauty…a goddess with tears in her eyes. He reached for her, as he always did. She reached for him in return, and he closed his eyes, waiting to hear the words. Waiting to hear her tell him she loved him.

But the words did not come this time. A shadow fell across his face and his eyes flew open. Black wings enveloped him, blocking out the light. Outside the darkness, Spike saw Buffy, tears sliding unchecked down her cheeks. She mouthed goodbye, and left him to the blackness.

“NO!” he shouted, hoarsely. He tried to go after her, but the black wings closed in on him, and he knew no more.

* * *

Spike awoke with a jerk, thoroughly shaken. That was definitely not how that dream usually ended. For long moments, he stared at the water stained ceiling, taking deep breaths. The regularity of inhaling and exhaling had such a calming effect, and Spike needed that tremendously. The last thing he wanted was for Angel to see him all shaken up by a stupid dream. And that’s all it was, he told himself. A dream and nothing more. Clearly his mind was still reeling from battle, that had to be the reason. Putting his hands over hi eyes, he chided himself for being childish.

“Hey, sleeping beauty, you awake in there?” Angel called.

“What’s it to you if I am?” he asked. He felt a tad surlier than normal, but he didn’t care.

“We can’t stay here,” Angel responded, striding into the room. “Whatever that demon was, it could come back. We’ve already stayed too long.”

“You’re the boss,” Spike shrugged and rose slowly to his feet. Though still heavily bruised and limping, he was feeling a lot better. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We’ve gotta get…the body…” Angel paused, clenching his fists. “We’ve gotta get him to the coroner.” He stared at his feet and Spike almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

The three heroes walked carefully up the stairs, feeling the structure sway and shudder with each creaking step. Each one approached the darkened room, lost in their own thoughts.

Angel’s mind once more swam with guilt. He thought back on the battle which he had truly suspected none of them would survive. And yet, here they were. Some of them anyway. In his mind, he saw each blow as it fell, marveled at his own speed, and, in the same moment, cursed himself for not sparing a glance for Gunn. Perhaps he could have spared him in some way. When he expected the all to die, the choice was simple. He was intent on taking out as many of his enemies as possible before he was overrun…before they consumed him. Now that he had survived, eh could hardly believe his nearsightedness. He had gotten so desperate as his world began to unravel, he had lost all hope. He had forgotten that there is always a chance…

Illyria, too, kept her own council. She cared not what became of Gunn’s body. She had few feelings regarding the young man one way or the other. What she cared about was staying busy. During the battle, there had been such glorious violence, gallons of blood, and screams which rent the air. While the fighting raged, she had found purpose. Now, in such inactivity, she felt stagnant and alone. Fury and sadness waged war in her breast, and she neither knew, nor cared, who the victor would be. The result would be the same. Emotional turmoil was new to her.

Spike on the other hand…

“God, I loathe hearse detail,” he complained loudly. “I don’t see why we can’t just leave him here.”

Angel froze on the top step. He glared icily over his shoulder at the blonde vampire.

“He was my friend,” he ground out, “and he deserves better.”

“Fine! So we’ll set the place on fire! That’s pretty glamorous, right? And a helluva lot easier.”

Angel gripped the banister so tightly it began to crack in his grasp. He glared at Spike, silently daring him to continue.

“It’s not like it matters, either way.” Spike snorted a short laugh. “You and I both know only too well tat a body is just that: a body.” He emphasized the word, watching his sire flinch. “He’s dead. I guarantee he’s not going to care if we leave him here or not.”

The wooden banister splintered in Angel’s hand, and he ripped a piece free. In a blinding fury, he spun to face Spike, hatred in his eyes. With one hand, he grabbed Spike by the throat and slammed him into the wall. The dying building complained bitterly, and the sound of falling rubble echoed in the empty rooms. Angel pressed his makeshift stake to Spike’s chest.

“Give me a reason,” he growled. “I have lost too many friends tonight to deal with you. You, I wouldn’t mind losing. In fact, I’m willing to bet that I’d be happy enough to do a victory dance, so I’m begging you. Give me a reason.”

Spike chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Mate. I’ve grown rather attached to this immortal coil. Besides, wouldn’t want to deprive our new beastie of picking us off one by one, now would we?”

The two men eyed each other fiercely for a long moment, waging a silent battle of wills. Slowly and grudgingly, Angel released Spike, a snarl on his lips. With barely suppressed rage, he tossed the stake down the stairs. “Come on,” he said hoarsely, turning his back on the younger vampire. “Let’s get this over with.”

Illyria eyed the two men in silence, not sure where her loyalties lay. On the one hand, Angel had the strength. He was a leader no matter what, and that demanded respect. This respect, she, of course, had refused to give him. The very idea that someone as powerful as her would bow down to a lowly vampire was entirely laughable. But he fought with a dedication and a ferocity that she had been forced to appreciate. She did not respect him…not exactly. But she knew his power and followed his lead.

Spike was Angel’s opposite in every way. He flouted his disregard of Angel’s authority and mocked him openly. He was a loose cannon who could not be trusted. But he had been kind to her. Well…perhaps kind wasn’t the word, but he had accepted her. He treated her as he treated everyone else. The times when he spoke of Fred, he spoke warmly, but without accusation. She hated herself for being softened by it, but the knowledge that at least one person did not look at her as nothing more than the girl’s murder was a balm to her failing spirits. Even now, he turned smiling eyes on her, as though sharing a private joke at his sire’s expense. Still undecided, she could do nothing but follow them both to the top of the stairs.

The room where they had left Gunn’s body still stank of blood and death, but it had softened as the night crept on. Part of the reason Angel had been secreted away in such a remote corner of the house was that it was one of the few places he could not smell the body of his friend. Now, as he stood in the hallway outside the room, the smell had grown so faint it had practically disappeared, and Angel thanked the Powers that Be for small favors. His task was a dark one, and any small concession was a blessing. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the room.

The room seemed even darker than the hallway. The windows along the far wall let in weak moonlight that failed to pierce the gloom. With his eyes on the floor, Angel took slow steps towards the deathbed of the man he had once trusted and cared for.

“Uhhh….Angel,” Spike called from the doorway. He had halted at the threshold and stood transfixed. Something bordering on concern contorted his face as he watched Angel cross the room.

“Not now, Spike,” Angel responded. His voice cracked slightly, and he shook his head. Slowly, he raised his gaze to see Gunn’s face…and saw only dirty blankets and trash. Gunn’s body was gone. A smear of blood ran from where the body had been to the window, clearly showing just wear Gunn had been taken. Hysteria building in his chest, Angel crossed the room in three loping strides. There was no sign of the body on the concrete below. Gunn was gone, and Angel knew he had no way of finding him again.