| After: Not Fade Away by Shiver |
| Pairing: A/S Spoilers: Everything, including “Not Fade Away” (AtS: S5) Notes: The show is now over, but since I received so many positive comments on the series, I’m going to continue with it as long as the Muse cooperates and there is continued interest. Hell, I probably won’t even need the interest. My Muse is kind of a bitch that way. - - - - - “Let’s get to work.” Illyria moved first, all fury and power. Her grief was an inferno, and she plucked a club out of the hand of the first warrior she engaged as delicately as another woman might pluck a flower from a vase. Thus armed, she made quick work of seven others. Angel, still drunk with Hamilton’s blood, only wished he’d had a few moments to pass some of the elixir to Spike, share some of the advantage. He swung his sword in a wide circle, amazing even himself as three demons dropped, headless, to the ground. He retreated back, went left to impale a crocodile-like demon that was coming in low. He caught sight of Spike out of the corner of his eye, back-to-back with Gunn, both of them near the wall. Neither was giving ground, but nor did they gain, and then Angel’s attention was taken as the dragon swooped down for an attack. Its jaws were opened wide, and a scream like a hurricane issued forth. Angel could see a glow like a hot ember in its throat, knew in a moment fire would blaze, and threw his sword like a javelin right at its head. The sword flew unerringly into the dragon’s mouth, pierced the back of its throat, continued through and impaled the brain. The scream cut off abruptly, and the beast’s wings closed with a convulsive jerk, propelling it backwards to drop onto the advancing army. Angel heard Spike and Gunn shout in triumph as the creature crushed much of the advancing wave, and then, like the wrecked aircraft it resembled, the combusting fuel in its belly exploded. The blast wasn’t enormous; it was lucky, not a miracle. But it did topple those closest to it, and the fire slowed the approach enough for Angel to grab a sword from one of the fallen. Illyria took each demon as it came, each blow an almost effortless kill, and as Angel struck down another demon he was, for the first time, grateful she stood with them. A horned demon charged forward from the pack, and Angel, still feeling the rush of his earlier feeding, cleaved it in two. Lengthwise. He swung around wide as more creatures advanced, but the unfamiliar weapon overbalanced him, and an ogre was able to attack, but Angel managed to swing back with one hand and spill the brute’s guts onto the concrete. He saw a line of monsters move toward him, heard Spike shout his name, retreated several steps closer to Illyria. And then the air above them erupted. - - - - - Spike saw the portal dilate open, like a great, glowing eye. Saw a cloud of enormous winged creatures, part stingray, part bat, mounted with spear-bearing demons. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, but he watched in disbelief as the flying army attacked the advancing troops. The ground force, caught completely unaware, fell back in total disarray. Spike saw Angel and Illyria come towards them, still repelling demons too stupid or too determined to abandon their original objective. The flying demons engaged the army below with a clash that knocked dozens from both forces to the ground. Still slashing with his sword, Spike shouted to Angel, “what the fucking hell?!” And behind them, the chain-link fence came down. - - - - - Angel spun around to see four men in body armor holding bolt-cutters. “Who the hell..?” he shouted, before his words were drowned out as a squad of large horsepower motorcycles coursed over the gate and struck into the fray. A huge silver custom chopper skidded to a halt between the four of them and the greater arena. The bike’s driver raised his mirrored visor, revealing a mere man. “What the hell are you waiting for?” he said. “Run, dummies!” And he spun back, lifting a mace from his side. Behind the cycles came several hundred more armored men on foot, and they joined the battle, striking out at both air-mounted demons and those in the first army. “When the man’s right,” Spike said, and he stepped back into the darkened doorway. The other three followed, Angel not even breaking stride as he led the way through the chained kitchen access door with one booted foot. They walked forward through the gloom, Illyria supporting Gunn now, his rush of adrenalin beginning to ebb. “What the hell happened out there?” Gunn asked. “Damned if I know,” Spike said. “There are beds upstairs,” Angel said. “And I think I might still have one or two numbers for healers. I’ll have to promise some favors, but…” He pushed open the door that led to the lobby, slammed flat into an invisible barrier. The others joined him in the doorway and they all took in what now filled the entire ground floor of the hotel. It most resembled a field hospital, with bare-bones surgical areas and cots in neat rows. A small squad of workers were still in the process of unloading equipment from large all-terrain vehicles that appeared to have been driven right through the hotel’s double-doors. They moved so quickly and efficiently that it was easy to believe they’d done what had already been set up in the ten minutes or so since the battle had begun. The humans seemed to be divided into three groups: soldiers, dressed in a motley array of modern and historical armor and sports’ protection, medical personnel, in hospital scrubs, and a number of men in medieval priests’ robes, who appeared to be casting some sort of protective ward. In the few seconds it took for them to take this in, their presence had been noted by all present, and they found themselves the object of a few dozen surprised and confused stares. “This protective spell is useless,” Illyria said, touching one hand to the barrier. “I will disperse its power.” “Don’t do that,” Angel said quickly. Illyria cocked her head. “Why not?” “Because we might need the good doctors’ help,” Angel explained patiently through clenched teeth. “And we don’t want to irritate them by dispersing their spells.” Illyria turned back to the lobby, regarded the group curiously. A few stepped back under her intense stare. Angel brought Gunn forward. “Our friend has been badly wounded,” he said. “Can you help him?” There was a long, tense pause, and Angel moved Gunn’s coat aside, showing the blood. “Please,” Angel pleaded. After a moment one of the doctors came forward and reached out. “What is your name, son?” he asked. “Charles Gunn.” “Come in, Charles, if you be a righteous man.” “Silas, no,” one of the priests shouted, but Gunn stepped into the lobby and allowed himself to be helped towards the surgery. The priest pointed to Angel and the others. “Come no further,” he warned, “or invoke the wrath…” “Give it a rest, Martin,” the doctor said wearily, giving the priest’s name the French inflection, “Mar-tan.” “We won’t come any further,” angel said, trying to ignore Spike’s sneer and Illyria’s inscrutable stare. “Thank you for your help. And by the way… don’t mess up my hotel too much.” Angel turned from the door, walked back to the mess sink, pulled a towel from the shelf above. He cranked the water on, turned back to the doorway. Illyria stood still at the threshold staring intently out at the goings-on. Spike had retreated to lean against the wall, keep one eye on things as he fished for his cigarettes. “Spike,” Angel said, and the younger vampire looked up. “Come here,” Angel said, and he soaked the towel under the water. Spike approached. Angel wrung the towel and hung it over the side of the sink. “You’ve been hurt,” Angel said. “Yeah, well, there’s a lot of that going around,” Spike said, but he slid out of his coat and tossed it back on the counter. Angel took Spike’s face in one hand and gently worked at the blood with the towel, stopping frequently to rinse it out. Spike thought he should make some protest, tell Angel he could take care of himself, but he found himself made mute by this simple act. That Angel took his time, was so careful that he should not feel the slightest pain, did more to reaffirm what Spike had feared he had lost in the previous days than any words. Spike let his eyes drop closed, letting himself think of nothing but Angel’s hands. When Angel reached his torso and began to squeeze water into his wounds to worry the fabric carefully away from where it stuck to the ragged flesh, the first tears tumbled down Spike’s cheeks. “Am I hurting you?” Angel asked, and it was at Spike’s tongue to tell him that it seemed at last that Angel had stopped hurting him. But instead he said, “it’s just all too much.” And they both heard the very human William in those words. “I know,” Angel said, and he pulled Spike into his arms, gingerly, and Spike allowed himself to weep. It only lasted a few minutes, a few broken sobs, a few tears wiped hastily away, and when Angel released Spike, he kissed him on the forehead. Spike looked up, his eyes still filled with confusion and grief, but he leaned forward, caught Angel’s mouth with his own. The kiss was gentle, and brief, and after a moment Angel pulled away, looked down into Spike’s face. “Never send me away again,” Spike said, and Angel gave him a sad smile. “Never,” he avowed, then turned back to the sink. He scrubbed his face quickly, taking none of the care he had with Spike, nor did he let Spike remove his shirt, causing the younger vampire to imagine a mass of crushed bone and black-bruised flesh beneath, which was not too far from the truth. “How do you think the battle’s going?” Spike asked, glancing towards the exterior door. “I can’t even begin to guess,” Angel said. “The spell that opened the portal will break at sunrise,” Spike said. “Even under the best of circumstances it would be difficult to replicate. If they’ve taken a lot of casualties…” Angel covered his eyes with one hand. “I can’t even think about that,” he said. He took Spike’s hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s see how Gunn is doing.” Illyria looked over as they approached, noticed the clasped hands with her odd mix of curiosity and incomprehension. “They have repaired him,” she announced. “Now they are putting blood into him through a tube.” “Have to see if they can spare a few pints,” Spike said, and he and Angel looked through the doorway. In the lobby, every bed was filled with soldiers. The lucky ones had lost consciousness; the rest moaned and cried in pain. The doctors worked feverishly, stitching and binding wounds, even as the soldiers’ blood ran into pools on the marble floor. Not far away, others waited, some laid on the bare floor. In the far corner, the dead were stacked like cordwood, the bottom wrapped in sheets, but most denied even this small dignity. “Such senseless activity,” Illyria said. “Preserving what will soon be gone.” Angel swung the door closed. |