| After: The Opera by Shiver |
| Rating: NC-17 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. Thanks, and thanks for reading. - - - - - Spike was mercifully vision-free the rest of the night and all the next day, but as they packed and prepared, Spike began to feel sick with dread, knowing the powers would screw with him once the time to leave arrived. Angel had ordered Spike more clothes, soft and loose-fitting, so he wouldn’t be constricted if a vision hit. Spike tried to ignore the fact that they made him feel like an invalid. Or a child. After dark they went out to catch a taxi. Angel let the first one pass, then the second. He got a good look at the third before opening the door. They rode to the train station, boarded a sleek, modern train called “Le Royale Rouge” and were escorted by their porter to their private car. It was a beautifully appointed suite with a large sitting/dining room and two bedrooms, one to each side. The furniture was in the Russian style, dark and luxurious. Angel nodded towards the larger bedroom. “My brother is not well,” he told the porter in French. “I do not wish to have him disturbed, and will summon the chambermaid when it is convenient for him to be roused. Can you see that that is done? “Yes, sir,” the porter said. “Can I bring you anything before we depart?” Angel glanced at Gwen. “A light lunch for my sister,” he said, “and a pot of tea for my brother and myself.” “Very good, sir,” the porter agreed, and then he left them alone. “Christ,” Spike said. “It’s a five-star hotel on rails. This must have set you back a piece.” “That’s nothing for you to worry about,” Angel told him, securing the window blinds for when they pulled out. “You’ve got me worried,” Spike teased. “One might think you were trying to buy my affections.” Angel shot Spike a strange look, but Spike just turned to Gwen with a leer. “You might want to make yourself scarce for a few hours, pet,” he said. “Might be getting a bit noisy soon.” Angel made a weird gurgling noise, then crossed the room and began to pull Spike by the arm towards the bedroom. “That worked faster than I thought it would,” Spike laughed. “Just give us a few minutes,” Angel said, and Spike’s mock-outrage was cut off by the slamming door. “Take it easy, Angel,” Spike said. “Gwen knows all about us, and…” “It isn’t that,” Angel said. “I’m just… I’m concerned about the effect the visions are going to have on you.” Spike pushed away, turned his back to Angel. “They won’t have any effect,” he said. Angel reached for Spike’s shoulder, but didn’t quite touch. “You don’t understand,” Angel said. “I’ve seen what they do to people. Doyle… my friend, Doyle, the first one with the visions. He was a respected and accomplished man, a schoolteacher, with a wife and home. The visions completely devastated him. He left his profession, took to gambling. He drank far too much. Then he fell in with me, and he didn’t live very long after that.” Spike’s anger melted, and he turned back to his lover. “I remember him,” he said. “He was very brave and clever, as I recall.” “Yes,” Angel said. “You’d have liked him.” He took another breath and continued. “Cordy hid the effect a little better, but the pain was unbearable for her. We found out later she was badly addicted to painkillers. It was so bad, she gave away her humanity to relieve it.” This time, Angel did take Spike’s arm, pulled him closer and rested their foreheads together. “Someday, I will tell you everything that happened to her,” Angel said. “But if I’d known what she would have to endure, I’d have sent her away the first time I saw her in L.A. Better for her to be an actress or a bartender waiting for an acting break than what she suffered because of me.” “Not because of you,” Spike said, but Angel shook his head, denying the words. “When the visions came to me,” Angel said, “I thought that was as things should be. I receive them, I deal with them, no one else was involved. Even with our new plan of ignoring the visions, I thought it was best that no one else needed to bear them.” “It wasn’t,” Spike said. “They were killing you, Angel. That airplane flight…” “Spike, listen to me. I promised I would never hurt you again, but since we started together… and don’t mistake me, these months with you have been wonderful, but all I’ve done since Los Angeles is hurt you.” “No,” Spike said firmly. “No, you haven’t.” “I don’t want to hurt anyone I care about,” Angel said. “I don’t want to hurt you.” “Angel,” Spike’s voice was reasonable and calm. “Come over here with me.” He guided Angel towards the bed, though the older vampire resisted. “I need to tell you some things of my own.” They sat side-by-side, and Spike leaned down towards Angel and brushed through his own hair with his fingers. After a few moments, he pulled the hair aside, exposing part of the crown of his head. “Look here, Angel.” Angel looked closely, then ran one finger over the thin, white scar, about two inches long, on Spike’s scalp. “Is it..?” “Yes,” Spike sat up. “That’s where they took out the chip.” Angel’s face darkened. “I’d heard stories,” he said, his voice low and angry. “What did they do to you?” Spike touched Angel’s lips. “Shh. It’s over now. But listen to me. I’m going to tell you about that time. You need to understand.” - - - - - “I had come back to Sunnydale. I had lost the ring of Amarra to you, lost my minions, lost everything. I had one plan: kill the Slayer or die trying. “But before I could do anything, a bunch of soldiers jumped me, stunned me with electric shocks, dragged me off and hit me with something that knocked me out completely. “When I came to, I was trapped, like a lab rat, in a big white box with a glass front. I must have been out a long time, because I was starving. And the light was blinding after a century in darkness. I was frantic to escape. “Another vamp in the cage next to me told me they doped the blood. So when a bag popped through, I pretended to be unconscious and miraculously managed to escape. “But that’s when I found out what they’d done to me. I couldn’t bite, couldn’t feed. I couldn’t even defend myself. If I so much as thought about doing violence, my head began to fill with pain. I fought it, and fought it, but I couldn’t make it stop. “I starved. For days I starved, and finally I went and begged the Slayer to help me. “They chained me up, kept me chained day and night. They fed me, but not enough, and only after they’d humiliated me. And always there was fear, that the soldiers would find me and take me back to that sterile, white hell. “Slowly, by degrees, I got more and more freedom. But freedom only meant I could buy blood with money I didn’t have. I could sleep in the dirt in a stinking crypt, alone. I have to avoid humans. Dogs. I was a target for other demons. “I went crazy, a little at a time. I was so desperate for companionship and in fear for my life, I became a pet for Buffy and her little friends. A lot happened; you’ve heard stories about that, too, but really, it was all madness. “My point is, I endured all of it, Angel. I survived, so I know all about pain so bad you want to pull your own head off. I know about fear that makes you jump at every dry leaf that blows against your door. And I know madness, too, the kind of madness that makes you cry like a child in the dark. “But worse than any of this, worse than all of it put together, was the loneliness. I had no one, do you understand? No one to care if I lived or died. “Now I have these visions, and, yes, they’re painful. I don’t have to tell you that. But I can endure them, I will endure them, if you are here with me. “I would face ten Initiatives, a hundred Slayers, every demon in every hell, if I had you to love me.” - - - - - When Spike finished his tale, he found himself again in Angel’s arms, his face wet with tears he hadn’t realized he’d started to cry. Angel’s eyes were shining, too, and he began to kiss Spike’s hair and face. “You have me,” he was repeating over and over. “You have me.” - - - - - By the time they exited into the suite’s sitting room, their tea was cold, and Gwen had left only crumbs and a note saying she would return in a few hours. The vampires decided to take advantage of her absence with a quick shower, which became somewhat lengthy, before they changed into some of their new clothes. Angel seemed to have decided to play the part of an important American businessman, ignoring Spike’s comments about looking like the chief mourner, while Spike slid into casual-but-elegant slacks and his “Paris” t-shirt. Angel thought he was probably expected to comment on the latter, but in truth he could do no more than grin. When Gwen returned, she found Angel reading the latest Michelin guide for St. Petersburg in the book-of-all-books, and Spike thoughtfully sucking the end of his new fountain pen while his still-blank copybook lay open in his lap. “Ah, the excitement of international travel!” she declared. “How will I endure this frantic pace?” “Nice,” Angel said. “Just kidding,” Gwen said, bouncing down onto a divan. “So, have you two kids made up?” Angel and Spike exchanged looks so charged that even the electric-girl felt the sparks. “Good,” she said, a little breathless. “Glad to hear it.” - - - - - After dark the three walked to the club car, which was decorated like a jazz-age music hall, all black and silver. Even among the jet-setting clientele they created a buzz of interest which Angel fed upon, leading him to enlarge his gestures to dramatic proportions. Oh, yeah, Spike thought, Angelus was, if not in the house, at least hanging around the front sidewalk. Gwen, surprisingly, was very encouraging of the vampires’ relationship, smiling fondly when they touched hands or gazed at one another, and Spike found himself smiling back in grateful friendship. Angel drank a bit more than he was used to, and Spike and Gwen had to half-support him as they walked back through the swaying train cars. Once returned to their bedroom, Spike took shameless advantage of Angel’s giddy and somewhat defenseless state, until both collapsed into sated slumber. - - - - - Spike scribbled a line in his copybook, regarded it a moment, then scratched it out and wrote another. After the fourth repetition of this cycle, he looked up to find he had Angel and Gwen’s full attention. “Listen,” he said to Angel. “You’re older than me, and are a little more studied in vampire traditions than I am…” ”Only in that I heard them and ignored them, while I never bothered telling you at all,” Angel said. “Yeah, well, thanks for that,” Spike said sincerely, “but the point is, I need to know if they ever came up with a word to describe our relationship…” Angel raised one eyebrow, smirking, and Spike stammered, “what I mean is, I say that you’re my Sire…” “When you’re particularly ticked off at me,” Angel muttered. “Er, yeah,” Spike agreed with a strain of annoyance. “But what am I to you? What’s the opposite?” Angel pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know that there’s an official word,” he said. “At least, not that I remember hearing. I think Giles called you my offspring once.” “Spawn would work,” Gwen suggested. “Scion? Progeny? Issue? Brood?” Angel read from the book-of-all-books, now become Roget’s Unabridged Thesaurus. “I’m writing poetry,” Spike said testily. “Not naming a heavy-metal band.” “Hey, here’s a list of names for young animals,” Angel said, turning a page. “How about cub? Or whelp?” Spike stood and headed for the bedroom. “I should have known better than to ask you two philistines,” he shot over his shoulder. “What about fledgling?” Angel called after him. “Shut up!” Spike shouted, and slammed the door. - - - - - But later, after they’d made love, Spike shyly brought the copybook to Angel, turned past the pages of crossed-out lines to where the finished poem was written out in his ornate, Victorian hand. “I decided to go with ‘heir,’” he confessed. - - - - - Spike suffered another round of visions as they approached their destination, would have suffered them completely alone had Angel not come into the bedroom to find Spike had half-choked himself on a pillowcase to keep from crying out. Angel restrained Spike using only his own body, enduring kicks and punches as Spike thrashed, and at last laying on top of him and embracing the rigid limbs. He maintained that position long after Spike seemed to lose consciousness and go limp beneath him, moving only when Spike rasped, “Get off me, you fat sod.” Angel rolled, lifting Spike to rest on him and gently stroking his back and shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you all right?” “Yes. Don’t worry. Did I hurt you?” “No.” He pulled Spike closer and kissed him. “You should have called for me.” “Don’t you understand?” Spike said. “That’s what they *want.* They’re sending these visions as a distraction. We can’t let them distract us, or they’ve won.” “I don’t want you hurt.” “Believe me, I don’t want me hurt, either. But I’m not letting you spend all your time fussing over me.” Spike half-closed his eyes and mentally switched his gears to the seduction setting. “Now kiss me again,” he said. - - - - - The train arrived in St. Petersburg at dusk, and Angel, Spike, and Gwen stepped into the station and began to look for their contact, whose handle was Lukolana. They hadn’t gone far before spotting a young man with broad, Slavic features and longish brown hair tousled artfully around his head. He was wearing long, baggy shorts, macramé sandals, and a faded “Ron Jon” t-shirt. He held a hand-lettered sign that said “Quadrivium Society – Welcome.” Gwen waved to him and he waved back. “Aloha, cousins,” he called out in a thick Russian accent. “You’re Lukolana, I take it,” Gwen said, and the young man grinned proudly. “That’s my Hawaiian name,” he said. “My given name is Ruslan Vlascenko.” Angel frowned. “Your ‘Hawaiian’ name?” “Yes,” Ruslan said. “I am going to move there and become a great surfer.” “Neat,” Spike said. “When will this happen?” “When I can save enough money,” Ruslan admitted. “But I am working very hard,” he added, a bit defensively. “How long until our window for closing the second gateway?” Gwen asked as they began walking, presumably toward Ruslan’s apartment. “Seven days,” Ruslan said. “But the place we need to conduct the ritual is underground, and the passage is blocked with stones. It will take much work to clear the way.” “Are there other members of the Society who can help us?” Angel asked. “A few, but the way to open the passage is treacherous,” Ruslan said. “It is too narrow for heavy equipment, and explosives could damage the supports. The stones must be broken and carried out by hand. We have been digging for months, but there remain many stones that are too heavy to shift, and are badly positioned to hammer apart.” “Which is where we come in,” Angel said. “Da. Exactly,” Ruslan said. “We will meet with them at the site tomorrow night.” They had come to a concrete apartment block, and Ruslan pulled out his keyring. “My flat is on floor nineteen,” he said, leading them through the light-blue linoleum lobby to a plain gray elevator. He reached for the call button, but his hand stopped halfway and he turned away from the group. “What is it?” Angel said, but Ruslan began speaking in Russian as though to someone unseen. “What’s he saying?” Spike asked quietly. Angel frowned. “He’s telling someone her daughter is not here. Saying she needs to go through a golden curtain to see her again.” Ruslan turned back to them. “My apologies,” he said. “There was a ghost that needed my help.” “A ghost?” This was Spike. “Yes,” Ruslan said, hitting the elevator call button. “It is my gift. I can see and speak to the spirits of the dead.” “Impressive,” Angel said. “I suppose,” Ruslan agreed. “Mostly it is like being in a tea house. Talk, talk, talk with nothing important to say.” The elevator door opened and they stepped in, rode up, stepped out. The hallway was dim and smelled of boiled cabbage and piss. From behind the doors came the sounds of blaring TVs, a baby crying, and some kind of mechanical appliance in bad need of repair. Ruslan led them to the very end of the hall, apartment #1956. Stepping in was like stepping into another time and place. The walls were painted a warm sandy color and the floor was covered with canvas mats etched with simple patterns in green and blue. The furniture was wicker and bamboo with flowered cushions, and a yellow and red surfboard hung on one wall. Tropical plants crowded around the windows, and beaded curtains separated the inner rooms, bedroom and kitchen. Pages from magazines were pinned on the walls, scenes of palm trees and blue ocean, and a shelf unit was crammed with surfing magazines, books, and videotapes. “The vampires can have the bedroom,” Ruslan said. “It doesn’t get sunlight there. Gwen, you can sleep on the couch and I will take the floor.” “I’m not making you sleep on the floor,” Gwen protested. “I do it all the time,” Ruslan said. “No, she’s right,” Spike said. “Listen. Angel and I can sleep during the day. You take the bedroom now, and we’ll wake you before the sun comes up.” Ruslan nodded. “Yes, a good idea,” he said. “Let’s have your key, then,” Spike said. “We’ll go acquaint ourselves with your beautiful city. Let’s go, Angel.” Angel looked about to argue, but Spike shot him a pointed look before catching the Russian boy’s keys, and both exited the flat. “What about the visions?” Angel said as they descended in the elevator. “What about them?” Spike replied. “What if a vision hits you while we’re out at a bar or something?” They exited the elevator and crossed the lobby, both casting an uncomfortable glance towards the corner where Ruslan had spoken to the ghost. “What of it?” Spike said. “You’ll be with me, so what’s the big trauma?” “I just don’t want you to be hurt,” Angel said. “Well I’ve got a news-flash for you,” Spike said as they stepped out onto the sidewalk and started towards the town center. “I’m going to get hurt at some point, whether it be the Powers, or demons, or my own stupid luck, and there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it.” He stepped ahead of Angel, walked backwards so he could face him and keep moving. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. I’m not going to let you bundle me up like some China teacup that’s gonna break into a million pieces, because that’s exactly what the fucking Powers want us to do, and I’m not letting anyone control my–” And with a cry he pitched sideways, crumpling against the wall of the building. Angel was beside him in an instant. “I’ll take you back up,” he said. “The hell you will,” Spike gasped, and then another vision washed over him like a wave. - - - - - When awareness came back to him, Spike knew he was resting in Angel’s arms, so he kept his eyes closed and just enjoyed that for a moment. When he opened his eyes, he saw they were in an alleyway between two buildings alongside a trash bin. “Are you all right?” Angel asked anxiously. “I’m fine,” Spike said hoarsely. “Now lets find a nightclub with lots of dark corners where I can have my way with you.” “I have a better idea,” Angel said. - - - - - Twenty minutes later, they were in a tiny private salon at a tea house called Irina’s. The room was but a few feet larger than the table within it, and lit only with oil lanterns. The waitress, at Angel’s request, had brought a fur blanket to lay across Spike’s lap, then a pot of hot tea and cakes with jam. Angel stirred a spoonful of berry jam into his tea, in the Russian style, and Spike followed suit. After a few mouthfuls, Spike’s hands stopped shaking. “Better?” Angel asked, and Spike nodded gratefully. “Good,” Angel said, and he took a big bite of cake. “What did you see?” he asked after a moment, and Spike looked very weary. “I’m not going to tell you,” he said. “I’d rather die than give them the satisfaction.” Angel gave him a hard look, which Spike returned with stubbornness. “I know how hard it is,” Angel said. “And you know how hard I can fight,” Spike returned. Angel regarded him a moment longer, then nodded. “Alright,” he said, and deliberately changed the subject. “What do you think of our host?” “I think somewhere on Waikiki Beach there’s a kid wearing a fur hat and calling himself Nikolai,” Spike said around another sip of tea. “But the talking to ghosts is right creepy, that’s for sure.” “Yeah,” Angel said. “I wonder if he’s one of them who’s channeling Captain Crewe.” And the two of them contemplated that in silence. |