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Author's Chapter Notes:
I will keep adding so please keep reviewing. Spike's POV will become very important as this progresses.
I never realised that Angelus could be funny. His humor has always been dark, centering around torture and how to make a girl’s scream that little bit higher. The supposed ‘art’ of their last gasp was often coupled with some obscene joke and the posing of the body. My soul shudders at it now yet it still remains a morbidly and insidiously interesting. Dru and Darla would either fall in a fit of hysterics over his ideas for a young bird or be cooing at his intellect and ideas. It irked the hell out of me that he had that praise but with Angel being the bloody grandsire and all, I couldn’t say anything.

Besides he made me laugh too.

Now don’t get me wrong, the old sod was a cruel sadistic bastard who I would rather stake than look at, but he did have his moments.

And is certainly far better entertainment than Peaches.

We managed to get Charlie to the hospital before he completely died, the overcast sky acting as perfect cover. Blood was gushing out of the man’s body, thick and heavy like the rain which had fallen when the fight started. Illyria had wandered off after it in order to be alone and mourn the Watcher.

It makes me wonder whether all that talk about Fred being a host is all just a load of bollocks. Her feelings for him certainly aren’t a construction.

Angel unsurprisingly was busy cursing like a bleeding sailor in his Irish accent the entire time. He often would slip into it whenever things became too much. It was Dru’s little game to infuriate him so much that he’d mutter in Gaelic. Being in England for several weeks after my turning, we often ended up in bar fights when some git would punch him and cause his demon to come out. Back in the 1800’s the English hated the Irish with as much bleeding passion as they do now. Angel had laughed it off later but I can see why he tried to have the American accent. It was a method of him hiding from what he’d done when soulless.

The life and energy of Angelus is obvious in the hulking form of my grandsire. A nervous twitch here and there and the low growl could notify a babe that someone is just dying to come out. Peaches is obviously still trying to keep it together but it won’t take long before he snaps.

Right now all he can do to prevent Angelus breaking free is to just sit there.

After depositing Gunn with a severely ‘wigged’ doctor, as the Bit would put it, we wandered rather aimlessly about. If you think the Hellmouth was devoid of anybody besides the odd demon and the potentials then you should’ve really seen LA. The streets were completely empty. The ghostly colours of street lights signaled absolutely no traffic. The slightest murmur of Peaches could be heard for a mile with not another creature around except for the bodies of those who had died.

And that bloody big dragon.

I left the hulking mass of scales and barbaric teeth laying there, wanting to flip the bird at the Senior partners if they were watching. They had sent a creature so large that for a moment I’d been certain Peaches would become its chew toy. I’m not stupid enough to think that we did any real damage to Evil inc. but we won this fight with Angel’s soul relatively intact…

Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Lies never were that much comfort until now.

He’s just started rocking back forth in the last five minutes and I know that another episode is coming on. Supposedly one of us was meant to Shanshu but I haven’t felt anything and neither has he, the poor git. There was an odd sensation of tearing at the chest but it failed to do anything then cause me to feel like I was burning. There was so much death and gore that if I had turned human I wouldn’t have survived. My fangs and a sword were all that kept me from becoming Mr. Big Pile of Dust.

I’m starting to think that Angelus wishes he was.

His demon is becoming stronger somehow, as though the poncier side of him has lost the will to unlive. Blood is refused unless I offer him my wrist and its common knowledge how much I don’t like being bitten. I can tell that Angelus is behind it because of the feral gleam in his eyes. They take on an edge of viciousness that could only come from being forced to tolerate your soul controlling everything. Plus he always enjoyed my suffering. The vamp’s got a twisted hunger for pain.

I pity him though because he never learned to meld the monster and man together. They are always at odds and if not constantly superimposing the other would drive him bug shagging crazy.

My own demon, mixed and interwoven with William doesn’t know how to react to the shift that’s occuring. Half the time my game face is just under the surface, waiting to snarl its dominance and declare that I won’t be his whipping boy. I’d half like the chance to go toe to toe with the tosser except for the fact that he’s so bloody morose.

If Buffy was here she’d be crying over his pathetic melancholy in an instant.

All the blood bags we did had were thrown into a stinking alleyway as soon as he laid eyes on them. The off comment that there wouldn’t be anything human besides his friend around for at least next week was the first time that my suspicions were truly confirmed.

Angel has given up.

Most of the time since then has been spent taking pointers from him and brooding away. The Hyperion is big enough that we can separate and still be close enough to hear the other.

A part of me had wondered during the battle whether she would come. It’s the type of thing that hero types do: charging in at the last second and I wouldn’t put Buffy past rallying an army and saving my sorry hide.

It hurts that she didn’t even bother to call.

Andrew said that she has to live her own life but I didn’t think it would be this empty without her. The absence of Charlie, Fred and the Watcher are starting to eat at me. I guess I really do just copy the poof.

I want to fly to Italy. Just grab Buffy and declare that I love her and always bloody will but it feels hollow somehow. She’s moved on to a relatively normal life, without the need for seventy six bloody trombones and I’d just be intruding.

The other part of me says that I’m just making excuses.

We have electricity running through the house funnily enough and one lone mobile that I managed to salvage before Angel threw it against the wall. He’s fairly anti social at the moment and I had to knock the great poof unconscious in order to save our phone connection.

I barely register the buzz of the evil device as it rattles in my pocket. The front of the phone is labeled with the logo of Wolfram and Hart and I bite back a curse. Best to see who it bleeding well is.

The voice of the watcher nearly makes me fall over I’m so surprised. When he mentions Buffy my words only come out as hysterical yells.

“SHE WHAT!?!”





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