DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon. (Yes, that’s all I’m going to put)

One Last Show

Summary: Set during NFA. After Spike read his poetry, and after Angel sees Connor. Call it an interlude of lost souls.

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Only Implied.

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3rd Person

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Shadows. That’s all the eye could see. Dark night. Pathetic holes in the sky posing as stars. And shadows. Not even the lights of the city could dispel the phantoms. It was appropriate. The mood of the night was somber with a capital S. They all were going to die. In one big final show for the men upstairs, they’d fight. Spike always knew he would die fighting. He did once. Then he came back. There was that little sliver of hope that he would return from the ashes one more time. It was hiding in the back of his mind, like a little spider in a cellar door corner. He just might make it out alive. Really. That Shanshu thing was probably a lie, but it was a comforting one. A chance that he wouldn’t have to leave this place. He was too attached to it, too connected with the City of Angels now. He couldn’t leave it. Call it leftovers from the amulet. Call it Wolfram & Hart. Call it a certain tall, dark, and handsome, but it was all the same. This was his city. And he wasn’t ready to die.

The shadows danced across the freshly-cut grass of the park. The swings were squeaking in the light breeze. The birds flitted around, scavenging for scraps of bread and bags of old, rotting fast food. The sun had just set. Spike had read through all of the poems he could remember. Some of his favorites, and his mother’s. The First had helped him, in a way, deal with his inner demons. The figurative kind. When it came right down to it, he was trying to help her, heal her from her sickness. How was he to know the drastic changes it could bring to a human? He certainly had not changed very much. In the beginning. It was all behind him now. Nothing but happy memories were left. Each line he had read, he remembered days in front of a warm fireplace, sharing a blanket with his mother. He would read to her every night, and every night it would be a different poem. It was as if he never ceased writing.

He also read some that he had written after his death. Yes, William the Bloody had still written poetry. It wasn’t all that different from his typical poems. It mostly centered on the feelings of his new existence, and his lovely dark princess. But there were times when his hand would write without his brain’s consent. Pages would be filled about sunlight and angels, and long carriage rides to far away places. They were some of his best work. He had never known anyone knew about his writing. Angelus had found him one night, though, scribbling away. He had inwardly cringed when the looming vampire picked up the piece of paper. But there was no laughter. For once, someone didn’t laugh. Instead, he had smiled. Angelus had smiled and sat beside him, asking him if he had written anything more. That night was . . . a very happy memory indeed.

Spike had been up on that stage for the better part of two hours. The crowd had loved him. His heart had truly ‘ grown a bulge in it’ by the time he finished. He felt appreciated, wanted, accepted. This was his last stand. His last day, he had finally gotten what he had wanted all along. Maybe some of them would come back next week, hoping to hear more from him. It was a shame they would never see him again. No one would. Unless there was another amulet. Unless the Shanshu wasn’t fake. Unless they won. It didn’t look like they would. It certainly didn’t sound like it. So there would be some disappointed fans. It wasn’t like artists didn’t off themselves on a daily basis. A year from then, no one would remember ever seeing his leather duster and bleached hair.

He sighed as he lit a cigarette. All the kids were gone. There was no laughter, no scrapes or cuts or bruises, and no whining about who poured dirt in who’s hair. It was a park for adults now. The ones that came to think. The ones that came, lurking in the dark, ready to pounce on someone’s wallet. And the ones that were waiting for a one night stand or a sap to force themselves on. Weren’t parks lovely? But there were no screams tonight. It was just him. And the homeless man on the other bench over there, reading the newspaper. But he wasn’t ‘here.’ He was somewhere in his mind, trying to escape his bad luck, his loneliness, and the days he will have to endure from now until he picks himself up off the floor. Spike was alone, indeed.

He took a drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nose. He would have to head back to the apartment soon. That dank, damp cellar of an apartment that Doyle (no, Lindsey) had sent him up with. He would go there and receive instructions on how he would die tonight. He would die tonight. He sighed, letting go of all his false hopes. There was not skirting around it this time. He was going to give his life for some man (some vampire.) But it was a good thing he was doing, wasn’t it? Taking down the Black Thorn. Taking down the Big Bads of the LA underground. Then a face off with Wolfram & Hart baddies, probably. Fly straight into the belly of the beast (or beasts, in this case.) It was going to be one hell of a ride for them all. And they would stick together until the end.

He snuffed the burning stick out on the raw iron railing. Oddly, he felt very calm. Very Zen. Maybe it was all of the poetry. That always brought out the William in him. Spike hung his head back against the dirty wood of the bench. He closed his eyes tight. No images of Victorian England. No images of rotting alleys. No images of shadowed predators. No. Just the comforting blackness of his eyelids. Not even any voices. Just the black and purple lava lamp behind his eyes. The grass shifted. It wasn’t from the breeze. That familiar buzzing in his mind went off, a slight tingling in his neck. He opened his eyes and Angel stared down at him.

“Care to sit?” Surprisingly, the calmness he was feeling didn’t disappear with the other vampire’s appearance. He was shocked that he had shown up. He was angry that he ruined his moment. But, what was there to expect? Of course things never turn out the way you plan them.

Angel sank into the wooden bench next to Spike. Their knees were touching. Neither of them commented on this, nor did either of them move. That’s just the way things were. “Where’d you come from?”

“London, you?” The teasing tone jumped easily off his tongue. He had wanted to have a serious conversation with him, but the words wouldn’t come out. This was their last time alone together. This was to be their last unguarded conversation. He just couldn’t do it. This was the reaction the Brooding One pulled from him. How things have changed.

Angel slumped his shoulders in defeat. He was tired. Tired of this all. Wolfram & Hart. The Fight. And this abomination sitting next to him. Nothing mattered anymore. One last show would take care of them all. One last show that he was the ring leader of, hopefully. He was sending them all to their deaths. But he had given them all a choice. He had given them the chance to leave. They were in this together now. All of them. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew it would come down to just him and Spike. Spike. The first one to raise his hand. The first one to join in this merry band of thieves. The first man he saw that he knew, he just knew he would see eternity with. It seems eternity’s pretty short, after all.

“Heard you saw Nina.” Spike kept the emotion out of his voice. It was better that way.

“Yeah.” Memories of rustling bed sheets, blond hair, and plane tickets raced through his mind. It was like a movie on fast forward.

After a beat, “She any good?”

“I’m not perfectly happy, am I?” The two vampires kept their eyes focused straight ahead.

“Figured you would be, considering all you got lately was Eve.”

Angel shifted himself in the small space he had. It was dark here. With shadows. Memories came easy in the ink. “Too like her.”

“Buffy?”

“Darla.” He could feel Spike tense beside him. They had never gotten along well. She and Penn had loathed his very existence. But they tolerated him. After all, he was family.

“I can see the resemblance. Small, blond, headstrong, a bloody bitch.” So much for keeping his emotions out of things.

“You didn’t know her.”

“Didn’t need to. There was only one thing that ever attracted you women, and that was the Darla inside of them.”

“Buffy was never like her.”

“Small, blond, powerful, and a right bitch at times. You so sure about that? It’s not always about what color hat you wear.”

That statement struck a chord in Angel. “What color are we wearing now?”

“I’m thinkin’ grey with a hint of blood spatter.” For the first time, he turned and mad eye contact with the brooding vampire.

“I saw Connor. My son. He . . . he knows now.” A sad smile broke his stoic face. “And he’s not trying to kill me again. He understands why I did it. He’s living, Spike. He’s living a normal life. We’re not going to live. We’re not going to make it through to see tomorrow. But he will. He’s my redemption. He’s my Shanshu.”

A sigh, like a thought brushing up against a fragile mind. Angel’s hands supported his head. Spike looked on. They were all falling apart, in their own way. And these words between them, that is what kept them going. All of the arguments, the teases, the haunting, everything was a reminder that we still alive. Their squaring off was what kept them both on their toes. It’s what kept them from falling into the shadows. The shadows of evil. The shadows of memory. The shadows of themselves. Now, it all came down to this. This last day. This last night.

“I was in that bar.” He motioned to the small barroom down the street.

“Drinking and trying to find someone?” Angel sat back up and sounded bitter.

“No. Thursday’s are for poetry readings. 4:00 every week.” He couldn’t help but jut his chin out a bit. Angel had expected him to do something childish and useless, on more pathetic attempt at living. He had proved him wrong.

“You . . . went up there?” The surprise was not hidden in his voice or eyes.

Spike smiled smugly. “Yep.”

“And?”

“They apparently are die-hard Barry Manilow fans.”

Angel smiled genuinely. It was his turn to remember that night, decades ago, when he had stumbled upon William’s scribbles. He knew how much of Spike there was in his poetry. He knew all of the emotions in them. He had taken a few pages from him. They had never left his side for those years that he had traveled. All of those years he had mourned and cried, and tried to escape himself. He would never tell anyone, but those poems had kept him going. He had memorized them. If Spike had asked, he would recite his favorite right here and now. It was about an angel. He didn’t have to pretend. He knew who it was about.

“Angel?”

“Yeah, Spike?”

“We really aren’t going to make it, are we?”

“No.”

“Then, I just . . . well, it wouldn’t be fair if . . .” Spike stumbled, struggling for the words that eluded him. He just wanted to give Angel a proper goodbye. A right and proper final farewell. But he couldn’t find the right words.

“Some things don’t have to be said, Spike.” Angel whispered out into the night, into the shadows. No, nothing needed to be said at all.

“Just, I kinds thought I should. You know. I usually do that before I die.”

A look between them stole the words. There was nothing left but ink across paper, crumpled and thrown into their eyes. Words that would never again be spoken. Because they couldn’t. Because they shouldn’t. Because they didn’t need to. There were more important things at hand. There would be time for that later, as they died by each other’s sides. Then, maybe, the words would catch up with them. But, for now, this was all they were allowed.

“We should head back. The team’s probably all assembled.”

“I’ll be there soon enough.”

“Gotta practice your hero speech, then?” He stood up.

Angel nodded and got off the bench as well. He looked down at the ground. Grass. Dark, wet grass. “I’ll be there, Spike. Go.”

“One last thing, mate.” He stepped closer and regarded the hero. He was Atlas, sinking with the weight on his shoulders. He was Adonis, wanted by Love and Death, struggling to spend his time among the hearts and flowers. He was Angel, completely lost and trying to find a way out of the rabbit hole.

Silently he wrapped his arms around him and place his head in the space between his neck of shoulders. He let out a breath when he felt strong arms reciprocate the gesture. “What ever happens, we did the right thing.”

Angel answered by squeezing Spike tighter. Connor was his redemption, but Spike was his conscience, his hope. Things didn’t seem so dark when he was around. But, then again, it could have just been his hair.

Spike silently slipped away, smiling. “We never were the best of friends, were we, Liam?”

“No. Too much blood between us.” He gave a smile of his own before turning and walking towards his car.

Things weren’t going to be alright. Things we going to get a lot uglier, in fact. But that was the job of a Hero. That was what a Champion did. The night would end, the sun would rise, but they would not. This was their last show. Tonight, they would run faster, stretch their arms further, and one final cry —

So the beat goes on. The Fight is never won. The Fight is forever fought, borne ceaselessly into the past as Hope and Redemption fuel the heart of heroes.

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End

How’s that for angst? And yes, I have shamelessly reshapen the ending from The Great Gatsby. I just found so many similarities (in terms of themes and things like that). It just fit right in for this fic. I really hated the way that Angel and Spike never got to ‘bond’ and reconcile their differences. And I hated the Nina thing. :) So I decided to add a little scene, just for me. And you guys, too. After all, you are reading it. Your thoughts and comments are greatly welcomed

. I took a break from Beginnings because I was getting too far ahead of myself. I wanted to write some more angst. And what better angst that the-day-you-die angst:) I did want nice Spike/Angel sex, but I don’t think that it was important to them by this time. It was all about the fight now. It seemed inappropriate to have all theses ‘I love you’s and general mushiness before they died. And notice how long my paragraphs are! Took me back to my “Little Black Book” days. :)

ShinodaBear

PS: Fixed some things.