DISCLAIMER"characters are not mine, they belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the W. B, UPN and FOX, blablabla. I'm only having a little fun with them. This story belongs to me, and which I have no commercial purpose". Author's babling: Well, this is the last chapter. I hope you like it, and please forgive my english! Thank you for reading!
Today, private library in W&H. LA , USA. (Angel's POV)
You've been at least one hour in front of the elegant doors of the library; you don't dare to enter. You know that Spike is on the other side of the door, lying on the leather couch, surrounded by exquisitely ancients books. Listening to your music, drinking your whisky. At first, when you passed by and smelled him, you were going to Kick him out of there. But then you heard him muttering some sad poetry, and his voice sounded so dejected that you just stayed frozen with your hand on the knob of the door. Something bothered him then, because suddenly he changed his posture, throw in a bad way the book on the table and shortly after that he got up to turn the radio on. Too much silence, you guess. Your Childe never liked the solitude or the silence, because in the complete silence is when your ghosts can be heard, whispering words that you don't want to hear, dusting off memories that you would rather keep in oblivion. God, you thought for a moment, don't let him touch my vinyls. But he didn't, he just placed with the tune, until he found a station of old hits and refilled his glass of whisky.
You sigh sadly. Not even you know how he can be there, with the enormous wooden bookshelves, the familiar smell of ink and ancient paper, aftertaste of dust asleep in your throat. How can he hide in there, with that memorie lurking in every corner. Maybe that is why Spike moves again in his sit. You can visualize him perfectly; a leg on one of the arms of the sofa, the other painfully resting on the delicate carved table, head slightly tilted, avid eyes on the book. You want to open the doors and take him out of there. But now it is not because he's in the library without your permission. Now you just want to protect, save him from himself, from his past, to save him from what you did to him so long ago, in a place too similar to this. And you don't understand it. This obsession to come back, to hold on to the bad memories, relive the pain. Spike loves to poke that wound, preventing it to heal. Perhaps, you thinks, it is only that his wound is still open, bleeding since then. Maybe that is what shines in the bottom of his eyes, the mystery of his body. But, how do you save him from that? If you cant even open the door of the library. If every time you have him before you, your blood boils and you barely can control the desire to hit him against the wall. The need to stake him on the chest; to kiss him until the next Apocalypse.
A guitar slips into the room, random deep, dark and dense notes swirling in the air. You think you recognize the song, but you're not sure. Who if seems to recognize it is Spike, because you can feel how your Childe stands and turn up the volume.
"No one knows what it's like to be the bad man, to be the sad man behind blue eyes"
The verse steals Spike's breath, as if it was too much effort, as if the smallest of movement hurt him badly. You don't understand it but you can smell his sudden desperation, the cry that it is breaking him inside, as a mirror against the force of your fist.
"No one knows what it's like to be hated To be fated to telling only lies"
It is too much, you cannot stand it any longer; the pain that emanates from Spike is unbearable, and no one deserves so much suffering. So without thinking about it too much you turn the door knob, and it opens heavily. Spike is facing the window, oblivious to everything, lost in the dark.
" But my dreams they aren't as empty As my conscience seems to be…"
The voice keeps singing bitterly, followed by the sad guitar chords, and a bass player that sometimes assumes too much prominence. You save the distance that separates you from Spike, and without saying a word, you embrace him, kissing his hair. He melts into your arms, sighing at the contact with your body. As if he had been sore and your skin would calm the pain. When Daltrey declares that:
"I have hours, only lonely My love is vengeance that's never free"
You have already kissed Spike's lips. You lick the silent tears that are running down his cheeks, stroking gently the body that trembles against yours, like a beautiful violin in your hands. Because only you know what he's really hiding, what has always been hidden behind these blue eyes: the poet with the most beautiful soul that will ever exist.