Empty Choices
i. " you're a fickle little twister
are you sweet on your sister?"
"You're constantly looking for a woman to save you," Illyria growled one day, glaring at Spike.
He looked up at her, as she continued to pace the small apartment they had taken up residence in. "You don't understand how to stand on your own," she spat, walking from the room.
And he didnt. He couldn't argue with the truth.
Angel sat next to him on the ground. "Don't listen to her," he whispered, putting his arm around him, "she doesn't know what it means to need other people."
Every part of him said to move away.
But she was right.
He didn't know how to stand on his own.
ii." and now all the marchers descend from high
i will dedicate all of my awakenings to this"
"Do you think she's ever going to come?" Angel asked one night, as they planned another attack.
They had decided months ago to stop asking questions like, "Will the sun ever come back?", or "Will the enemies ever stop coming?"
They knew they couldn't keep thinking about how things once were, because they were never going to be the same.
But this was different. This had an answer.
Spike shook his head, "I don't even know if Buffy is alive anymore or too busy shagging that boyfriend of hers."
"Do you think she's ever going to come?" Angel asked again, staring at him hard.
They both knew the answer.
"No, she isn't coming."
She wasn't going to save them.
They had enough lies to remember, they didn't need to pretend she would be back.
iii. "your arms full of lullabies, orchids and wine
your memories wrapped within paper and twine"
"Did you and Angel ever..?"
She asked him one night, as she pulled on her clothes, and from her tone, he knew it was a question she had always wanted to ask Angel.
That question rung through his head as Angel reached to undo his belt.
They hadn't before this, not even close.
One time Dru had pleaded for it, and Angel beat her so bad she couldn't walk for most of the week. Spike had imagined it, but could always remember the fury in his eyes as he whipped her.
Now, things were different, and they were both so broken.
"It doesn't mean anything," Angel frowned after, pulling his slacks up, "Don't think too much of it."
Spike nodded, not making eye-contact.
He didn't have to worry. This was what Spike was good at.
He knew how to be someone's mistake.
iv. "darling dear, what have you done?
your hands and face are smeared with blood."
"I want to leave here," Illyria announced one day, "All you both do is alternate between ignoring each other and fucking each other."
Spike cringed at that word, that seemed so foreign coming from her mouth. It sounded harsh and judgemental, but it was also the first time the dance they had be stumbling through was given a name.
They weren't finding peace, they weren't finding solace in each other, they were just fucking to take up the time they would have been thinking about what a failure it all had been.
"Let's leave L.A., find a new battle to fight," Angel agreed, and Spike nodded in agreement.
There was no telling look, or deep conversation.
It just ended.
Both unchanged.