Title: Aeternitas
Author: AbbyCadabra
Posted: 03-15-2002
Email:
Rating: R (for violence)
Category: AU
Content: C/A, C/S friendship
Summary: Up to Sleep Tight but skipping Birthday.
Spoilers:
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution:
Notes: Cordelia is an Immortal and the story is set about 209 year in the future. I don't know much about Immortals, so I'm just sort of making it up as I go along and using what I've heard about them.
Feedback: This is just sort of an experimentation fic. If I get good feedback, I'll continue. But, you guys, if this sucks, let me know so I won't keep writing. Flashbacks in italics and vision is bold.
Thanks/Dedication:Part 1
They lie together, intertwined. A beautiful, timeless vine twisted over, under and between a rustic and just as enduring fence of barbwire, contentedly just being. He’s lying beside her with his arm placed firmly over her waist, and every time she exhales she can feel his calloused fingertips brush against her smooth abdomen. It’s a cold embrace—it’s not like he’s got body heat or anything—that leaves her feeling warm within.
His beautiful face is nestled in her hair, and she can feel the soft tendrils graze the back of her neck every time he breathes. He doesn’t have to breathe, but he does it anyway. Why? She has no idea. To inhale her scent? To feel mortal? Because he hasn’t learned how not to yet? She decided that she would ask him someday.
Her gaze shifted from her fingertips on the white satin sheets to the dark drapes that block out the setting sun. She’s become a nocturnal of sorts, a creature of the night. Not by necessity of course—Immortals have human’s bodies—but by choice. When you’re out slaying the evils of the night with your very own used-to-be evil of the night, why not just give up the day?
They’re not lovers, the two of them. In the beginning they hardly even talked. It was more like, ‘Listen, you save my ass, I save your ass. And if you don’t save my ass, I stake yours. Got it?’ That’s how she refers to it, anyway.
What they have now though, it’s beyond lovers; too good to be tainted with something as trivial as sex. He understands this, of course, but suggestive comments still seem to find their way to the surface with him. It’s a habit that he hasn’t—or ever will, she’s concluded—break. He’s Spike and always will be Spike, and she lets him.
Cordelia held Spike a good foot above the pavement below by the lapels of his leather duster and the only thought running rampant across his mind being: When’d she get this damn strong?
“Spike?” Her brows were furrowed in confusion and she searched his face for something that would verify, for sure, who or what he was.
Spike rolled his eyes and then said, “Nice to see you too, cheerleader.”
She knew it was Spike. Who else would have the audacity to roll their eyes at an Immortal with strength to match his own and an enormous broad sword at his neck? She looked him up and down; for what, she wasn’t sure at the time. Most likely a weapon.
“You like what you see, love?”
Cordelia narrowed her eyes at Spike, “Shut up.” She released him and he examined his jacket for any damage.
“If you broke it, love, you bought—“
“What are you doing here?” she interrupted, sheathing her sword.
Spike pulled a cigarette from his inside coat pocket and stuck it between his lips while he searched for his lighter. Cordelia sighed pointedly and when Spike continued to pat his pockets for the lighter, she pulled the cigarette from his mouth and threw it to the ground, stomping on it.
“Hey you little chit! That was my last one. You’re buying me another pack.”
“What are you doing here, Spike?”
“What? A vampire can’t pay a visit to his own family?”
Cordelia’s eyes darkened to match the moonless sky above. She quickly turned away from the blonde vampire and walked away from him and the filth of the alley, towards the street.
“He’s gone,” she called over her shoulder, coldly.
But Spike would be damned—wait a second—if she thought she would get away with a half-assed answer like that.
He ran to catch up with her, calling out, “What do you mean Peaches is gone? Peaches can’t just leave—“
Spike hastily stopped when he felt cold, sharp metal digging into his neck and saw the precarious gleam in Cordelia’s eyes. Who’d of thought it. William the Bloody afraid of a little, sword-toting ex-cheerleader. Will wonders ever cease?
“If Angel can’t just leave,” each word was brusque, sharp, and Spike wondered if the pain he felt was from the sword or her words, “Then why the hell isn’t he here?”
His hair is still that horrid peroxide blonde it was 230 years ago. Apparently the Billy Idol phase was more that just a phase. His body, much like his accent and personality, is unchanged. He’s as lean and lethal as the day after he was turned. She has, however, dulled many of his more extreme edges. The chip, for example. He’s soulless, chipless, and saving the world. He drinks pig’s blood now, much like another vampire she knew once upon a time.
She tries not to think about that other vampire anymore. Hasn’t even said his name since that first night she met up with Spike. The story was told only once to one person. And, thankfully, Spike never asked again and she never told. Some things are just off limits and they know that.
She’s finding it extremely annoying the way the past has been creeping up on her more and more. She used to be able to go decades without thinking of Angel, but now it seems that wherever she goes, she finds some sort of reminder of him. Anything as miniscule as hair gel will give rise to a memory that was buried deep inside with all the other painful memories she tried to forget. She’s found herself thinking increasingly of the past, like tonight, and is not at all pleased with it. Like she said, the past is in the past and she has no intention whatsoever of dragging it out of her attic, dusting it off, and setting it atop her mantle. She’d burn it, given the chance.
“Stop thinking and go to sleep, love,” a groggy accented voice said to her through her hair. A smile moved across her lips: he’s awake.
“But the sun’s already set.”
He mumbled something unintelligible about something bloody into her hair and pulled her closer, her slight smile changing to a broad grin.
Cordelia detached his iron grip from her waist and sat up. He moaned in disagreement at the movement and peeked at her through one slightly open eye.
He’s fully aware that she’s always the first to wake and that he can never persuade her to sleep in, but he still asks, “Sundays are for sleeping in, love.”
She hops off the bed—230 years can certainly change ones opinion about “morning” time—and loudly calls out, “Lights!” Every light in the master bedroom is immediately illuminated. Spike groaned loudly, pulling the sheets above his head.
Cordelia smiled at his reaction, it was something she still hadn’t gotten tired of. As she walked past him she exclaimed, “It’s Wednesday, Spike.”
More incoherent grumbling, muffled by the pillow placed over his head, was his answer. She pulled open the door to their adjacent bathroom and stepped inside. She summoned the lights once again with a loud holler that earned her more grousing from the sleepy vampire. With a smirk still firmly in place on her lips, she slid open the glass doors of the shower stall and turned the hot water knob all the way on.
She closed the stall’s door halfway and made her way to the vanity, untying her ponytail on the way. After pulling the small hair band from her hair, Cordelia placed it onto the counter, next to her hairbrush and hair spray.
She lifted her head to look into the mirror for the first time—hoping, expecting, searching—and scrutinized herself. Two hundred and thirty years old and not a wrinkle to show for it. No part of her escaped this daily investigation. Her skin, hair, eyes, and body are each carefully examined. A futile effort, she knows, but that doesn’t put a halt to the daily inspection.
She’ll scan her body over and over in the mirror until the shower steam clouds her looking glass, preventing her from any more probing.
She leaned forward, with her elbows on the countertop, and peered straight into the hazel eyes staring back at her in the mirror. She always started with the eyes, hoping that one day there would be something else reflecting there besides age. Today’s not that day, though.
Cordelia roughly scrubbed her face with the palms of her hands in frustration. Aforementioned hands went straight from her face to gripping the edge of the countertop. She screwed her eyes shut and concentrated on the pain her white-knuckled grip was shooting through her hands and arms.
Her grasp on the marble vanity resided; the pain worsened briefly when she flexed her hands but quickly eased as she worked the tight muscles. She let out a deep sigh, exhaling her frustration and disappointment.
Cordelia’s gaze slowly traveled up the steam-coated mirror to her blurred image. She fiercely wiped at the steam that covered her reflection and began her inspection over again. As she leaned forward though, she was hit with a clear and vivid memory. A memory of Angel.
Cordelia’s elbows rested awkwardly on the countertop of Angel’s bathroom vanity. She cleverly discovered a way to avoid his toiletries that were arranged in order from largest to smallest. Angel was undoubtedly the most anal-retentive vampire she had ever met.
She pulled the skin around her eyes taunt, clearing away the heavy bags under her eyes. She shut her eyes and when she looked back into the mirror, a beautiful baby boy was floating towards her. Conner arms were outstretched and there were thin grooves in the material of his t-shirt, looking suspiciously like fingers, under his arms. The look on Conner’s face was jovial as he sang out to his Aunty Cordy in his own charming, baby gurgle way. His stout little legs kicked out beneath him as he tried to clap his hands together.
Cordelia’s face lit up at the sight of her mini-champion dancing towards her on thin air in the reflection of the mirror.
She stood up straight and grinned like a maniac at little Conner’s reflection, “Now that is the cutest thing I have ever seen.”
She turned around to see Angel, his strong hands under Conner’s arms, smiling at her. A smile that he saves just for her and his son, it seems, that holds nothing of his happiness back. For one brief fleeting moment she’s almost alarmed at his bright smile, the purity of it. But the thought was quickly smothered by her happiness as Angel took another step towards her.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was tentative, a bit hesitant. Perhaps because it was third night in a row she had spent with him—in his bed—and he didn’t know how to talk during ‘the morning after.’
“Hey,” Cordelia said, suddenly all too aware of his state of dress. He wore nothing but black silk boxers that hung below his waist. She blushed slightly and turned back to the mirror awkwardly. She fumbled over things to say in her mind and could feel Angel’s eyes on her. Since when was she so nervous around him?
“What are you doing?” he asked
“Nothing. Just… looking.” She gazed down at the vanity where his toiletries lay and motioned to them with her hands. “But it was a little difficult with your many hair products and facial scrubs in my way.”
Angel shifted his eyes from Cordelia to the items she mentioned. He silently padded over to the countertop, his bare feet making a small, curious noise as he went.
“Well, half of them are yours. Besides,” he tipped over the tall bottle of Paul Mitchell Hair Sculpting Lotion and let it roll off the counter to the floor, “you could always just move it.”
She had to laugh out loud. Angel, letting something fall over and not immediately pick it up and put it back in its rightful place: too funny.
A mischievous smile played on Angel’s lips. “What?”
“You.” Cordelia smiled broadly, “Purposely putting something out of place and just leaving it there.”
Angel looked from her to the thirty-dollar bottle of hair lotion that rolled around on the tile floor and came to a rest against his left foot, and then back to Cordelia. His hand flinched slightly in a natural urge to pick it up, but he resisted the inclination.
Cordelia’s smile turned into a knowing grin as she said, “I give you five minutes before you crumble and put it back where it was.”
Angel’s smirk faltered and then grew bigger, “You’re on.”
Cordelia nodded and turned back to the mirror. She waited until she heard Angel’s retreating footsteps until she knocked all the hair and facial products on the counter to the floor with one swift swoop of her arm. There was a thunderous clamor that sounded when the toiletries hit the tiled floor in unison.
“Oopsies,” Cordelia called out. She leaned forward on the counter again, patiently waiting for Angel to come running. Thankfully she didn’t have to wait long.
He was at the door in an instant, yammering: “Cordy? Are you OK? What—“
His eyes spotted the mess of Cordelia’s hair lotions, exfoliating scrubs, overnight masks, and blow dryer amidst his own toothbrush and comb. Angel looked back to Cordelia’s innocent eyes, mouth agape.
She shrugged, granted him a mega-watt smile, and then turned back to the mirror, where his smiling eyes weren’t reflected.
Loud, strident knocking pulled Cordelia from her stupor. She shook her head, as if trying to discern where she was. Her eyes were unfocused; she couldn’t concentrate on anything. More thunderous pounding on door.
“Cordelia!” Spike yelled for her through the door of the bathroom. “Cordelia!” He never called her by her name, it was always ‘love’ or ‘pet,’ she dumbly registered through her daze.
“I’m breaking down the door, Cordelia. Get away from the door,” he shouted to her slowly, making sure she heard and understood what was happening.
Without thinking it, her body moved away from the doorway and slumped against the scorching-hot glass doors of the shower stall. There was one last wallop against the door as it flew off its hinges and the tall blonde figure of Spike rushed into the steam filled bathroom.
Spike frantically looked around the spacious lavatory, trying to see through the thick, hot air. The small room was bathed in warm, sticky steam that instantly made him break into a sweat. More of the searing steam was billowing over the glass doors of the shower stall. He looked into the shower for the Immortal, but spotted her form huddled against the shower stall.
He hurried over to her and, without a thought, swept her into his arms and carried her from the blazing bathroom. He gently sat her on the bed and wiped her sweat-coated hair from her forehead and cheeks with his hands. He attempted to pull her soggy tank top and pants off of her. He fumbled with the drawstring of her loose cotton pants but Cordelia stopped him, grabbing his hands with hers. She ran his hands over her bare arms and then cupped her flushed face with them. His cold touch felt wonderful against her scorching skin.
“Bloody hell, love.” he said softly. “Are you trying to give me heart attack?” They both chuckled slightly at that. “Yeah,” he continued, “I guess it wouldn’t really matter, eh?”
They were both suddenly aware at how loud the running shower was. It pounded mercilessly against the antique marble of the shower stall. Each falling drop reverberated loudly though the lavatory, piercing Cordelia like needles.
“I’ll be right back, pet. Stay here,” Spike said and retreated to turn it off.
She took the time to clear her thoughts and gather herself. She wiped furiously at her sweating brown and twisted her dark shoulder length hair away from her face. She took long, deep breaths and shook out her hands, as if they were her mind and by doing so would dispose of the confusion.
Spike emerged from the dense steam in the bathroom, still clad in only his boxers, and took a seat on the bed next to her. He didn’t talk, never did until she was ready. Just being there helped her more than false, comforting words ever would. He wrapped his deceptively strong arms around her and held her sweltering body to his cold one. She accepted the embrace and quickly molded to the familiar body of the vampire. They stayed like that for a while, just comforting and being comforted.
After her swarming thoughts were collected, separated, and chronologically ordered she gradually peeled her body from Spike’s. Cordelia smiled sheepishly and dodged Spike’s quizzical stare. Her hazel eyes roamed the bedroom, over the rumpled bed, the goose down comforter that was strewn across the cherry colored hardwood floor, her ancient and invaluable Persian rug, to her dresser where her precious perfumes sat in small crystal cases, and finally landing on her twisted and somewhat trembling hands.
“What’s wrong, love?” He placed his hands over hers. “You’re shaking,” he realized. “You never shake.”
Cordelia breathed deeply and shook her head, “I don’t know.” She met his steady gaze, “I really have no idea.”
Spike’s blue eyes darkened as a thought struck him like a freight train. There was only one person who could have this kind of affect on Cordelia Chase. “Is it Ang—“
Spike’s inquiry was cut off by the loud crash that derived from the first floor of their New York City penthouse. Both Immortal and vampire were on their feet in a split second. Cordelia reached for her sword as Spike moved cautiously towards the door of their bedroom that stood ajar. With sword in hand, Cordelia rushed to catch up with Spike who was already descending the staircase.
He turned on her, aggravated. “What are you doing?” he whispered fiercely.
She motioned towards the training room, where the clanking of metal could be heard. “I’m not letting you go in there by yourself.”
“You shouldn’t be—“ Spike winced as what sounded like an extremely large and heavy metal object hit floor.
Cordelia quirked an eye brow at him, as if to say, ‘You were saying?’
She and Spike were engaged in a glaring contest. More clatter could be heard and then the sound of glass shattering. Cordelia broke the stare, looking past Spike’s blonde head to the wide open door of their training room.
“Well, I’m not just going to stand here while he trashes our weapons and training equipment,” she said as she shoved past the vampire.
Spike reached out to her, briefly grabbing hold of her forearm. “Pet, don’t—“ he began to protest.
Cordelia swiveled her head, glowering, and put her index finger to her lips, “Shh!” Spike glowered right back at her, but released her arm.
She crept towards the room the intruder was demolishing, that shattering of glass and the clanging of metal on metal still very much audible. The hairs on her neck unexpectedly stood on end and a tingling feeling ran down her spine and throughout her body. She stopped dead in her tracks, holding her breath.
Spike rammed directly into her still form, “Bloody hell, love. Make up your mind already! First you’re running to meet our little visitor, then—“ Spike abruptly stopped his barrage of complaints when he noticed Cordelia’s tense body and the white-knuckled grip of her sword.
His demeanor stiffened as well. A familiar dread began to brew at the base of his spine, and he quietly asked her, “Immortal?”
Cordelia nodded, never taking her eyes off the doorway to the training room. She stopped just outside the room, leaning against the wall and breathing deeply. The ruckus from within stopped, presumably because he felt another Immortal near.
She held her sword out in front of her, forming a right angle with the blade and her arm. She was still trembling. Not a good sign. Cordelia sighed again and then pushed herself from the wall and turned into the wrecked training room.
There stood a pathetic excuse for an Immortal. He wore his hair long and shaggy, the style of the time, and his leather pants didn’t fit the way leather should fit to a body. He looked young, and not just in appearance. His eyes still held the flippant arrogance so common with young and new Immortals. The fact alone that he had come into her house, seeking her out, and destroyed her training room and weapons cabinet spoke volumes of his intelligence. This just wasn’t the way the Game was supposed to be played.
He eyed her up, obviously liking what he saw. The young Immortal leered at her and suggestively smirked. “Cordelia Chase, right?”
She nodded, non-chalantly twirling her sword like it was a baton. “The one and only, Sparky.”
His eyes flickered with confusion, followed promptly by anger, “Name’s Slash.”
Cordelia sniggered and rolled her eyes despite herself. “Slash? No, I like Sparky better, Sparky.”
“He knows the rules, right?” Slash looked at Spike, addressing him, “No interfering.”
“He knows,” Cordelia answered for him.
She risked a quick glance at Spike. He was rigidly leaning against the wall, pleading with his eyes for her not to taunt the young Immortal.
She ignored his stare and focused on her opponent, who was still sneering at her.
He swung his sword over his head offhandedly and his smirk grew wider, “Angel sends his love from Los Angeles.”
The mention of Angel caught Cordelia so off guard she almost dropped her weapon. The younger Immortal took the advantage and charged her, burying his foot deep in her abdomen and throwing her backwards into the wall.
He cornered her, encasing Cordelia between the wall and his body. There was no pause in between his attacks as he alternated between brutally punching Cordelia’s face and kicking her huddled body.
“It’s time,” he said between punches to her face, “It’s time.” Kicking her now, “The Game is now.”
Spike’s growls were so loud and threatening that the attacking Immortal actually paused his assault upon Cordelia to glance at him, which was a monumental mistake. With one movement of her leg, Cordelia swept her opponent’s feet out from under him, sending him crashing down to the blue mat underfoot.
She leapt up, sword in hand, and said to the fallen Immortal lying on his back, his green eyes wide with shock and fright, “There can only be one, Sparky.” With that she cleanly separated the younger Immortal’s head from his body. His was the most recent kill in a long line of kills. A line that was too long and too never-ending for her to ever contemplate counting.
Cordelia slumped to her knees and leaned forward with her palms on the floor, waiting for her Quickening. It hit with the same intensity as always. There was a loud crack of thunder; followed by the bolt of lightning that struck her with such force it pulled her battered body off the ground.
And then it was over and she was in Spike’s arms. He stroked her hair in silence, trying to calm her quivering, recovering body. He didn’t bother with sweet reassurances and comforting words that, in the end, are never true and always amount to nothing.
Never ending nothingness. That was her life.
--
A dull rumble of muddled voices, all conversing on the same subject, filled the large conference room in England. A prestigious group of twenty-five Council members sat around a long, narrow table made of solid red wood—a currently extinct tree. The Watcher’s Council was in an absolute tizzy over recent occurrences from all over the world, all concerning Immortals and one particular vampire with a soul.
The room was blanketed by a sudden hush as the head of the Council, one Rupert Giles V, entered though a back door and took a seat at the head of the meeting. A collective gaze of Watchers and Council members focused on the middle-aged man.
Rupert cleared his throat and then spoke commandingly, “Let’s just start at point A, shall we?” He continued on without an answer, “The End Game of the Immortals. It’s happening now. Mr. Hunter?”
Rupert turned his attention to the short, stocky man near the center of the table.
“Yes, sir,” he answered. “The End Game is now in motion.”
“And they will all be lead where?” Rupert’s blue eyes were icy and serious, a far cry from his usual laughing and cheerful gaze.
“Los Angeles, I believe.”
“You believe?”
Mr. Hunter swallowed down the enormous lump in his throat, “The Immortals will congregate in Los Angeles for the End Game, Mr. Giles.”
Rupert nodded his approval and remained collected, despite the flip-flops his stomach was performing. “Now for our next apocalyptic dilemma and everybody’s favorite souled vampire,” he searched the round table of uptight suits for his colleague and good friend. With aggravation clouding his eyes he asked the others, “Has anyone seen Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?”
Just then a disheveled and tired looking Samuel Wyndam-Pryce burst through the double doors of the conference room. His arms were overflowing with ancient, dusty scrolls and pages upon pages of translations.
“Terribly, terribly sorry, Rup—erm, I mean Mr. Giles,” Samuel said as he dumped the contents of his arms onto the symposium table.
Rupert smiled at his friend’s clumsy actions. “Quite all right, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. What news do you have for us?”
Samuel lifted his eyes to meet the Head Council’s firm gaze. Rupert’s smile faltered and then vanished at the researcher’s grim expression. “What is it?” Rupert asked in a voice that sounded deceptively self-assured.
“I think it’s the end of the world, sir.”
Part 2
The corrupted thoughts and vile memories of the Immortal whose head Cordelia had just claimed, poured into her mind and seemed to bounce off the walls in an intoxicated ricochet. Flashes of scenes of the young Immortal’s life played behind her eyelids in a nonsensical order.
A scene from his childhood, a pencil-drawn sketch—in a very familiar style—of herself, his first death, his most recent Quickening: it all danced across her mind so quick she couldn’t make sense out of any of it. A dark alley, a “Welcome to Los Angeles” freeway sign, a sketch book with every single page dedicated to Cordelia, a leather duster hanging on the back of a chair, the face of vampire—Angel!
Spike rubbed Cordelia’s back in a slow, circular motion. He was looking straight at her, directly into her hazel eyes. She was looking at him, but he knew it wasn’t his face she saw. He couldn’t possibly imagine what Cordelia saw when all of the other Immortal’s memories and thoughts were transferred into her own brain. Didn’t have any earthly idea how she separated her own past from the other Immortal’s, and furthermore, divided that Immortal’s memories from the memories of the other Immortals’ heads she had taken in the past. It got confusing to him after a while.
There was a small gust of perfume-permeated air and a blur of colors as the small back Spike was gently caressing turned into the back of one long leg. The vampire suddenly found himself staring at a curvaceous hip in the place of Cordelia’s blank stare. His startled gaze slowly traveled up Cordelia’s lean body to her face. She still wore the same blank expression.
AngelAngelAngelAngel. Cordelia tried to pull that memory back to the forefront. She struggled, attempting to shove her way backwards through the bombardment of images. Back to Angel.
Spike stood up and grasped Cordelia’s shoulders. “Pet?” he asked. Her eyes were blank, a common occurrence after the Quickening, and she seemed to stare right though him; didn’t register that he was standing directly in front of her. Her brows creased with concentration, an action that didn’t at all mesh with her vacant eyes. Spike was becoming alarmed. ‘What Ifs’ were racing through his mind.
Cordelia blinked rapidly. She looked around the wrecked and chaotic training room slowly, her eyes roaming over every broken piece of glass and shard of metal.
It was always easy for Spike to recognize the moment when the intrusion upon Cordelia’s mind was over. It was almost as if her soul flowed back into those empty, bleak eyes and gave them life again. Was that blank stare what the eyes of soulless vampire looked like?
Cordelia continued to look around the room erratically and Spike was growing increasingly worried. She had never acted this way after a Quickening. He reached out and gently grasped her hand with his own.
Cordelia’s wondering gaze raced to meet his. Her beautiful eyes were brimming with unshed tears and determination.
“Angel,” she whispered.
--
Rupert Giles V only stared at Samuel. He was too dumbstruck to form whole thoughts, let alone say something that wouldn’t have come out, ‘Huh?’
The Head Council’s steady gaze was unnerving Samuel Wyndam-Pryce, but he didn’t dare look away.
“The end of the world, you say?” an Irish accented voice spoke up from beside Samuel.
“Now,” an American woman said before Samuel could reply, “are we talking about the ‘end of the world’ that happens every other week? Or the END end of the world?”
Rupert finally broke his stare away from Samuel and collapsed into his chair. He leaned on one elbow and rubbed his chin in thought.
Samuel’s gaze shifted from Rupert to the woman. He pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose with one finger and said, “Well, unless a miracle pulls through, we’re looking at the END end of the world.”
The voice of every council member seated at the symposium table erupted at once. What had been a dead silence in the room was transformed into a competition for who could speak the loudest and the quickest.
“Activate every slayer!” “Get the government involved!” “Postpone the Game and have the Immortals fight!”
Rupert rubbed his temples in exasperation. “Quiet,” he said without looking up.
“I’m telling you: the slayers!” “Damn it, you fool. Listen to me!” “A portal could be opened…” The muddled roar of pleading and yelling continued; grew louder even.
Rupert shot up from his expensive leather chair at the head of the table and pounded his fist on the hard wood. “Shut up!” he bellowed.
A surprised hush instantly fell over the Council. Rupert ran a hand through his hair, musing his impeccably gelled and styled hair. Some members of the Council even gasped at the informal action.
“Samuel,” Rupert said, asking with his eyes for further explanation.
“Right, sir,” Samuel said. He shuffled through the mound of scrolls in front of him and pulled out what looked like the dirtiest and longest of all the other scrolls.
“This is the Aeternitas Scroll, which is Latin for ‘eternity.’ We learned of its existence only five days ago. The previous keeper of the scroll met a rather… unfortunate end,” Samuel looked to Rupert who only nodded his head, “and, fortunately for us though, the scroll came into our possession.”
He unrolled the scroll and laid it flat on the table, “Now, since it’s written in Latin, one can assume that it’s not antediluvian or from another dimension. Hence, the quick translation—“
Rupert cleared his throat, interrupting his friend. “What does it say, Samuel?”
“I was getting to that, Mr. Giles. But to understand this,” he motioned to the Aeternitas Scroll, “we need to understand something else first,” said the researcher.
Samuel seized the smallest scroll of all the others and slowly unrolled it, “This is the Scroll of Whiljean. It was written around the time of the first Immortal, some five thousand years ago in Sumeranian. It is believed to be something akin to an Immortal’s Bible. It tells of the first Immortal and explains what Immortals are and their purpose on this earth: the End Game. It also explains that when the End Game is over, and there is one Immortal left, that he or she shall be the savior of mankind. End the coming apocalypse, the very one that is currently threatening us all.
“Until now it was thought to be a complete and accurate prophecy. When in actuality, this scroll is merely a small, translated excerpt from another more ancient and much more forthcoming scroll.”
Samuel set down the Whiljean Scroll and walked over the portion of the table where the Aeternitas scroll was laid out. “But this scroll,” he brushed it lightly with his fingertips, “This is a translation of the exact same scroll the Whiljean was extracted from, only complete.” He paused at the collective gasp that came from many of the Council members.
“Get on with it already!” said an anxious man who sat near the far end of the table, besides Rupert.
Samuel sighed, “The two scrolls are conflicting. The Whiljean Scroll refers to the last Immortal as a savior, but according to the Aeternitas Scroll, the last Immortal will not save mankind, but destroy it. He or she will not end the approaching apocalypse, but in fact create the threat.”
“So it’s really, to speak hypothetically, one person’s word against another’s,” said the same man who sat next to Rupert Giles.
“Hypothetically, yes. However, considering that the Aerternitas Scroll is more current and extensive, it is more reliable,” said Samuel.
“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, when dealing with ancient scrolls, nothing is reliable.”
Samuel sighed, “I see what you’re saying but—“
“But nothing can be certain,” interrupted Rupert. Lines of concentration were deeply etched onto his face. “And where does the vampire with a soul fit into all of this?”
--
“Angel, are you awake?” Cordelia asked, poking the sleeping vampire that was beside her in bed.
“No,” Angel groaned.
“Angel,” she whispered fiercely, pinching the skin on his back.
With vampire speed, the head of brown hair she was gazing at transformed into a matching set of eyes. Eyes that shown with tender aggravation.
“What?”
“We need to talk,” she said.
His brow creased and the sleepiness in his eyes cleared, concern coming to the forefront. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she shook her head a little.
“Is it important?” He reached out and began caressing her bare arm. Cordelia closed her eyes and enjoyed the long gentle strokes that made her mind flutter. “Cordy?”
“Hmm?” She asked through a wide smile.
“The thing you want to talk about, is it important?”
Her eyes slowly opened. “Well, not really… I mean, yes. No. I mean… How about we just talk and then you decide whether or not it’s important? OK,” she answered without waiting for his reply.
Angel closed his eyes and pulled her closer, enjoying the way her body felt against his. She leaned her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around his large frame. He placed a soft kiss on her hair and said, “So what are we talking about?”
“Do you think about it a lot?” Her voice was so soft, almost as if she was afraid to ask, that he had to strain to hear her.
“Think about what?” His voice was a low rumble in his chest and Cordelia took pleasure in the soft vibrations every time he spoke.
“Your shanshu.”
Angel’s eyes suddenly popped open and he cringed his neck, trying to see her face. “What do you mean?”
She sighed and burrowed further into his embrace, her eyes drifting closed. “You know, when do you think it will happen? What will you do once you’re all humany?” She yawned. “Who will be with you?”
He laid his head back down on the pillow and smiled, “In a very long time. Go to the beach and wear flannel. If not you, then nobody.”
“What kind of,” another yawn, “Answers are those? Ever hear of elaboration?”
He chuckled and Cordelia bobbed up and down with his chest, making her smile through her sleep induced haze.
Angel stared at the white ceiling over his bed. “Well, it’s not supposed to happen for a very long time. I’ve still got to end apocalypses and such. Have you heard of any big upcoming apocalypses?”
He felt her shake her head ‘no.’ “Me neither. But I it’s not like the big bads would be sending me telegrams saying, ‘Hey, we’re about to end the world. Just thought you might like to know so you can stop us. Have a nice day.’” Angel smiled. He was sounding more and more like her every day.
“What would I do? Hmm… I would take you and Conner to the beach everyday, where I would work on my tan. I plan never to be pale once I shanshu. I’ll wear lots of flannel, like you suggested and always have the top down on the GTX. And I will probably eat everything in sight.” He smiled ruefully, “But all that’s a long way off.
“And I might not even make it there if you aren’t with me, Cordy. I just—I can’t,” he swallowed down the enormous lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, “I don’t think I could go on without you. You’re my, and this is going to sound really corny, but you are my sunshine. See? I told you it was corny. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Cordy, you are—you’re just… everything. I love you more than you could ever—“
Angel was interrupted by a loud, unceremonious snort. He lifted his head to look at the beautiful woman lying on his chest and saw that she was asleep—and snoring. Loudly. He laughed quietly and dropped his head back down onto his pillow.
“Here I am, bearing my soul to you, and you go and fall asleep.” He began to tenderly stroke her soft hair, “And I thought you were the one who wanted to talk.”
At the name of his grandsire Spike staggered backwards somewhat, as if he’d been struck. “Angel?” he asked.
Cordelia looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “What?”
“Angel,” Spike repeated.
“What about him?”
“You just said his name.”
Cordelia broke her eyes from Spike’s, all of a sudden extremely interested in the mess on the floor. She was indecisive and confused in every way possible. So many things were racing across her brain that she wasn’t sure which thoughts were hers.
But there was one emotion coming through loud and clear: a tingling in her spine and a deep sense of something. Something.
Cordelia’s eyes darted back to Spike’s, “We have to go to L.A. Tonight.”
Spike jaw literally dropped, “What?”
“L.A. Tonight.” Cordelia said as she walked around him. She was at the door when a cold, firm hand clamped down on her wrist and she was drug back into the trashed training room.
“What do you mean we have to go to L.A. tonight? Why? Is it Peaches?” Spike looked at her in a way he hadn’t in centuries: callously.
She automatically shook her head before a real answer had formed in her mind. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I just have a feeling.”
Spike released her wrist and let out a laugh that was half exasperation, half amusement. He tilted his head back and said to himself, “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Cordelia crossed her arms, “Look, Spike, you don’t have to go. Stay here, come along, I don’t care. I’m leaving tonight with or without you.”
He looked back at her, shook his head, and then unexpectedly reached out and roughly grabbed her shoulder, holding nothing of his supernatural strength back. “Get it together, ducks!”
Cordelia grimaced at the pain that Spike was inflicting. “Let go, Spike.”
He continued on as if he hadn’t even heard her, “You’re talking crazy. You just need to calm down and breath.”
She tried to shrug off his powerful grip, but his hands stayed firmly fastened to her shoulders. “You’re hurting me,” she said softly.
Spike only continued with his tirade, “We’re not going to fly to Los Angeles just so that you can meet up with the Poof—“
“You’re hurting me, Spike!” Cordelia yelled. She violently shoved him off of her and into the wall, cracking the plaster.
Spike stared at her, mouth agape. He saw the forming bruises on her arms and shoulders and came back to his senses. His eyes flooded with guilt, “I’m so sorry, love. I didn’t mean—“
“This is not about Angel,” she said, not interested in any of Spike’s worthless apologies. “I don’t need you to come with me, Spike. Stay here.”
With that she turned her back on him and walked out of their demolished training room with her head held high. Spike lowered his head, an action that he was quite familiar with nowadays, and studied his calloused hands. The hands that had done so much damage to so many.
It was well into the second week Spike had spent in L.A. and he was still living at the Hyperion with Cordelia. She didn’t ask him to leave, so he had stayed. And truth be told, he wanted to stay as long as she would allow.
For one of the Poof’s former residences, there was no trace of his existence at all. The place smelled only of Cordelia and Lysol. Nothing else. No one else. He knew that there used to be a “Fang Gang”—what a bloody stupid name, he thought—but there was no evidence of anybody but Cordelia having ever lived here. And the curiosity was killing him.
Spike plucked his pack of cigarettes from the coffee table his feet were propped up on. He placed one in his mouth, removed his lighter from his pants pocket, and lit the cigarette. He took one drag, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back, preparing to blow the smoke in the air when a strong hand clamped over his mouth, forcing him to swallow the foul smoke. His eyes darted open to reveal a frowning Cordelia hovering above him.
“Smoking is against the rules, Spike.”
She removed her hands and Spike doubled over, coughing. “You bint! What the hell is your problem?”
“Smoking is not allowed,” Cordelia stated calmly.
“There’s nobody here!” he called after her as she retreated into the kitchen.
“I’m here,” she called over her shoulder.
Spike stood up and followed her; the steam was almost rising from his ears. “What—are you permanently PMSing now that Peaches walked out on you or something?”
She immediately turned around to face him. There was a fire in her eyes that he could tell she was trying to restrain.
“That’s none of your business,” she said. It took all of her effort not to shout those words and throw his filthy carcass into the sunlight.
“Like hell it isn’t! You walk around here with an enormous, Peaches-shaped stick up your arse.”
Cordelia’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were ablaze with anger, and then suddenly it all subsided. She was the cool and collected Cordelia she had been five minutes ago.
She smiled slightly and shook her head, “I know what you’re trying to do, Spike. And it’s not going to work.”
Spike was taken by surprise at her change in demeanor, but didn’t flinch in the slightest. “You need to get it out into the open and get the hell over it!”
Cordelia stood her ground, calm and relaxed. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched Spike rant and rave.
“Is it Buffy?” Line firmly established.
Cordelia stiffened and her eyes hardened, and her change in demeanor was not lost on Spike. Her eyes filled with tears that she just wasn’t willing the shed.
“Peaches just couldn’t love you as much as the Slayer?” Line now crossed.
Her whole body physically slumped, wearing the everlasting weight of runner up to Buffy. Spike met her gaze and immediately stopped his frantic pacing. She held his stare, captured it really, and he thought he was actually feeling physical pain from the anguish he saw in her eyes. The anguish he put there.
Cordelia slowly shook her head, a single tear slipping from a corner of her eye. “It’s not Buffy.”
He knew she was telling him the truth. Could feel it infecting his skin, seeping into his bones, through the motionless blood in his veins, and shooting into his useless heart.
She wiped away the stray tear running down her jawbone and walked past Spike, towards the stairs that would lead to her room.
The guilt hit Spike like a train wreck and he called out to her, “Wait, love. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that—“
“Goodnight, Spike,” Cordelia choked out through the tumbling tears she wouldn’t let him see. Would never let him see.
Spike stood up, his weight still leaning against the fractured wall. He collected his thoughts and tried coming up with words—with apologies. He ambled out of the training room, avoiding the broken pieces of glass and jagged shards of metal without even thinking of it.
He climbed the stairs and went to the doorway of their bedroom where he paused. He listened to the small, constant beating of her heart, so fragile it seemed, and let it calm his nerves. He sighed, bowed his head, and stepped into the room. He didn’t go all the way in, just leaned against the threshold.
There was an open suitcase sitting on the bed. Spike approached the bed and peered into the black piece of luggage. There was nothing in there, save for her expensive panties and bras, the small slips of silk, satin, and lace of all different colors that he was very fond of by now. He brushed his fingertips over a black silk bra. She had a thing for black silk, he knew.
For an instant he wondered what it would be like to feel Cordelia beneath this scrap of silk. He lifted the bra in the air, holding it up by a strap with his index finger.
“You can borrow it if you like.”
Spike whirled around to face the closet. There stood Cordelia with an armful of her clothes.
He promptly dropped the bra as if it had burned him. He fumbled with his hands, not knowing what to do with them. For some reason, that was completely escaping him at the moment, he waved at her, “Hi there.”
Cordelia sniggered.
Spike frowned and motioned to the suitcase in a manly way and said, in an overly deep voice, “I was just,” he cleared his throat, “seeing if there were… any holes in it.”
Cordelia nodded, her brow furrowed, feigning seriousness. After a moment she lost all composure and burst into laughter. Spike just looked at her for a moment before a grin slid over his own lips and he shook his head in amusement.
“You know where my suitcase is, love?”
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