Title: A Past Not Forgotten
Author: angelspike69 & anamcara420
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Summary: It's been 25 years since the events in the alley. Who survived?
Spoilers: There will be some slight spoilers from Not Fade Away, and then it goes totally AU as the screen went black.
Warnings: M/M sex – if this isn't your cup of tea, then don't read.
Disclaimer: Joss created the characters. We're just playing with boys, and having lots of fun.
Distribution: My Perfect Rhyme. If you'd like to archive it, please ask.
Authors' Note #1: Thanks to dragonydreams for answering our request for a beta. You are fantastic.
Authors' Note #2: The flashback sequences in this chapter were written with the help of Buffy World - http://www.buffyworld.com/.
Authors' Note #3: At the end of this chapter, you will find a brief biography for John Atkinson Grimshaw, and a sampling of the paintings we referenced in this chapter. The paintings are quite stunning.
Feedback:
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Chapter 12
Breathing heavily after running out of his apartment and the building, Will stopped for a moment on the front steps to catch his breath. He didn't know what to do, but he knew he couldn't stay in his apartment. He had to get out...had to forget. He looked across the street at Angel's building, wondering what the vampire was up to. Does he remember last night? Does he remember that I helped him home? Do I dare go over there? Demand the answers. Tell him who I am? Shaking his head as if trying to release the troubling questions rattling around wildly, he hurried down the steps and turned right, walking down the sidewalk away from Angel and hopefully away from his disturbing thoughts. He just needed some peace...some respite from the images and the memories. He'd explore the city hoping to block everything but the sights and sounds of one of the most exciting cities in the world.
However, deep in thought and having no luck with blocking the terrifying scenes that kaleidoscoped through his mind, he walked briskly, ignoring the magnificent buildings thrusting themselves heavenward, not knowing or caring where he was going. Occasionally he'd mumble an "excuse me" when he'd bump into someone, but mostly he ignored his surroundings. He shuddered repeatedly and clenched his fists in anger as he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that for all intents and purposes, Angelus had raped him all those years ago. Actually, the sexual assault didn't revolt him so much because Angelus was a soulless demon. It was his thrilling sensual enjoyment that appalled him; it was the fact that the dreamed memories turned him on that disgusted him. What kind of a person did that make me? Did that make him some kind of deviant? Will started. It was an odd phrase for him. He felt that he had heard it somewhere before, but where? He shook his head unable to remember.
Every time the image flashed into his thoughts his dick stiffened! He jammed his hands in his coat pockets and lurched onward desperately trying to control the disconcerting pictures that were invading not only his memories but also his conscious mind. As if mocking his attempt at control, misty images from the past careened into focus. Angelus, Darla, Drusilla, and Spike...him...creating mayhem and committing murder in faraway places. Traveling to Sunnydale to find a cure for Dru; a cure that would drain the life from Angel. A blast of fiery agony that brought him to Los Angeles. To say it was just a jumbled mess was a serious understatement.
Maybe Giles was right, and this was a foolhardy task he had taken on. He'd been having these memories since he was a child, but since he came to New York and made contact with Angel they were coming more frequently and in more detail. Should have listened to Giles. Maybe I should just forget about this and go home...back to London. Try to live my life as a normal human should do. But he knew he couldn't. He knew he had to stay and get answers; answers that he'd been seeking for so long. Somewhere deep within himself, he knew he wasn't the type to turn tail and run when things got difficult or scary or even uncomfortable. He didn't know where that feeling came from. He had sought answers in the watcher's journals and questioned Giles and his parents, but until he decided to come to New York, he had not been so single-minded; so obsessed. From what he'd learned, nothing could deter Spike from what he wanted. Maybe there really was a piece of the vampire buried deep inside him, and he wasn't sure if that didn't scare him more than any answer he might get from Angel.
Will stopped and stared around. He was quite a ways from his apartment. He looked at his watch and saw that he's been walking for about two hours. He was cold and hungry. He crossed the street when he saw a coffee shop. He went inside and came back out with a large cup of coffee and a bagel. He crossed the street again and found a bench in a small park. He thanked God that because of the cold, it was deserted; not even the vagrants braved the weather. He just needed a quiet place to gather his thoughts and decide what he should do now.
He was having some success in relaxing, enjoying his coffee when he was hit with another memory. His body jerked and he dropped the bagel, sloshing some hot coffee onto his hand.
It was pouring down rain in the middle of the night somewhere in the city...in New York! Two people were fighting on the paved walkway in a park. It was a pretty rough fight. Spike, punked out with safety pins on his clothing, fought an African-American woman in a long black leather duster. Unexpectedly, she sent him tumbling.
Exhilarated, he stood, "Well, all right. Got the moves, don't you? I'm gonna ride you hard before I put you away, luv."
"You sure about that? You actually look a little wet and limp to me. And I ain't your 'luv'."
She kicked Spike and they began their battle ballet again. The vampire overpowered the slayer, pushing her to the ground and straddling her, bashing her repeatedly in the face. She grabbed Spike's arm and kicked him off of her. She punched Spike, but this time, he grabbed her arm and twisted it around so that he could almost bite her neck.
Suddenly, a trash can fell over. Startled, Spike, turned to see what happened. The slayer seized the moment, and head-butted Spike, freeing herself from his grip. She then elbowed him, punched him, and knocked him down. He kept his eyes on her and jumped up quickly. He saw she had a stake in her hands and he prepared himself for the attack. Her rain drenched face was fierce and she threw it surely at his heart. He deftly caught it between his palms only inches in front of his chest.
He grinned, "I spent a long time trying to track you down. Don't want the dance to end so soon, do you, Nikki? The music's just starting, isn't it?" He tossed the stake back toward her, and it landed on the pavement. Spike started to walk away, but then swung around on a lamp post, staring at her. "By the way...love the coat." He added as he jumped down from the stone wall and disappeared.
Will shook his head as the memory faded. He stood and glanced around as he rubbed his slightly burned hand. I have to stop these images. I'll wind up in some loony bin. As he bent to pick up the bagel, a taxi pulled up to the curb in front of him and disgorged its passengers. Will hurriedly tossed the remains of his ill-fated breakfast into a trash can, hurried toward it and jumped inside.
The driver turned to look at him expectantly and Will realized he hadn't thought of a destination. "Um...um...the museum." He stammered.
The cabbie looked at him incredulously. "We got a lotta museums. Which one?"
Embarrassed, Will thought quickly. "Ah...the Metropolitan...that's it. The Met."
The cabbie shook his head, flicked the metal flag on the mileage box and filtered the car into the traffic.
Will clasped the car door and watched in amazement as the driver expertly maneuvered through the mass of honking vehicles, which all seemed determined to cram themselves into the mere inches between each other. Finally, the cab screeched to a halt at a curb. Will paid the man and stepped out in front of the massive structure of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He paid his fee, got his map, and began his journey, hoping that the beauty of the art and the serenity of the museum would soothe his troubled mind.
A faint image of Angelus sketching flickered into his thoughts but he forced it away and began to explore the museum with no definite destination. He wandered through the galleries of Egyptian, Greek and Roman art, happy that the wonder of the ancient artifacts overwhelmed any other thoughts. When his stomach began to grumble, he realized that he hadn't eaten all day. He searched his map and headed for the Petrie Court Café. He ordered a cup of tea and a ham and cheese Panini, although he finished only half. After lunch he rode the elevator and without paying attention to his direction, got off, determined to forget everything as he continued to bask in the magnificence of the masterpieces. He entered a room and turned to look at the first painting. His heart stopped as he gazed at the dimly lit scene. A vague shape of a woman stood at the opening of a stone fence that surrounded a manor house. Leafless trees pierced the dreary winter sky as the moon struggled to shine its light through the heavy cloud cover. He knew this! How did he know this! Will glanced at the printed card next to the picture – The Figure at the Gate by Atkinson Grimshaw, 1881. Oh God! Grimshaw. As if pulled by unseen hands, Will stepped to the next painting, a gray moonlit sky reflected in murky water as a woman peered over the stone wall lit by streetlamps blurred by the fog. He read the card – Reflections on the Thames, 1880. Images from his past began their painful dance in his mind once again. He turned away from the paintings and walked by rote to a bench and sat down. His blue eyes had a mind of their own and gazed around the gallery. They were all by Grimshaw...John. The blood red, opaque tint of The Haunted House; the dusky grey gloom and stark outlines of ships in Nightfall down the Thames; the bleak, stormy, cloud-filled sky above the raging ocean that tossed a burning fishing boat onto the shale... In Peril!
Will closed his eyes and remembered. London...a party...Angelus introduced him to a man, an artist, John Atkinson Grimshaw. Thin face. Deep dark eyes. Quiet voice. Angelus drew the man aside, away from everyone. Spike followed and listened in awe as the artist and his sire talked about art. Spike could tell the man was touched by Angelus' praise and interest. Angelus stiffened suddenly, angered at the interruption of a woman, the hostess, who drew the artist away. Later, Angelus sought the woman, charmed her into joining him on the terrace, and drained her. He demanded that Spike drag her body into the bushes while he returned to the party to thank the host and bid the artist goodnight.
The next evening Spike dared to interrupt Angelus while he was sketching to ask him about the artist. The older vampire was not angered and began to talk to him about art and Grimshaw in particular. "He paints a world of reflections and shadows, pale moonlight filtering through clouds, barely touching the earth, the last rays of the evening sun swallowed by the darkness. He paints the world that we see...the darkened, concealed world of vampires."
Spike was shocked into silence. Angelus was seldom so articulate, so patient with his answers. One evening shortly after, Angelus received a message and left the house. He stayed away several days much to Darla's fury. When he returned, Darla took him into her room. Spike heard the vicious cracks of her whip and her angry screams. He did not hear Angelus' voice. As soon as evening fell, the evil bitch took Drusilla to visit the Master. Angelus had still not appeared. Spike dared to knock on the bedroom door. "Angelus...Sire..." When the older vampire didn't answer, Spike turned the knob and entered the room. In the shadows, he saw the coverlet covering a mound and walked toward the bed, calling the vampire's name. "Angelus?"
"I'm here, boy. I'm here." Angelus whispered.
Spike hurriedly lit the candle on the dresser by the door. He could see Angelus' long hair splayed messily on the pillow. The older vampire was lying face down. Spike walked around the bed and held the candle closer. Despite a day of healing, Angelus' face was still mottled with bruises. Spike dared to lift the cover and gasped. The larger vampire was sprawled naked on his stomach. His back was marred with deep wounds still oozing blood. Spike placed the candle on the bedside table and ran from the room. He raced outside and quickly found a young woman who had stayed out too late and was hurrying home. He grabbed her, dragged her into an alley and slammed her into the wall, knocking her unconscious. He carried her back to their house and up to the bedroom. He placed her gently on the bed next to Angelus.
"Drink, Sire."
Angelus opened his eyes and stared at Spike, startled. He groaned as he drew his damaged body close to the young woman's. He gave Spike a nod of gratitude and began to drink. Spike sat in a chair and watched. When Angelus was sated, Spike lifted the body from the bed and carried it downstairs for the minions to dispose of. He returned to the bedroom where Angelus had fallen asleep and sat beside the bed, watching the wounds slowly close as the blood healed the vampire.
Will drew himself from his memories. Even though they were of Spike and Angelus, these were not terrifying...they were...tender, which oddly unsettled him more. He stood abruptly and strolled around the gallery, determined to see every painting in the retrospective of the Victorian painters. No other images pierced his thoughts and he left the museum. He glanced up, remembering that the Met was adjacent to Central Park. He crossed the street and slowly walked a little ways on the pathway, trying to fill his mind with the beauty of nature, despite the barren branches and bitter cold, but peace eluded him. After a while, he left the park and walked until increasingly heavy snowflakes forced him to enter the subway.
Will hurried down the steps and jumped aboard a car just as the doors began to close. As he glanced around he saw only one other person; a young African American woman who wore a black leather coat. As the train lurched out of the station, images of another encounter crashed into his mind. Spike was in the punk version he had seen earlier. White hair gelled into stiff peaks, he was dressed in faded jeans and shirtless; his bare chest partially covered by a black vest pierced haphazardly with safety pins. But this time he was battling the young black woman in a fast moving subway train. They traded vicious punches and the woman matched the vampire blow for blow. Spike broke off a metal pole and twirled it through his fingers like a baton. He smacked the slayer with the pole but she caught it and slammed it back into his face. Spike fell to the floor and the young woman knelt above him, bashing his face repeatedly. Suddenly the lights went out. When they came back on, Spike was on top of her, his hands clasped tightly around her throat. He grasped her head between his hands and twisted violently. Her neck broken, the slayer died!
Will closed his eyes and trembled at the horror of the scene. When another image flashed fiercely into his mind, he gasped out loud. Spike took her coat! She was wearing a black leather duster and the vampire took it. That's where he got the coat he always wore. His trademark. The coat that Angel kept and held so reverently was like the duster Spike stole from the slayer after he murdered her!
Will looked down at himself, his stomach roiling in disgust. He wore a black leather duster! He had found it when he was eighteen. Something had intrigued him about the coat when he saw it in a shop window and he bought it, much to his mother's dismay. Tears sprung to his eyes and his heart beat loudly in his chest. He was Spike! He was a murderous vampire!
He jumped up when the train stopped
and ran
out of the door and up into
the cold, snowy street. He looked around and realized he was just
a few blocks
from his apartment. Dark had fallen and the wind had picked up,
swirling the
flakes into his face, chilling him. He hurried along, wanting to
run but
unwilling to draw too much attention. He saw
As he entered the shadowy park, he checked his pockets. He began to carry a stake when he was a teenager after he started to read the watcher's journals. The habit stuck. He kept both hands in his pockets as he peered into the night darkened park, but one fist clasped a hidden wooden stake tightly. He didn't walk far before a figure sprang from behind a tree. It was young vampire, looking barely out of his teens, but with the smirking bravado of the ancient creature it was. Without comment, it flung itself at Will, its cold hands reaching immediately for his throat. Will stood there, eerily calm, as the vampire's hands tightened. He didn't attempt to fight him...he had no fight left. An image of another time suddenly flashed into his mind. A young man sat on a bale of hay in an alley. He was crying pitifully. A stunning young woman, pale and dark-haired approached him. He thought her a pickpocket at first, but she was not. He stood and walked slowly toward her as she sauntered sensually closer. Drusilla! The dark beauty that often haunted his dreams. She reached for the collar of his shirt. "I see what you want. Something glowing and glistening. Something...effulgent." William was stunned...finally someone who really understood him. "Effulgent." He repeated. "Do you want it?" She asked. William quickly decided that he had never wanted anything more. "Oh, yes!" A sudden rush of daring filled him and he reached out with a trembling hand and touched her chest. "God, yes."
William watched intently as Drusilla glanced down for a moment. When she looked up, her face had changed. Ridges replaced the flawless skin of her forehead and fangs descended from her luscious mouth. William just stared transfixed...more confused than afraid. She pressed her body wantonly to his and pulled back his shirt collar. She leaned closer and buried and her fangs into his neck. His cries of pain quickly turned into moans of pleasure as Drusilla ended his human existence.
Will's mind tumbled out of its reverie when he felt the sharp tips of the vampire's fangs at his neck, in the same spot where Drusilla took William many years ago. Amazed at his self-control, Will brought his stake-filled hand out of his coat pocket and thrust the end into the vampire's chest. His voice quivered a bit but he spoke with determination. "Not again...I'm not a stupid sod...I'm good. I'm not evil..."
A look of horror replaced the predatory smirk and the vampire disappeared into a cloud of dust and snowflakes. Will stood still, unmoving as he stared at the dusted flakes. "I'm William Tate, not Spike. I'm not a murderous, blood-sucking vampire." He rasped harshly through gritted teeth to the pile of ash at his feet.
He dropped the stake and calmly removed his leather duster, allowing it to fall onto the snow covered path. He turned and walked out of the park, arms wrapped around his body as he tried to keep warm in the bitter cold of the night. His irrational tranquility dissipated and he began to tremble violently as he walked, his eyes alert for any movement. No other beast or human approached him and he arrived unmolested at his apartment building. Shivering with cold and other emotions he could not name, he strode through the doors into the safety of his building.
TBC
Artist Bio
John Atkinson Grimshaw (1836-1893)
Very little is known about the
self-taught
artist who was born in Leeds,
These are the paintings mentioned in Chapter 12 of A Past Not Forgotten.
The Figure at the Gate, 1881
Reflections on the Thames, 1880
The Haunted House, 1874
Nightfall Down the Thames, 1880
In Peril, 1879