***VERY ANGSTY PART - BE WARNED***

TITLE: Body and Soul - Part Two - Chapter 1
AUTHOR: Lysia
EMAIL: cricket818uk@wadnitt.fsnet.co.uk
FEEDBACK: Is essential. I can't write without knowing I'm getting it
right and constructive criticism is noted and used.
RATING: 12, for violence.
WARNING: Angst, depression. Light S/A comfort-type romance.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of them, but I'll give them back to Joss
when I've finished with them.
SPOILERS: Set sometime after 'Forever'.
ARCHIVING: Here. Anywhere else, just ask.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sequel to 'The Curse', in which Spike is cursed with a
soul. Here he disappears into a pit of depression and Angel has to
get him out of it.

Chapter 1 - Angel's POV

I should never have left him alone. Oh God, what have I done?

I thought it would help him come to grips with his feelings and the
events of the day. My bothering him seemed to upset him, so I made
him comfortable and left him to his own devices. He would cheer up
eventually. He must be so hungry - how could he not feed when I
placed the cup of blood in his hands? I thought it would make him
feel better. He could get back on his feet and sort everything out,
snap out of the trance-like state he's been in since that ill-fated
attack on Skull's home.

I think I've just made things worse. And to think I stopped him from
staying with Giles or Xander in case they did just that.

I'll never forget the sight of him when I walked into his room. My
usually nocturnal sleeping patterns had been disrupted by our
daylight raid and it was still the middle of the day when I awoke. I
thought Spike would still be asleep, so I was not surprised when I
received no answer upon knocking on his door. I opened it a crack and
peered through, finding him dressed and sitting on the edge of his
bed. I uttered some simple greeting and walked in, expecting him to
look up or respond - just do something to show he was better after a
feed and a good night's sleep.

But as I stood there waiting for him to respond I noticed that he had
not woken up and dressed himself.

He hadn't moved since I sat him in that exact same spot the night
before. The blood, now congealed and smelling foul, was still in his
hands, tilted and dripping onto the floor.

A string of horrified obscenities fell from my lips as I rushed to
his side. I rescued the dripping cup from his hands and dropped it
into the bin. I waved my hand in front of his eyes to get his
attention; I shouted his name; I shook him violently.

His only response is to move away, as if trying to ignore my
efforts to bring him back. His dull lifeless eyes stare frantically
about the place, trying desperately to focus on a spot where my
waving hands won't get in the way.

After over an hour of trying to snap him out of it I have finally
given up. I'm just sitting beside him, cradling him in my arms, his
head resting against my shoulder. I stroke his hair and whisper to
him that it would be alright, as if he actually looks upset. He
doesn't. He just looks dead.

I don't know if he can hear me. If he could then I hope I might have
helped sooth any worries he had, anything that might have put him
under this spell of misery and made him retreat into his own mind
like this.

"Spike, please come back," I hear myself mumble over and over, my
words echoing in my head as if I'm listening to them on some radio
with bad reception. This can't be happening - not to Spike; not to my
cocky sarcastic Childe.

I stay with him for hours. We just sit there. Him not noticing
anything, and me pacing, wringing my hands, thinking desperately for
some solution.

Every time I came back to this one simple premise: I should never
have left him alone. Until then, he had something to hold onto, some
way of staying focussed on reality - voices, movement. Then I left
him alone in this room with nothing - complete sensory deprivation -
and he just lost his grip on the world and let himself slip away.

It's my fault. Perhaps if I'd stayed with him, talked to him, forced
him to open up to me and let his emotions out, he wouldn't be like
this.

But dwelling on the 'ifs' and the 'maybes' won't help him. I'm
sitting here now, staring at him across the room. He hasn't moved. He
wouldn't, would he? And I have no reason to move him. What am I going
to do with him? I don't know how to care for catatonic vampires. To
think I used to complain about his energetic and wilful nature. What
I would give now to have him leap at me in a playful fight and send
me crashing into the wall, getting my bearings just in time to see
him run off calling me a poofter. What do I have to do to bring him
back?

My eyes fall upon the wheelchair in the corner. I never did move it
like I promised. I should do that now, not that he'll notice.

Perhaps it's some instinct that makes you solve smaller problems when
you can't solve the big ones. I can't bring Spike back to reality, so
I get rid of that chair he hated so much, hoping he'll appreciate the
gesture.

I wheel it out onto the landing and look at it distastefully. It
couldn't have been too comfortable for him, and I know he hated it as
much as he hated the way I... the way Angelus tormented him while he
was crippled. I can still remember the cruel nicknames I had for him
then, how I stole Drusilla away from him - not only taking away his
girlfriend but also the one person who took care of him. I am ashamed
to recall how I knocked him over, leaving him on the floor, unable to
walk or crawl back to his room.

I hope I can make it up to him now by looking after him when he needs
me most. First I'll get rid of this wheelchair - this tangle of metal
and plastic not so much an aid to his recovery from his horrific
injuries as a mocking instrument of torture to a once-powerful
vampire.

The window at the end of the landing is open and the courtyard is a
good thirty feet below. I pick the wheelchair up and fling it from
the window, hearing the satisfying crash as it smashes on the
concrete. Spike will never have to look at it again and recall how
helpless he was, and I will never be reminded of how I hurt him when
he needed me most.

A glance down at the scattered remains of the chair brings a bitter
smile to my face. I turn, part of me hoping that, through some
miracle, I have done the one thing that would bring Spike back and he
will be standing outside his room, a cheerful grin on his face
thanking me for what I've done.

But the landing is empty. Spike is, without a doubt, still sitting on
his bed, staring unseeing at the wall. Some pathetic hopefulness
urges me to check, and I return to the room. He hasn't moved. I never
expected him to.

"The wheelchair's gone, Spike," I tell him, wondering if he can even
hear me or if he just chooses to ignore me. "I'm sorry I forgot to
move it last night - I was just worried about you, you know. And... I
know it doesn't matter as much now... but I'm sorry about what I did
when you couldn't walk. That must have been difficult enough for you
without some bastard kicking the crap out of you and making your life
a misery, so you should know that I am sorry, and..."

I fall silent. What could my apologies mean to him now? It's not what
I did in the past that's made him like this - it's the pain he feels
for what's happened in the past few days. All the 'sorrys' in the
world aren't going to make his troubles go away.

The morning is broken up by phone calls. I don't leave the house - I
don't even leave Spike's room other than to feed myself and offer him
blood in the hopes that hunger will drive him to take it, but he
doesn't. The shame and disgust he must feel about having to drink the
blood of another creature to stay alive - to get that blissful
feeling of power and life it gives you - must be stronger than what
survival instinct he has left.

I sit beside him as I take a call from Cordelia asking about Buffy. I
am barely conscious of her words, but I notice that fact that her
usual chirpy and chatty demeanour has dulled to a soft inquisition
regarding Buffy's condition.

"The arrow was poisoned," I tell her quietly, still focussed on
Spike. I see him flinch at the mention of Buffy's injury, but he
makes no other movement. "It might take her longer than usual to
recover, even with her healing. We don't know how long it'll be
before she regains her full Slayer strength."

"Okay," I hear Cordelia sigh, weary and disappointed. "Let us know if
you hear anything else about her, or what this phase two deal is
about. And how's Spike now? He seemed pretty shaken when we left that
creepy house. Is he alright?"

I don't know what made me say it. Perhaps I couldn't face explaining
the situation when I was still devastated, or perhaps I didn't even
want to admit it myself. "He's fine. A little shaken, but he'll be
okay."

I'm still pondering my words as we exchange closing greetings. The
phone beeps loudly as I hang up, but Spike doesn't even look up from
the spot on the skirting board he seems to be staring at so avidly. I
wave my hand in front of his eyes, and he moves away to stare at the
wall.

An hour or so later the phone rings again. I reluctantly answer it.
As I do so, I note how unusual it is for me to speak on the phone
with someone else here, but I can't bring myself to leave Spike's
side, instinct calling to me, telling me that as long as I am not
resting or finding food I must help and protect my vulnerable Childe.
Either that or part of me has admitted that he just can't hear me.

"Angel, it's Willow," the voice on the phone tells me, enthusiastic
and a little nervous. "I thought you should know, Buffy's been let
out of the hospital. I've brought her home and me and Dawn are taking
care of her. She's still affected by the poison and she's probably
going to be not-so-good for a few days, but hopefully it won't be
longer than a week, which is good because we'll need her help for
this 'phase two' or whatever Skull has planned."

Oh brilliant, I think, recalling Skull's adamant instruction that 
we be present for the next part of his plan. We really don't need
another battle now of all times.

"What I don't get," Willow continues, "is how he thinks he can get us
all there. I mean, we're not likely to walk into a trap when we know
he's going to be there."

"My guess is he'll kill civilians," I reply flatly, removing Spike's
arm from his side and holding his hand. "He... knows we won't leave...
innocent people to... die."

My voice falters as Spike moves, very slightly, twisting his hand out
of my grip.

"I just hope Buffy's back to full Slayer strength by then," Willow
sighs. I can imagine her sitting beside Buffy, watching over her with
concern, much like I am doing with Spike. Willow's next words jolt me
back to reality.

"How's Spike?"

I lie to her as well. "He's a little out of it," I say, declining to
mention the seriousness of his condition. "He won't talk to me, he
won't feed. But I'm expecting him to open up any time now." I don't
know if I'm trying to reassure Willow or myself. I can't tell her how
he truly is - how my neglecting him last night made him retreat into
his mind.

"Well, tell him Willow says to perk up," Willow announces, her worry
for Spike evident in her voice. "Buffy's going to be okay, so he
mustn't get all gloomy about her. Can you phone around to your
friends and tell them about Buffy? I'm kinda beat and I've still got
to contact Giles and Anya."

"I'll call my LA team," I say quietly, wondering if there is anyone 
I can tell about Spike, but telling someone would be admitting to
others that I failed him just as Giles and Xander did when he was
cursed. We couldn't help him, none of us. I'm his Sire - I know him
better than anyone - and I made him worse. Oh God, what have I done?

"Okay," I hear Willow say. "I can tell you've got a lot on your mind.
I'll leave you to help Spike." She gives some parting greeting and I
hang up without word.

I contact my friends and, as if in a daze, inform them of Buffy's
steady recovery. I listen to Cordelia's relieved "Thank God!" and
Wesley's quiet "Splendid!" while Gunn plans the second attack on
Skull as payback for hurting one of our friends. Hearing their voices
seems so homely and comforting, almost making me forget about the
catatonic vampire sitting opposite me on his bed.

I'm so tired. Grief over Spike's condition has drained me of all
energy and joy. Nothing can penetrate the cloud of misery that
surrounds me.

Several hours have passed and I should still be sleeping. I haven't
done anything except make occasional phone calls and watch Spike and
talk to him, desperately hoping he might snap out of his trance. I'm
tired, and I ache from sitting on the uncomfortable wooden chair in
the corner of the room or hunching over on the side of the bed with
my face resting on my hands. I don't want to leave Spike again - not
that he can get any worse - but I'm so exhausted I don't have a
choice.

"Um... Spike?" I ask nervously, wondering if he can even hear me. "I'm
going to go back to bed now. You'll be alright in here on your own,
right?"

Perhaps I should see if Spike can get some sleep too. Tentatively, I
turn him on the bed and lay him down, arranging him so he looks
somewhere near comfortable. He looks too flat, like a corpse laid out
in a coffin rather than someone sleeping. I consider moving him a
little, maybe tilting him on his side or resting one hand under his
head, but that just seems so strange. As if he's a sculpture, not a
person.

I leave him as he is and remove his boots, dropping them onto the
floor beside him.

"Your shoes are by the bed," I tell him, as if he's going to be
searching for them in the morning. Who knows, he might be better by
then.

Sighing at my own stupid optimism, I pull the sheets and blankets
over him. His head and shoulders are sticking out at the top, those
sad eyes staring at the ceiling. I close them, hoping to aid his
sleep, and am surprised when he opens them again. I try again and he
repeats the reaction, this time inhaling sharply through his nose.

I should get some sleep. "Goodnight Spike," I murmur, putting my hand
to the side of his face. He flinches away from me, his eyes still
staring at the ceiling. Perhaps it's a good thing that he responds
the way he does, moving away when I touch him. At least I know he's
still aware of his surroundings and what happens, but a nagging worry
in the back of my mind tells me that if he tries to escape contact
then my attempts to comfort him might drive him deeper into this pit
of isolation and depression he has dug for himself.

What can I do? I want more than anything to hold him in my arms and
tell him everything will be alright, but I feel I'm only causing more
pain for him. I don't know what to do - what can you do for a
catatonic vampire? Do drugs work for the undead?

I shake my head and walk away, forcing myself to leave him again. I
can't stay here with him when I should be sleeping. The door closes
with a loud clunk as I leave, the noise shattering the silence that
has surrounded us all day. How odd it is to think of a house being
silent when it has Spike in it.

I make my way downstairs to my own room - so different from Spike's
with its plush furnishings still present, unchanged since I left
nearly two years ago and freshly cleaned from when I moved back in.

Spike is upstairs, away from me but by no means out of my thoughts. 
I can think clearly now. I cannot make him better with words, but I
know I have to keep him from deteriorating further. I now know that I
must become his caregiver. If I can't tell others about him then I'm
just going to have to look after him myself, force-feed him if I have
to. It's my fault his mind has been destroyed, so now I need to stop
the same thing happening to his body. If I leave him to his own
devices he will just become a small pile of dust on the floor.

The enormity of my task stretches out ahead of me. This will be no
easy option, but I cannot ask for help from anyone else. My boy is
dependent on me now, and it is my duty to care for him as a Sire
should, like I should have done when he was in his wheelchair. I have
decided now.

But I don't feel a glow of pride or responsibility for this. It
doesn't feel like I have chosen the righteous option - I feel like 
I am obliged to do this to make up for how I've failed him. I let him
slip into this comatose state. It's no life for a vampire - for any
creature, living or undead. I can only hope to make it a little more
bearable for him.

~TBC~