Title: Passion…less
Fandom: AtS, post NFA
Status: finished - 541 words
Genre: angsty, Spike POV on Angel, rated PG
Notes: Originally posted 28th July, 2005
Short summary: written for summer_of_spike.
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The dragon had been slain by Angel but not until it had taken a big chunk out of him. He still wasn’t back on his feet fully yet. But it wasn’t so much the pieces of flesh he was still missing as just … him. After the bodies were all on the ground and no one left to fight, it was like Angel had been reduced to a body with no one home.
Maybe it was the hope turning into dust, the hope that this apocalypse actually meant something. That Wesley and Gunn didn’t die for nothing. But in the end - no one took notice. The papers tried to explain a freak storm, an earthquake that only took one house down and a gangfight that many had seen out of the corner of the eye but never any details, and it hadn’t left any bodies. No bodies — no proof, and the papers and the police let it be.
It was like that night had existed at the edges of reality, a vacuum where they saved the world but no one would get to know about it. Once again an averted apocalypse and the heroes left without even a ‘thanks for saving us’ — again.
It was beginning to be a theme Spike thought, heroes unsung and all that rot. No one ever knew the deaths Buffy had endured, the pain, the suffering for everyone just so they could sit at home on their arses and watch the telly. It was all so fucked up. Angel was a hero in his own way. Selfless bastard he’d become. And all he got in gratitude was living, so he could be forced to do it again and again until he’d been used up into an empty shell… and tossed away.
It was like a sickness inside that ate him slowly, piece by piece… but let the body regenerate creating a prison of flesh he could stay trapped in longer like that.
He fed, he moved, he killed… but he didn’t speak, he didn’t look at anyone and he just seemed so empty. No passion, no violence, no reaction — just going through the motions. Not even brooding properly anymore. The first time he wished his Sire was rolling in guilt over old sins past, cause it was a helluva lot better thought than the knowledge that he no longer cared. About anything. Angel could sit and stare into a wall, without a reaction, his face never changing except the occasional blink for his eyes to not dry in their sockets. Mechanical animal fuelled up on blood. Blood alone. The violence, the demon itself, had always been what had fuelled Angelus and gave him the interest in finding new ways to torture and find passion in new things. After the soul it had been the fight to keep the memories at bay, to try and let the demon out on the unrighteous so he could save some and hope that it had made some sense on the scale of right and wrong. Although in the end redemption really didn’t mean anything did it? Just a word. He was never going to find it because if this fight hadn’t done it, then what would?
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