Chapter Text
Angel’s bare feet padded down the hall into the kitchen of his San Francisco apartment. He pressed his palms to his eye sockets, a feeble attempt to look more than half awake.
It was mid-afternoon, but it felt unspeakably early for a vampire with nowhere else to be. He wasn't even sure why he'd dragged himself out of bed. Probably habit, more than anything else.
Maybe it was just less painful to be awake. The nightmares had been a constant, these past three months.
Sometimes, his brain re-enacted the final showdown. It was like Groundhog Day met Nightmare on Elm Street.
He stood in the pouring rain and watched Gunn die over and over, never able to save him. He screamed in horror as Illyria, with all her superhuman speed and strength, was momentarily confused and then unable to break free from the magical noose that appeared around her neck.
Yet somehow those vivid replays paled in horrific comparison to the nights when he closed his eyes and dreamed of Buffy coming to save them.
Sometimes she arrived on her own, grinning excitedly at the idea of fighting alongside him. Sometimes she brought other slayers as reinforcements. Sometimes, when the battle was over and the team was victorious he took her into his arms and kissed her with all the passion he could muster.
Every time he woke up, the grief and anguish would hit him all over again. The false memories were nothing but a searingly painful reminder that Buffy had not come. Had not saved any of them.
Angel shivered involuntarily as he moved further into the apartment. There was a weird tingling in his spine that he couldn't shake. Maybe something else had pulled him from his slumber.
A scratching noise. Faint, metallic. Like a nail tapping against wood. He’d heard it as he stirred, half-submerged in a dream. It could’ve been part of the nightmare. Or not.
Angel shook his head. These days it was getting harder to tell which sounds were real and which ones were just echoes from that alley.
"Oh Sleeping Beauty is here." Spike announced loudly. "Your wake windows are getting so short, soon you'll be lucky to guest star in your own bloody life."
Angel sighed and rolled his eyes but a witty retort evaporated on his lips. Spike was intolerable, but also remained his only steadfast companion.
Angel snatched a white mug, faintly stained red from constant use, off the drying rack near the sink and filled it with lukewarm black coffee from the pot. Wordlessly, he crossed the room and slouched into a chair at the table.
The furniture was cheaply made and the Formica table was chipping at the corners, but large enough to suit their meagre needs.
They'd been lucky to find a fully furnished apartment at short notice after the 'earthquake' in downtown Los Angeles and Angel supposed that any table was better than none.
The apartment was on the first floor, with the front door leading directly out onto the street. It comprised of a small kitchen, a shared living and dining space, a leaky little bathroom and two bedrooms barely large enough for a full-sized bed each. But it was a place to call home, at least temporarily, until they could figure out their next moves.
With Angel seated, three of the four chairs pulled up to the table were now occupied. He was glad of the company, but also not really in the mood to make idle conversation.
To his left, Spike was using a spoon to stir cinnamon toast crunch in a bowl full of blood. Angel shuddered at the sight of it and immediately turned away.
To his right, Connor was casually leafing through the newspaper. Nowadays the kid walked into the apartment like he owned the place, which was new. Good new, but new.
"Hi Connor, it's nice to see you." Angel greeted his son with genuine warmth.
After a few moments Connor dropped the black and white broadsheet onto the table and glanced over at Angel.
"You look tired. Did you finally go out patrolling last night?" he asked, almost hopefully.
"No. Just more nightmares. They're still constant." Angel shrugged, sipping absently at the disgusting black coffee in front of him. "Every time I sleep I'm back in that alley watching my friends die."
Connor didn’t press. He was better about that lately. There’d been a time when he’d have lit the fuse just to see what would happen.
"Well I didn't die." Spike announced cheerfully around a mouthful of food.
Angel eyed his roommate disdainfully. "Exactly."
Connor and Spike exchanged knowing looks before they both turned simultaneously towards Angel. For some reason, the pair seemed to somewhat enjoy each other's company - a fact which Angel could never truly comprehend.
Of course Connor didn't have to actually live with Spike. His son continued to reside on campus at Stanford and merely visited periodically. Angel assumed it was much easier to tolerate a menace like Spike on a part-time basis.
"You need to come to terms with what happened." Connor said. "You need to carry on with your life. Or, your unlife. You know what I mean."
Angel sighed heavily again. "But how do I do that, Connor? In so many ways I'm responsible for the death of my friends, the deaths of civilians, the destruction of several blocks in the downtown."
"Including the Hollywood Bowl and the Walk of Fame." Spike mumbled, his mouth still full of cereal.
"You made the decision you believed to be right." Connor said, ignoring Spike's input. "Your friends chose to fight alongside you. We all did. This isn't on you alone. We all wanted to beat Wolfram and Hart."
"Not everyone..." Angel muttered angrily.
Both Connor and Spike knew exactly what Angel was inferring. It had been a long few months of rehashing the whys and the why-nots of that particular situation.
"No, not everyone. Take me, for example." Spike said. "I just wanted to slay that dragon."
"Spike." Connor hissed lowly. "You're not helping."
"Oh have a go." Spike replied. "I've just about had it up to my bloody eyeballs with Captain Misery over there. He just lies about the place moping like some kind of dreary abstract art exhibit."
"This is an understandable reaction to a serious tragedy, Spike." Angel fumed. "I'm allowed to feel any way I want."
"So am I." Spike said. "And I choose to feel annoyed at you for being such a brooding old bastard when we could be out fighting the big bads of the world."
Angel slammed his coffee mug down with such force the brown liquid splattered across the table.
"I don't understand how you can just move on so casually, Spike." Angel snapped angrily. "She meant something to you, too. She let you down, too."
"You've currently filled the position of 'depressed souled vampire obsessing over the slayer' so I have no choice but to make peace with the situation." Spike snorted.
"It's not a joke." Angel shouted. "Are you trying to say you've forgiven her?"
"Maybe if you'd actually spoken to she-who-shall-not-be-named when she reached out after the battle, you wouldn't be acting like such a dull pillock right now." Spike shouted back.
"Enough!" Connor thundered, his voice cutting through the tension in the room.
Angel immediately looked shocked at his son's outburst, whilst Spike shrugged off the tension and flopped back into his seat.
"Why don't you two go out and do something cheerful tonight?" Connor suggested, clearly trying to de-escalate another quarrel. "Find some demons to pummel or some vampires to de-fang."
It had been weeks since they'd last managed to get Angel to agree to patrol and even longer since he'd last claimed any type of underworld kill. San Francisco wasn't exactly a hot bed of demonic activity. The catastrophic destruction in Los Angeles and the closing of the Sunnydale hellmouth had sent most undesirables scampering out of California as fast as their evil little legs could carry them.
"Will you join us, Con?" Spike asked, suddenly much more upbeat.
"Not tonight, sadly." Connor replied. "I've actually got to head back to campus to finish off a paper due tomorrow. Then I'm taking Erin to Lake Tahoe for the weekend to celebrate our one month anniversary."
Spike snorted and rolled his eyes. "One month anniversary? I'll never understand the hopelessly romantic youth of today."
"Should I tell Connor what you were like in your youth, William?" Angel asked, naturally coming to the defence of his offspring.
"What's that?" Spike spluttered. "A one month anniversary? Sounds lovely. Send a postcard."
Connor smirked at Spike then rose from the table, folded the newspaper neatly and dropped his coffee mug into the kitchen sink.
"Bye guys." he said. "I'll drive up to see you early next week. Try to behave until then."
Connor affectionately clapped Angel on the back by way of farewell (they were on much better terms, but not yet at the point where Connor was openly calling him dad) then headed for the door.
"Bye Connor, be safe." Angel called after him.
"Bye Connor." Spike added. “If anyone gives you grief, tell ’em your undead nephew says hi. And also - sod off.”
The sound of Connor's laughter was the last thing they heard as the front door shut behind him and the apartment was plunged back into the safety of darkness.
For a few moments, Spike and Angel sat in tense silence. Eventually, Spike chuckled and shook his head.
"He's a fun kid. I like him." Spike said. "He's way more fun than you."
Angel begrudgingly mused that, if anything, Spike knowing exactly how to get on his nerves signified a special type of platonic intimacy between them.
"Is that supposed to be an insult?" he scoffed.
"If you think that's insulting, wait until you hear everything else I have to say about you." Spike grinned mischievously.
Angel rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Just please stop referring to Connor as your uncle."
"He's your son. I'm your grandchilde." Spike argued indignantly. "That makes him an uncle to me."
"He's. Not. Your. Uncle." Angel repeated slowly and emphatically.
Suddenly, the front door swung open again and Connor’s figure was silhouetted against the bright California sun.
“Look, here he is again,” Spike said. “My dear old Uncle Con.”
“Connor, did you forget something?” Angel asked, shooting a murderous glare at Spike.
“No,” Connor replied, wandering in as he turned a thick cream envelope over in his hands. “There was a letter nailed to the front door. Like, actually hammered in. With an old brass tack. It’s weird.”
“The U.S. Postal Service really does go above and beyond these days,” Spike quipped.
He reached out enthusiastically, but Connor deftly dodged him and passed the envelope to his father instead.
Angel felt that strange tingling at the base of his spine again. Sharper this time. He slipped a thumb beneath the ornate red wax seal and cracked it open. The parchment inside was thick and stiff, humming with faint magical energy as he unfolded it.
“So what is it?” Spike asked, suddenly curious and maybe a little too eager. “An invitation to Cinderella’s ball?”
Angel’s expression remained unreadable as his eyes skimmed the contents. He said nothing for a long moment.
“Well?” Connor prompted, a bit more anxious now.
“It is an invitation,” Angel said at last, his voice flat.
“When the bloody hell did you meet Cinderella?” Spike asked, brows raised.
“No, not from Cinderella.” Angel scowled and dropped the letter onto the table. “It’s an invitation to the Centennial Battle in the Badlands Thunderdome.”
Connor perked up. “That actually sounds kind of cool. Should I cancel my weekend with Erin?”
“Absolutely not,” Angel snapped. “The Badlands Thunderdome is a complete waste of time. Be grateful it only happens once every hundred years."
"What even is the Badlands Thunderdome?" Connor asked.
"Just a bunch of demons hacking each other apart in some off-brand dimension for the chance to win a prize." Angel scoffed. "Fighting for a cursed jewel or enchanted dagger or some other shiny piece of garbage. It has nothing to do with us.”
"Well." Spike said conspiratorially. "I mean...I like enchanted daggers?"
"No, Spike." Angel said resolutely. "We're not going. End of story."
Spike stood motionless, staring Angel down like a puppy waiting for a treat. His mouth twisted into a sly grin, but there was a hint of genuine disappointment in his eyes. He took a step forward, as if he might push the matter a little further.
“No,” Angel said again, even more firmly this time, his voice sharp and final.
Spike’s grin faltered, but he didn’t back down. “What’s the worst that could happen? Cursed jewels, demon fights. It could really brighten your mood.”
"No."
With a grunt of frustration, Angel turned sharply and retreated down the hall. He slammed his bedroom door with a resounding thud, the echo reverberating through the small apartment.
"Can I just -" Spike started again.
Angel’s furious shout echoed from the other room. “No.”
Spike paused, staring at the door, brow furrowed as though considering one last attempt. His jaw clenched, but he ultimately huffed and turned away. “Well, that’s that then. What a bloody waste.”
Connor, who’d been lingering by the kitchen counter, sighed wistfully “I’ll head out again now.”
"Go on then, don't let me keep you." Spike gave him a lazy salute. “Need to make sure at least one of us gets some action this weekend."
Connor shook his head, amused, and made his way to the door. As it clicked shut behind him, Spike flopped onto the couch, stretching out lazily.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy in a way that only being around Angel could make it feel.
He turned his attention to the table, where the invitation lay half-crumpled, the envelope torn open with that unique Angel flair.
“Bloody Poof.” Spike muttered, shaking his head. He grabbed the paper, smoothing it out between thumb and forefinger, eyes skimming past the ridiculous flaming skulls and overly designed blood fonts until they hit the block text near the bottom.
LIVE PRIZE. SLAYER.
Spike’s eyes froze.
“No,” he whispered.
Meanwhile, Angel sat in the shadows of his room, unmoving.
That stupid invitation. He’d read it earlier. He hadn't wanted to, but he had. He’d stared down that word like it might set him on fire. Slayer.
And then he’d done what he always did. Shut the door. Folded the feeling. Buried it deep.
Spike’s movements in the other room were not subtle. He could hear footsteps, drawers flung open, the sharp metallic clink of weapons.
Angel stayed where he was, hands clasped between his knees, shoulders curled inward like the walls were pressing in.
Every time he heard “slayer,” it was her. Even now. Especially now. He told himself it wouldn’t be, couldn’t be. Buffy would never get caught. She wasn't just a slayer, she was the slayer. She would never let herself be paraded in a cage.
But that image was still there. The flicker of it in his mind's eye. Her face bloodied, her wrists chained, her eyes meeting his across a crowd that cheered her name like a joke.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He didn’t want to go.
Because if it was her, and he was too late...
Spike didn't knock. He shoved the door open and marched in like the place owed him something.
“Did you actually read this, or did you just assume it was another mid-tier apocalypse with a drink voucher?”
Angel didn’t flinch. “I read it.”
“And?”
“And I’m not going.” Angel muttered, the words coming out flat, detached.
Angel didn’t even look up from where he sat on the bed, elbows on his knees, his hands clenched into fists as if the weight of the world rested there.
Spike blinked, as if trying to process this absurdity. “Not going? There’s a Slayer in a cage and you’re just going to do what? Pretend it doesn’t matter?”
“It’s a fight night invitation. I’m not interested.”
“No, it’s not just a fight night.” Spike shoved the invite toward him. “The Badlands Thunderdome’s offering a live prize for the first time ever.”
Angel finally looked at him, but there was no warmth in his eyes. Just the cold, relentless mask he wore whenever something hit too close to home. “It’s not her.”
Spike stepped closer, not backing down. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Angel replied, voice sharp, his jaw tight. “If she were taken, I’d know.”
Spike’s gaze hardened. “Is that right? Because your soul’s still tuned to Buffy-FM is it?”
At this accusation, Angel said nothing.
Spike stepped in front of him. “You’re still nursing wounds like they’re pets. You want the whole world to suffer a little so it matches your pain.”
Angel’s expression shifted. Spike could see rage rising, then dying just as fast. Something else surfacing underneath.
“It’s not her,” Angel said, like the words were some kind of armor.
But Spike could hear it. The hesitation in his voice, the crack in his resolve. He wasn’t sure he believed it, and he didn’t think Angel did either.
“You think if it’s not Buffy, it doesn’t matter." Spike said, feeling the peculiarity at finally saying her name out loud. "Like it’s just another fight in another arena. But you’re wrong.”
Angel clenched his fists again, standing slowly, his muscles tense. “I don’t need to fix everything that’s broken.”
Spike tilted his head, keeping his voice level but steady. “You keep telling yourself that, but we both know it’s not true.”
Angel’s face flickered with something—frustration, maybe guilt—but he shoved it down, turning away. “I’m not going.”
Spike’s eyes narrowed. He could feel the old wounds beneath Angel’s layers, the way the past still lived in him, eating away at the parts of him that used to believe in saving the world. But Spike wasn’t letting it slide anymore.
“You’re still pissed she didn’t come for you. You’re pissed none of them did.” Spike’s voice grew more intense, but there was something more underneath it. An edge of understanding, of recognition. He’d seen that bitterness before. “You think you’re the only one who got left in that alley?"
Angel spun around, his voice rising in anger, but the pain beneath it was clear. “It’s not the same. You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Spike shot back. “You think because Buffy didn’t save you, it means no one gets saved.”
“That’s not what I said.” Angel’s words were clipped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I don’t need her. I don’t need anyone.”
“Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that,” Spike said. “Because what makes you a hero is somehow shutting everyone out until the only thing left to save is your own damn pride?”
Angel flinched, like the words stung more than anything Spike had said in years. But he quickly masked it, pulling his shoulders back and straightening. “I said it’s not her. And I’m not going.”
"The last portal jump out of this dimension leaves in thirty minutes. We're rapidly running out of time to debate this."
Spike didn’t move. His gaze was steady, unflinching. His tactic was working because Angel's resolve was crumbling before his eyes.
“At least call the Slayer Academy. Confirm it first.” Angel suggested meekly.
“I did." Spike answered instantly. "No answer. Not even an answering machine. You know what that means?"
"They're already gone." Angel said lowly. "Or they're in trouble."
Silence.
Spike’s voice softened, a hint of something close to concern in it. “I packed your bag. Clothes. Weapons. And I threw in your favorite trench coat. The one that makes you look all broody and mysterious."
For a long moment, Angel didn’t respond. He just stood there, arms crossed, his mind racing.
“Listen, I’m not asking you to feel anything about it,” Spike said, his tone dropping, but firm. “But I need you to do something. I need you to come with me. We need to go. We are not the men who sit around and let innocent victims die. We never will be.”
Angel exhaled a long breath, the tension in his body easing just a little. There was no grand gesture. No epiphany, no declaration. He simply crossed to the foot of the bed, picked up the bag, and threw it over his shoulder.
Spike’s eyes flicked to the packed bag, a slight smirk curling on his lips. “About time. Took you long enough.”
Without another word, Angel turned toward the door, and they left the apartment together.
Two old soldiers once again heading into battle, each carrying more than their share of ghosts.