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[personal profile] sevendeadlyfun
Characters: Spike, Angel

Rating: PG-13

Summary: And there it is. All laid out for him in pretty wrappings – the weight of his soul, all Angel-shaped and broody. Spoilers for the comics up to issue #36.

A/N: Posted for prompt #37-missing on my [livejournal.com profile] 50ficlets table. Inspired more by the recent Buffy comic than anything - I like the idea of Spike's soul stuck in a co-dependent relationship.

Feel free to suggest pairings or ideas for the other 47 prompts!



They’re taking the battle to the enemy. Angel doesn’t say it, but Spike isn’t an idiot. He’s been fighting with and against Angel since the night he crawled from his grave into Drusilla’s arms. He knows Angel, knows the tactics and the hubris of this particular Champion.

He dabs wearily at the spatters of blood on his cheek. He can still feel the give of the soul eater’s eyes under his fingers, the gurgle of the blood as it sprayed out from the sockets. It took hours to get the situation under control and the blood is tacky, sticking to his face and all he wants is to finally be clean.

He leans over the sink, staring blankly into the empty mirror. He’s not sorry he can’t see himself. He doesn’t need a reflection to tell him what he already knows.

There’s no spark in his eyes. He’s soulless again – empty.

The loss of his soul isn’t what he remembers. There’s no gnawing core yearning for its missing piece. He feels just like himself, only – lighter.

His body shows it, he fancies. He can feel it in the planes and hollows of his belly, the sharp angles of his shoulder blades. He doesn’t need a reflection to tell him what he already he knows – he’s lost the subtle curves of his virtue.

“How you feeling?”

He stares into the empty mirror, his lips crooking into a smirk he knows Angel can’t see.

“Like a demon,” he answers, his voice sharp. “How’m I supposed to feel?”

“When I don’t have a soul, “Angel replies, “I usually feel like bleeding everyone I used to love dry and then bathing in the dust of their bones.”

“You’re an overdramatic ponce,” Spike says dismissively.

“Yeah,” Angel says slowly. “But I’m the overdramatic ponce that wants to help you get your soul back.”

And there it is. All laid out for him in pretty wrappings – the weight of his soul, all Angel-shaped and broody.

He’s worn his soul on the outside before. Carried it around with him in the shape of a Slayer, tucked it neatly into a charm that looked like a little girl. No matter where he keeps it, it never gets far.

“Yeah,” he says heavily. “Can’t have gotten far, right?”
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sevendeadlyfun

August 2011

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