| Carry On
Title: Carry On, Part One – The Man who can Fight when he’s Losing Author: Inca Feed the hungry feedback demon at [email protected] Rating PG Angel/Spike Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, I just like to play with them Spoilers: Up to 5.22 ‘Not Fade Away’ Summary: Angel's just woken up. Authors notes: Robert Service delivered the title, which is also the title of his poem. I thought of it when I read the transcript for ‘Not Fade Away’. The poem will be at the end of Part One if you wish to read it. Italics indicate past happenings or memories. Angel doesnt remember the flash backs to the fight. Angel’s direct thoughts indicated by a tab space. Ooh, during the overall story I make mention of ‘Angel’ episodes from first season Alonna, ‘War Zone’ all the way to the fight at the end of ‘Not Fade Away’. In this part a direct reference to Izzy, (ep 5.12, and 5.21) made. The first paragraph is a direct transcription of the last scene of ‘Not Fade Away’. For more stories by me, come to http://www.geocities.com/slasherphiles/ , slashing 24/6... “It’s easy to slave, and starve and be brave, When the dawn of success is beginning. But the man who can meet despair and defeat With a cheer, there’s the man of God’s choosing; The man who can fight to Heaven’s own height Is the man who can fight when he’s losing.” Part One – The Man who can Fight when he’s Losing *** “You're fading. You'll last ten minutes at best.” “Then let's make 'em memorable.” “In terms of a plan?” “We fight.” “Bit more specific?” “Well, personally, I kind of want to slay the dragon.” “Let’s go to work.” *** He woke. He was in a clean, spartan room, lying in a huge bed covered in crisp white and brown sheets. He touched his chest and felt flannel pyjamas. Warm … bright … soft. Statements flittered through his head with no real meaning. He felt disorientated, his head felt like it was filled with fog, his arms were heavy. Ideas slowly began to meld together, forming thoughts. The room was painted cream, with a chocolate brown wall facing the bed. A door was directly across from him, and there was a window on his left. I’ve never been in this room, he thought as he struggled to sit up. His head swam. The heavy brown curtains were drawn, lit up by the bright sunlight behind them. A shaft of light crept in the middle of the curtains, splaying out across the floor beside the bed. A woman’s voice echoed through his head. (“Don’t touch the light, Dear Boy – It no longer welcomes you.”) Whose voice is that? He frowned. The room smelt of fresh linen, and he rubbed his face, his head spinning. He gingerly slipped his legs out from under the cover, staying well away from the shaft of light, and stood up, swaying slightly. He rubbed his hand over his hair, feeling the soft length of it. As he stood in the room trying to get his bearings, the door in front of him suddenly opened. A handsome man, black-clad with light blue eyes and a shock of white hair walked in from what looked like a hallway, holding a stack of sheets. The blonde looked at him, his mouth forming a small ‘o’ of surprise. He blinked furiously. “You’re up.” He said after a moment. “Took you long enough.” Do I know him? The man frowned, trying to remember. He carelessly dropped the bundle sheets to the floor and backed up to the doorway. “Gunn! He’s up!” he yelled out the door. Gun? Gun … A gun is … a weapon. Bullets. Shooting. I remember. Shooting? The man widened his eyes and backed away from the blonde. He jerked his head up at the sound of a man hooting, the sound echoing from outside the room. Heavy footsteps clunked quickly out in the hallway, growing louder. Yes, I think it’s time to go. A voice sounded in the man’s head. The practical and sensible part of his mind. Man with a gun coming. “Okay.” The man started, holding his hands up to the blonde in a defensive posture “I don’t …” “You’re back!” A tall dark man ran into the room and enveloped the man in a bear hug. “Look at you dawg!” The man tensed, blinking. These people are crazy. I’ve been sleeping in a house with two crazy men, for …. How long? “Yo, you should check out what we’ve been doing while you’ve been sleeping.” The man look up at him, taking in his sweatshirt and bald head, his eyes resting on the large patch of scars on the mans left cheek. He smiled wanly, eyes flicking to the door. Get out the door. As soon as there’s a space, as soon as you can. His mind rambled. The man’s head felt heavy from all the thinking, a nauseous feeling filled it. He closed his eyes. The blonde had been watching the exchange closely. “Gunn.” He said softly. The black man turned to the blonde, smile huge, his arm still slung around his drawn shoulders. The man tried to subtly move out of the black man’s inappropriately friendly embrace. “What? You know, we should go celebrate.” He slapped the man’s back. “Gunn.” The blonde said again, harshly, drawing the bald man’s attention, “He doesn’t remember you.” “You’re trippin’.” The bald man said, turning to face him. He studied the mans face, and continued, a little less sure. “He remembers us.” “Do we … know each other?” the man ventured slowly. The smile dropped from the bald man’s face as he backed away. “Maybe he’s just disorientated, hes been alseep for a while.” He said nervously, never taking his eyes off him. “I feel, I feel fine, maybe I should …” he started to head to the exit. “What’s my name?” The blonde asked cutting him off. “I don’t know you.” he suddenly ran towards the door, meaning to run through it before the two men knew what what happening, but the blonde reacted surprisingly fast, and caught him by the wrist. He tried to wrench his arm from the grip, but it was like a vice. A growl came from the blonde’s throat. “HELP!” the man screamed. The bald man backed up away from the tussle and leant on the wall, as if in shock. “Spike, don’t…” he mumbled at them, frowning. The man tried to throw the smaller man off him and into the wall, but the blonde spun him around with a strength that was hidden in his lean body, and the man suddenly found himself face up against the wall with both his arms held at the elbow by the blonde. “We’re not gonna hurt you,” the blonde said tartly. “Calm down and quit being such a poofter.” The man eyed the door fretfully. He warily looked over his shoulder at the blonde, biting his lip. “Answer a question for me?” the blonde asked. “What’s your name?” Answer it, just … anything! Then try to get out the door again! The man opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. He blinked, eyes darting around the room in alarm. The practical sensible voice was stunned silent. “I don’t know.” *** Gunn had given him jeans and a sweatshirt, which he had pulled on nervously once they left the room. The jeans were a little too long for him and they flopped around his feet. He had opened the door, intending to find a way out and run as fast as he could, to see Spike and Gunn waiting outside the door. The two men had led him out to a kitchen and they were all sitting at a big wooden table sipping coffee that the bald man had made in silence. The kitchen was white tiled and cluttered, books were lying all over it, and a few swords and knives added to the décor. The man eyed a particularly vicious axe with alarm. The blonde sat watching him, ever calm, puffing on a cigarette, one booted foot up against the table edge. “Okay,” the bald man said, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I’m Gunn.” Oh, not as in weapon. “Gunn.” The man dutifully repeated. His initial fear of the two men had waned, he wasn’t sure why, but he felt as though he knew them. “Uh-huh. That’s Spike.” He gestured at the blonde. The blonde nodded at him. “Spike.” “And you’re Angel.” The man took this in. “Angel?” Both men nodded, and the blonde’s lip curled. “Why do we all have such weird names?” “Hey, my name is not weird. Gunn’s my last name.” “What’s your first name?” “Charles, but don’t you be calling me that.” Angel, for that was his name apparently, nodded quickly. “Is Angel my real name?” He asked them, eyes darting between the two. “Is it my last name?” “No.” Spike answered. “It’s your nick name I guess. Everyone knows you as that.” He paused. “Well you don’t know that many people, but those you do know you as Angel.” “Why?” Spike rolled his eyes. “Cause that’s what you bloody well call yourself.” “So what’s my real name?” “Liam.” “Liam?” he repeated. “Liam.” He tested the word in his mouth. It wasn’t familiar. What if they’re lying? Practical-sensible asked him. “This is the most I’ve ever heard you talk.” Gunn said smiling. “I’m not talkative?” Both men laughed. Spike stabbed his cigarette out on the table top as Gunn made a face at him. “We all know each other?” “You and me ‘ave known each other a long time. You and Gunn knew each other … what … four years?” Spike asked Gunn. “Five.” Angel smiled. “So, you and I grew up together?” He asked Spike. “Nope. I’m English, you’re mick.” “Mick? I thought my name was …” “Mick, means you’re Irish.” Spike butted in. “Oh. Right.” He took this in. “So then, how long have you and I known each other?” “Oh, ‘bout a hundred years.” Angel nodded. “That’s seems like a long time.” Spike frowned and Gunn laughed. “He’s serious.” Gunn said, after a moment, still chuckling. “I didn’t think he was lying.” Gunn laughed louder. “How long do humans live?” Angel opened his mouth to answer and found he couldn’t. He shook his head. “You and me are vampires peaches.” Spike clarified calmly. “What’s a vampire?” “We’re dead. We drink blood. Stay out of the sunlight.” “Sunlight? I knew that, I remembered.” Spike looked interested at that. “He didn’t even flinch at the whole drinking blood thing.” Gunn observed blithely. “Everything probably seems new to him anyhow. Got no memories to judge what’s right and wrong.” Spike answered him, taking his foot off the table and leaning forward. “How did you know sunlight would burn you, if you didn’t know what you were?” he asked, backtracking a little. “A woman’s voice. I just … heard it.” he non-explained. “Saying?” Spike prodded, his gaze darting between the cigarette in his fingers and Angel’s eyes. “Don’t touch the light… dear boy…” he tried to remember it. “Darla.” “Darla! Oh no not again!” Gunn yelped, pulling his lips back in disgust. “Who’s Darla?” Angel asked. “Darla. A vampire sires a childe, turns a human into a vampire. She turned you into a vampire.” Vampire… I’m a vampire… Were dead. We drink blood. Stay out of the sunlight. We’re dead… Spikes words reverberating in his head. Angel stopped, staring at Spike. “I’m dead?” he moved his gaze to stare at the ash on the tabletop. “Yep. Sorry, I guess.” Spike said. “I’m not human?” he asked, feeling strangely sad. Spike sighed. “Sorry pet. No.” He suddenly remembered standing in an alley. “I could should you … things you’ve never seen.” A blonde. A bite. A fingernail across her chest, blood, blood. “Did I die in an alley?” Angel asked Spike. Spike looked sympathetic. “Yeah. But don’t worry. So did I.” “Did you die with me?” “No, I died about a hundred years later than you.” “Right. So how do I know you?” Spike wedged the cigarette back between his lips and smiled in a not very happy way. “You and me? We’re family.” *** Gunn and Spike showed him around. He was in a fairly narrow, but long house that was rather messy, in a homey sort of way. Kitchen to the left. Two stories that were wedged between a Chinese laundromat and a bicycle repair shop. They all lived on the top floor. Bathroom down the hall to the right. Spike’s room was across from his own, while Gunn’s was closer to the kitchen. They showed him the bottom floor, which was an office of some sort. “What do you do?” Gunn had smiled at him sadly when he had asked. “We help the helpless.” Was all he replied, in a tone that suggested he was remembering past days. His and Spike’s bedrooms faced an alley, so only small amounts of sunlight filtered in, and there were a few tiny rooms scattered about the house that seemed to double for makeshift gyms and storage areas. And weapons. Many many weapons. Get out of this house! Practical-sensible screeched at him. You’re a fool if you stay! Angel smiled nervously when they proudly showed him their stockpile, and Gunn seemed determined to prove to Angel that the weapons were mainly his. A soft buzzer had gone off during Gunn’s presentation of a book that seemed to catalogue monsters, and he disappeared downstairs. “That buzzer? Tells us when we got clients. Connected to the front door.” Spike explained. He let Angel drift around the room, watching him to see if anything sparked a memory, before turning his attention to a box of books by the door. Angel looked around, not touching anything at the eclectic mix of objects in the room. Weapons were again the décor, but along with that were many orbs, some filled with a glowing white mist, small dried heads – human and animal alike, clothes with slime on them, a blowtorch, and herbs that seemed to be flavouring the air with a sort of musty coffee smell. How long have they been collecting this stuff? Practical-sensible asked, which reminded him that he didn’t know how long he had been there. “Spike?” he asked, drawing the man’s attention away from the book he was leafing through. “Mmmm?” “How long have I been … asleep?” “No long pet,” he said closing the book with a puff of dust, “Bout … oh, um, thirty months or so.” “Thirty? Aren’t there only twelve months in a year?” “Yup. Good memory.” He said sarcastically. “And I’ve just been sleeping.” “Right again.” Off Angel’s frown he started to explain. “We called in all sorts of specialists. Occultists, witches, Voodoo doctors, all just thought you were a vegetable. Vampires can’t die from a bad blow to the head, but enough injury? They just stay comatose. Sometimes they can heal, other times not. You did. To a degree, I guess. I think something mystical is wrong with ya too, but I can’t prove it.” “Why mystical?” “Something to do with what happened. Its not important. And the fact that you seem to remember everything else well enough. Everything except things that relate to you.” “I don’t know what you mean” Spike wandered across the room. He leant over the desk with the foul smelling herbs, and opened the rusty window wider. “Well for one thing, you know how to speak. You knew what coffee was when we offered it to ya in the kitchen a little bit ago.” He sat on a clear space on the desk and picked up a book lying next to him. “And I bet if I gave you this book, you’d be able to read it.” “I remember reading.” “What else?” Spike prodded. “I guess, everything. Except, I don’t know, some things seem new. I didn’t know how long humans lived.” He pointed out. “But that does have to do with you. You were a human.” He thought for a second. “Do you know what a witch is? Or a werewolf?” Angel furrowed his brow, thinking furiously. “No.” “Do you know what a demon is?” A demon is a … a … “No,” he answered, frustrated. “But I almost do. If that makes sense.” Suddenly an image flashed into his mind. Himself playing racketball with what looked like a red man. With horns. “Are they red?” “Red? Sometimes, I guess.” Spike answered, encouragingly. “Do they play racquetball?” Spike stared at him. For a long moment. “I suppose … they could.” He said slowly. “I just had a … a memory, I guess. Of me playing racquetball, with a red … he had horns.” Spike looked a little confused. “Well, maybe you did that to grease a client at Wolfram and Hart.” “What’s a wooframanhard?” “It’s a law firm… not important right now. I couldn’t be knackered explaining it to you. All you need to know is you worked there. There were demons there. We had a fight with the owners. Me and Gunn set this place up, while you had a nap upstairs.” “What, you just took me home after whatever happened, happened, what did happen?” “Lets just say for now … that you got a knock to the head while you were fighting.” “Fighting who?” he asked getting frustrated. “The senior partners. Demons. Don’t worry about that now. It’s not important and it would annoy me to try and explain it. You just need to stay with us until you remember.” Angel sighed and looked around the small musty room. His eyes caught sight of what looked to be a harpoon with blood stained serrated edges, and had a sudden urge to flee. But he suppressed the craving and turned to Spike instead. “Am I safe here?” he asked, his eyes raking over Spike, trying to find any threat at all in the blonde. Spike looked up from his seat on the desk, perfectly innocent, “Yeah, you’re safe. Well, me and Gunn not gonna hurt you at any rate.” Angel stared at him. “How do I know if that’s true?” “You don’t, but you’ve got nothing else to go on right now.” He slipped off the desk and started over to him, ignoring the innate alarm emanating in waves off the taller man, ignoring the way his body straightened, ready to run at any threat. “You don’t know us, but you don’t know you either. If it was me, and I woke up and didn’t know anything, I’d run. But you?” Spike walked right up to him, and looked him in the eyes, “You’ll stay.” “Why do you think that?” He asked defiantly, making Spike chuckle at the way Angel always had to be in control, apparently even when he had entirely lost his identity and didn’t realise he was doing it. “Told, ya Angel,” he smiled, “I know you.” |
| Carry On, by Robert Service It’s easy to fight when everything’s right, And you’re mad with thrill and the glory; It’s easy to cheer when victory’s near, And wallow in fields that are gory. It’s a different song when everything’s wrong, When you’re feeling infernally mortal; When it’s ten against one, and hope there is none, Buck up, little soldier, and chortle: Carry on! Carry on! There isn’t much punch in your blow. You are glaring and staring and hitting out blind; You are muddy and bloody, but never you mind. Carry on! Carry on! You haven’t the ghost of a show. It’s looking like death, but while you’ve a breath, Carry on, my son! Carry on! And so in the strife of the battle of life It’s easy to fight when you’re winning; It’s easy to slave, and starve and be brave, When the dawn of success is beginning. But the man who can meet despair and defeat With a cheer, there’s the man of God’s choosing; The man who can fight to Heaven’s own height Is the man who can fight when he’s losing. Carry on! Carry on! Things never were looming so black. But show that you haven’t a cowardly streak, And though you’re unlucky you never are weak. Carry on! Carry on! Brace up for another attack. It’s looking like hell, but – you never tell. Carry on, old man! Carry on! There are some who drift out in the desert of doubt And some who in brutishness wallow; There are others, I know, who in piety go Because of a Heaven to follow. But to labor with zest, and to give of your best, For the sweetness and joy of the giving; To help folks along with a hand and a song; Why, there’s the real sunshine of living. Carry on! Carry on! Fight the good fight and true; Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer; There’s big work to do, and that’s why you are here. Carry on! Carry on! Let the world be the better for you; And at last when you die, let this be your cry! Carry on, my soul! Carry on! |