When my eyes first met his, there was jealousy; the kind you’d kill for if only given the chance because you can hardly imagine how good it would feel. I’m stronger than him. I’ve got more experience, more wit about me, and a twist of common sense. I’m broader in the shoulders, heal easier, can take more pain too. I endured you, after all.
I’ve got more intellect. I can recite poetry from a hundred years ago and I’ve lived even longer. I can hold my liquor. Give the lady a choice and she’d pick me. I’ve got the charm, the smile, and the right glint to my eye and beat to my stride. I’ve got it all.
But he’s pink. He’s sweet and beautiful, and above all flesh and blood. Some people assume vampires only see black and red. Well…never believe what you hear, because I can sanely say this child is the most remarkable colour I’ve ever encountered. He’s a fluster of rage and tender youth, honeyed by a timeless glow. His eyes seem to hang on emotionless sunsets, his muscles strained, and his hair merely a tumble of weeds. How did you ever bring him to exist among a jungle of genetics that entirely counter that of his parents? To call it a miracle would propose a slight glitch under the circumstances. To call it anything less would be injustice.
You’re a father, Angel, a vampire father. It’s just setting in now, deep down where it hurts not to breathe. He’s your son. He’s what I spent an eternity failing at. He’s the definition of what I hate, and for what cause?
I suppose it’s easier to make one than to find one.
Spike was stranded in a squat, hovering over Angel with a guilty conscience while he pressed a hand to his wounded side and Connor restlessly strayed in the hallway. The boy was unwilling to admit that he had dealt out rash punishment to his father under prejudice reasoning, for he would rather stalk about with a frown, deciphering a way to turn the tables and advert the blame onto someone else.
Spike was accustomed to being fed blame.
“Well, what do you think?” Angel mustered between the aching, his coal eyes focusing on Spike from his position on the bed.
Spike looked down with disgruntlement, applying gauze and bandages accordingly. “It’ll be tender for awhile, but you’ll survive,” he assessed. “You’ve been through worse.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant what do you think of Connor?” Angel’s gaze sidetracked to the blur of the boy’s form as he continuously walked forward and back just outside the bedroom door. Angel was overwhelmingly proud of such an under deserving candidate.
Spike halted his motions, staring crudely down at the mellow vampire beneath him. “Well, lets see here. He jumps out of the sky. You welcome him with open arms. You’re willing to provide for him despite the fact that he clearly would rather decapitate you. He hates you and smiles about it and you still forgive him.” Spike’s brows arched carefully. “I’d say he’s a spoiled little git.”
“Maybe.” Angel readjusted. “But I welcomed you with open arms just the same, and your fists thanked me quite kindly.” He lapped up Spike’s stunned blue eyes with a genuine smile. “But I forgive you, because it’s the only language you know, just like Connor. In my opinion, you're both spoiled.”
“And here I thought all those spankings were for your own pleasure,” Spike teased with an explicit smile. “Either way, spoiled or not, I’ve landed myself a fan club whose main goal is to dust me.” His eyes fell slightly as he finished cleaning up Angel’s wound to his satisfaction. “Done.”
“They can’t all hate you,” Angel reassured him. “Buffy would’ve staked you already if she did. And last time I spoke to her, she mentioned you were pretty good with Dawn, much to my surprise.”
“Buffy’s just waiting until I’m of no further use to her and Dawn doesn’t know any better,” Spike explained. “At least Xander hates me. That's a relief. If he liked me, I would be as much of a lowlife as they all seem to think I am.”
Angel chortled with a slight pain in his throat. “Ah, Harris hates anyone that intrudes on his standing as strongest male in that group.”
“You mean only male,” Spike corrected. “As soon as I bounced into the pack, he got the willies over a little old-fashioned competition.”
And then Angel laughed; so slight and unnoticeable that Spike wished he were more prepared for it. There was something about it, the way it was strictly masculine, a gushing tone of deep wisdom that Spike only wished to possess. There were very few occurrences when Spike was actually graced by it. The simple gesture made him smile, almost uneasily, not quite sure how to explore this unfamiliar socialization with the old companion.
Connor, hearing the motion within the bedroom, finally peeked his head in. “He is not dead?”
Spike turned at the inquiry, eyeing the boy wryly. “No, unfortunate for you, really. You would’ve been better off if you had of killed him. Now he can deal with you for your embarrassing attempt at it.”
The boy blushed a furious crimson through the dirt smudges on his face, the bulb of his throat sick with worry.
“Scared now, are you?” Spike jested.
“Spike, that’s enough,” Angel commented, his silent stare reaching to where the high-strung teenager stood, anticipating the worst. “I’ll pretend this didn’t happen, Connor. Consider it a lesson. Never assume what you don’t know. For instance, Spike was not only the one who initiated the fight, but he is also a vampire like myself. Therefore shooting me was what I would call a contradiction to your beliefs and methods. Understand?” he lectured with a fatherly glow to his sleek words.
“Yes,” Connor obeyed, miffed by the entire situation. Then, backing away, they lost him to the shadows.
“Did he just disappear?” Spike marveled.
“He has a knack for it,” Angel sighed calmly.
“Annoying little squirt,” Spike growled, facing Angel once more with a gratifying grimace.
Angel’s eyes brightened. “Looks like you’ve got competition.”