Eternity in My Arms

The Adventures of Captain Peroxide and Deadboy

The Angel/Spike Zone of the BtVS Writer's Guild

TITLE: "Eternity in My Arms"

AUTHOR: Ducks, The Angel Ho. ;)

IMPROV: #9 - plush, broken, bewilder, moonlight

TIMELINE: 1898 - 2002

SYNOPSIS: Angelus has some surprisingly tender thoughts, as he and William take a cruise ship to Europe.

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody who wants it, just send gushing feedback, and it's yours. *grin*.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: A spur of the moment quickie, inspired by a request from Kita, for Aus/Wm fic in an old fashioned setting, on a ship, on the deck, under the stars. Also by a Walt Whitman poem, and listening to some "Titanic Inspired" music

(no Celine, thank the Gods!)

FEEDBACK: It's the only thing that keeps me writing, kids! :)

RATING: R-ish: vague references to m/m sex and one bad Spikey word.

CONTENT: Slashy mush.

DEDICATION: To Kita, for her birthday. You're not getting older, you're just getting sexier! (Lame, I know, but... *SMOOCHIES*)

"Out of the Rolling Ocean, The Crowd" by Walt Whitman

"Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,

Whispering, I love you, before long I die,

I have travel'd a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you,

For I could not die till I once look'd on you,

For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.

(Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe;

Return in peace to the ocean, my love;

I too am part of that ocean, my love--we are not so much separated;

Behold the great rondure--the cohesion of all, how perfect!

But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,

As for an hour, carrying us diverse--yet cannot carry us diverse forever;

Be not impatient--a little space--Know you, I salute the air, the ocean and

Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.)"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*1898 - SS Queen Mary - Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean*

The waves rock my boy to his rest, and I see when I look down upon him sweetly sleeping beside me, that he is smiling.

This journey... just the two of us, has been a good idea. To not have to listen to Drusilla's broken ranting or Darla's bitter chirping at all hours of the day and night.

Yes. Peace at last. Peace and the night here in the undulating, soft bunk with my golden Childe. The plush coverlet pulled tight around his tender chin, and I think...

Yes. A fine idea. A wonderful evening. A satisfying dinner with the captain. Delightful conversation with the Ladies Titherington. A good bit of ale and singing the bawdy Irish drinking songs William loves so much.

A night such as this, a fine gift for my boy in return for all that he gives to me.

Aye, I'm not often known for generosity, be it perhaps when it comes to dealing due punishment. But this night on the deck, as we hoisted the remains of a deliciously hefty young servant girl over the side... listened to the splash she made, and watched her vanishing... the way the moon flashed, brief silver in his cerulean eyes, made me stop to catch my unneeded breath.

There are times... many times, and most I never express, when he turns his head just so and peers up at me, an innocent still, even after these four score years.... when the glint of unadulterated adoration sets his gaze alight... Like tonight, and the moon so bright, She casts his chiseled cheekbones in deep shadow...sensual carving in marble. When he leans like he did, so easy in the skin pulled tight over that young form, and those times... I find myself momentarily stunned by his perfect beauty.

And this night when we stood, and he, more than a bit drunk, hung heavily to the rail for balance, and leaned out, resting his weight all on his belly, lifting his fine arms, his long legs up from the safety of the deck and into the air, as through he might fly, if he wished for it hard enough... He is but a child. My child, and my dead heart swelled fit to burst to see him so joyous, in the same moment that I felt a pang of fear for his safety.

Like a concerned lover. Like a parent. Both of which my William makes me, and neither I have been before. I thought upon this for a while, as he stared out at the stars, and I could hear his longing to be among them singing in his veins.

Moments like these I hold close to me and wish many more like it for our eternity. A perfect second... a perfect hour... a perfect night, frozen forever as we stood there, side by side, serenaded by the strains of the string quartet in the ballroom above. No other being around as far as our night hunter's eyes can see. Fresh, warm blood that we shared pumping beneath our skin as we watched the flooded world go by.

Moments of fancy, these... as though this were Noah's ark, and my Will and I the only surviving creatures on this planet. His smile bright as sunshine, near as deadly, and he hums a tune about the girl he left behind, and the flowers in her hair.

Lore says we cannot love... no soul to burn, no heartbeat to race, no breath to catch, and still... when I reached up to brush his fine, ivory cheek, traced the ruddy curve of blood-filled lips, I think...

And I kissed him there, in the bewildering awe of that perfect moment... let my mouth wander to tell him over his seeking tongue and smooth, then-sharp, now-blunt teeth. His arms came up from the rail to wind around my neck, long fingers wound in my hair, and he sunk against me, pressed tight to my still breast. There is no need for heartbeat to feel the quickening in my

blood, the tightening of my loins. No need of breath for him to gasp my name with such reverence...

If demons do not love, then I am no demon.

A laughable sentiment, I know, and certainly not one I would share aloud, and still...

To kiss those sweet lips... that throat only just roughened by the evening's growth of soft beard... to pull away the cravat that I battled with him for a good hour to tie, revealing the shadowed hollow of the center of his clavicle to my mouth.... I felt his hard, young body arch and curve into mine, and I was lost... beyond the hazy heat of bloodlust or wave of simple desire... far beyond the need to kill, or even the unending hunger for power. Lost to all but this one small being of my own creation.

That, my friend, is love.

And so I took him there, the two of us alone with the moon and the sea, and a soft waltz above, like a choir of angels singing. I worshipped my magnificent Childe, and that moment, there, up against the rail, felt the engines hum under my feet, a pulse in time with that of my flesh against his. Drank his quick breath and sweet cries like fine wine, touched him softly, made love to him like poetry in motion, and after the final crescendo, that ecstatic, united release, we stood still in one another's arms and watched the moon sail by.

He looked up at me once more with those eyes that believe me omnipotent, omniscient, those eyes that adore and devour, possess and eternally wonder, and asked me, "Angelus, what is Romania like?"

Such passion had just passed between us, and already he is impatient for this moment to end... this night, our night on the great Atlantic to be done, and the next adventure to begin.

Ah, to be a fledgling again, and all of this splendor be new and fascinating for only moments. I laughed.

"Romania is like everywhere else, Will," I told him, "Black skies at night, cool breezes and warm people. But I think you'll find you like the gypsies."

At this, his smile brightened, so that for a moment, it outshone the stars, and he told me that he rather thought Drusilla was a gypsy, with her second sight and long, dark hair.

A dreamer, my Childe, so filled with boyish imaginings. He'd rather think my youngest a gypsy than a loon who simply sees that which others can't.

Now I look down on him sweetly sleeping, tucked in the cradling arms of the Dreaming, rocked by the waves, and I am almost sorry that we must go ashore and meet the women tomorrow night. That the wild of the hunt and the call of civilization and family duty must break this peace once more.

I rather like it here, just the two of us. Perhaps next year, we'll take another journey by ship. Back to the New World, which grows like weeds by the day. Maybe to California, where they say the mountains are made of gold, and the nights so clear, you can see eternity.

Perhaps. But there is no hurry. We have forever to see the world together, and besides... I think that I hold eternity right here in my arms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*104 Years Later - Los Angeles, California*

"Because I said so, that's... just no."

"That's not an answer, wanker."

"I never said I would give you more than that."

"Damn it, Angel, *why* *not*? It's a damn good movie!"

"Because I have absolutely no interest in seeing it, that's why not. Okay?"

"Spike! I don't want to watch the damn Titanic, all right? It was a damn tragedy, it happened a hundred years ago, and I'm not interested! So drop it!"

Spike watches his Sire stomp out of the room in a huff, and when he's gone, frowns darkly at the empty doorway.

He likes Titanic. Reminds him of a cruise Angelus took him on once, right before...

"Fucker prob'ly doesn't even remember," he grumbles, then kicks back with his beer and presses "play."

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