They’re going to turn to dust together, and part of him wants to lie, tell Angel not to worry; that it doesn’t hurt, but there’s no time. His tongue sweeps across lips wet with Gunn’s blood, sprayed scarlet across him as Gunn died, head severed, and his fingers are still clutching a hank of blue-stained hair; all that was left of a god-king turned to dragon-fodder.
They’re a broken army, and it’s just the two of them now, but it’s too late. He’s tugging at a stake that’s tickling his heart and a creature with more teeth than he’s got is grinning as it pushes the stake home and pushes Spike away with a contemptuous shove.
Just there, out of reach, Angel’s staggering back onto a splintered, jutting spear and Spike knows in a moment the spear will catch hold of what holds Angel together and smash it apart before clattering, with a simple finality, to the ground as the body that holds it disintegrates.
No time to say goodbye. No time to tell him in a look, a glance, a glare how this was a bloody stupid idea but the perfect way to die for men like them.
And when Angel falls forward, coughing blood, and dies, still whole, still solid, spear quivering in his back, and when he feels the alley floor smack against his cheek as he falls against it, dying but doing it properly, as a soldier should, fighting it all the way, he stops caring.
Looks like he’ll get to see him again soon after all. Might still be hell, but he’s hoping not.
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