3A/N: This story just sort of popped into my head randomly and then fled. But I like it well enough so I thought I might as well share it. I'm posting it in the Angel section although, it can work for BtVS as well.
Spoliers: It is Post-Not Fade Away and therefore spoils character deaths as well as small plotlines from other seasons.
When you found out, that'd he'd been back for a spell, between all your mourning and all your tears he'd been back, you were overwhelmed with emotions.
Anger was the first thing. Regret was the second. Sadness was the obvious third, your heavy little burden of sadness that never went away.
Then, when you learned he was a ghost and that he'd tried to come but he couldn't leave the city, and he couldn't hold objects and Angel reufsed to call and tell you, you hated Angel. But you soon realized hating a pile of ash wasn't giving you much comfort and you just mourned for him again.
Mourned for the man you loved who burned into an oblivion and got shattered out of existence. Mourned for the vampire you used to love who lit fire to the city. Mourned for the city that produced you (but didn't make you) and all the "shoes". It's a joke you thought of to laugh, but the only other person who would've got it is dead. And so you mourn for them too, for the people you used to know and never knew at all. The people you try to learn tales about from some broken little doll of a girl, flashing blue and white, speaking in phrases and tones that no one comphends. But the doll isn't fit to tell stories, spewing instead random facts.
Angel had a son. Cordelia cut her hair. Wesley went to the hopsital. Gunn wore a suit. Connor ran away. (Again) Lorne built another bar. And a handsome man saved me from the monsters.
But the girl in blue is a monster, and the girl in white is lost. And you just wish you could ask Spike what it all meant. But then again, Spike wouldn't know, would he.
It's been a year since Spike's death. A year since he burned up in a blaze of glory, for Christmas and puppies and for you. A year since he denied your love. A year since you GAVE him love. But it feels more like a thousand. You don't count the brief three days he was back. For you don't know anything about the three days he was back.
Blonde-white hair, a screech of pain. She thinks she could have helped him. But then the ghost was gone and Angel brooded for days. She thinks she could have helped him, saved him, killed him like the vermin he was. The broken doll speaks in riddles, circles, contradicting everything she says. You don't have the strength to kill her. Human. Monster. Human. Monster. White. Blue. White. Blue. Handsome man, filthy vermin.
"Would you like me to lie to you now?"
"No."