Home / Fan Fiction / Angel / Epiphany / I'm So Happy That I Can't Stop Crying

Disclaimer: The following is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe of the rights of Joss Whedon, the WB, Mutant Enemy or any other copyright holders of Angel.

I'm So Happy That I Can't Stop Crying
by The Brat Queen, Meredith and Keren

Spoilers: Up to Epiphany, after which Joss and I go separate ways.

Rated: PG

Summary: Angel sings at Caritas in order to get advice about Wesley, then things get even worse.

Author's Note: If you'd like to read the non-slash, Buffy & Spike related portions of this story, then check out Unfinished Business, the other half of this Epiphany/Strange Bedfellows crossover. And props to Tim Minear and Sting for title inspiration.

"I'm laughing through my tears, laughing through my tears…" Angel trailed off as the monitor in front of him stopped showing lyrics. The audience of Caritas - a good crowd for that time of night - applauded, more in response to him being done than anything else.

The Host jumped onto the stage. "Be with you in just a sec," he told Angel, then turned to address the crowd. "Well that was a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll, wasn't it gang? Next up -"

Angel stopped listening as he got off the stage. He found himself a spot alone at the bar, turned down the bartender's offer for a glass of O Neg, and instead ordered himself a Bass. The drink comforted and distracted him at the same time.

"You know," the Host said, sitting beside him a few minutes later, "I enjoy country music as much as the next man - or even more since the next man is you and not that cute lawyer you're always so tangled up with - but I've got to ask - why'd ya pick a song written by Sting for Zaptar's sakes? Every Breath You Take hitting a little too close to home these days?"

"Why can I touch Wesley?" Angel asked.

The Host blinked. "So - not much for small talk tonight. Fine. I won't take it personally. But you could call or write when the world isn't ending one of these days."

"You came to me when the world was ending," Angel pointed out. "And this is about Wes. Why can I touch Wes?"

"I assume we're going for an answer here other than 'Because you look so good in black, you big hunk of hero you'?" off of Angel's look, the Host relented. "Fine. You want to know about the curse. Why is it that cute little Slayers make you outdo Darth Vader for this year's Mr. Madman competition, while Wesley just makes you sing fake Country and Western music - although if you asked me frankly it's a toss up as to which is the bigger crime."

"Do I have to sing again?" Angel asked, not really liking that he had to use it as a threat, but knowing when his options were limited.

The Host patted him on the shoulder. "Easy, Angelica - no need to get violent. We're all friends here. Try to remember that. Especially when I tell you that I don't know."

It took a moment for Angel to parse this. "What?"

The Host shrugged. "I'm not a magician. I read your future. He's not gonna make you lose your soul tonight, or tomorrow. And you should really lock your front door. That's all I can tell you. If you want to know more try asking a gypsy."

Angel struggled to come to terms with this. "But -"

"Yeah, 'but' - there's always one of those," the Host agreed. "Such as - 'but why do you care?' Face it, my ever-brooding friend, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is the best thing that happened to you since somebody looked at a cow and saw something pants shaped. All that and you're having sex with him too. I say don't rock the boat."

"I nearly drank from him," Angel said, pitching his voice low so no one else could hear. "I could have killed him."

"Could have, didn't, who cares?" the Host made a mollifying gesture. "Don't get me wrong - I know your darker half isn't exactly something you want to associate the words 'Wesley' and 'snuggly' with, but face it, Angelcakes - you didn't get a say in the last time you lost your soul, what makes you think you're going to get one now? You of all people should know there's no guarantees in life."

"I - I don't want to hurt him," Angel said. He clutched his glass of beer, feeling beads of condensation fall down on his hand. "Tell me that I won't hurt him."

The Host stared at him for a beat. "Yeah, 'cause that's up to me. Was personal responsibility a lesson you completely skipped this past year? Because if I have to relive you going through your Darla phase again, just lock me in a room with Britney Spears trying to sing La Traviata because believe me - that'd be more merciful." More kindly, the Host added. "Look - other than me and everybody else with a set of working eyes nobody thought of you getting together with Wesley. It wasn't in the cards. But you have it now. Take the happiness you've got for all it's worth. The unhappiness really isn't up to you."

"I started this," Angel said, standing up and throwing a few bills down onto the bar in exchange for his beer. "It's always up to me."

The Host sighed. "You know - some day that boy's going to teach you - well, never mind. Just be safe tonight, huh?"

Hours later, he returned to the Hyperion still lacking answers and not feeling any better for the detour he'd taken to vanquish a demon straight out of Cordy's visions. Violence had helped, but it hadn't changed anything. Wes was still in danger from him. Or could be. Not tonight, not tomorrow, but -

The door to the hotel slammed a second time.

"Hi Honey, I'm home!"

Suddenly the Host's third piece of advice came flooding back to him. Angel reached out and grabbed an ax off of the countertop, turning to face the intruder. "Spike."

His grandson smiled back at him. "Angel."

"Leave."

"Now that's not very hospitable of you, sunshine," Spike said. He made his way into the lobby, angling for a chair. Angel moved forward to intercept him and drag him back out into the daylight, slamming the door behind him. "But out of the evilness of my - Aah! Bloody Hell!"

Angel ignored the scream, heading back inside.

"You sodding pillock!" Spike yelled, then chose a few more of his riper curse words, before entering the hotel once again. Angel couldn't tell if he'd forgotten to lock the door on purpose or if he really was that out of sorts. "Right. The Slayer's meeting me here when she's done her business, mate, and she won't be best pleased to find her ride home's become a pile of blasted ashes while she was out."

Deciding that he didn't care why he'd allowed Spike back in again, Angel settled on throwing the axe into the wall just to the left of Spike's ear.

Spike reached up and freed the axe in a small shower of paint and plaster, hefting it in his hands. "Well. That's more like it. Welcome the prodigal with gifts and entertainment."

Angel sighed. "Spike, get the hell out of here."

"Wow," Spike said. "Seven whole words. That a personal best?"

"Well hey then, let's make it eleven," Angel replied. "Fuck you. Get out."

"In your poncy dreams," Spike said, counting the words off on his hand. "And I'd love to but I can't, mate." Realizing that the last two words left Spike's hand in a classic rude gesture, he held them up, pleased with the coincidence.

Angel simply stared at him. "I'm tired and I'm armed. What do you want, Spike?"

Spike put the axe in an umbrella stand, then moved to sit on the ottoman, crossing his legs at the ankles. "Beer'd be nice."

"Yeah, it would," Angel said. "Why aren't you leaving again?"

Spike heaved a heavy put-upon sigh and got up, making an over-dramatic production of finding Angel's fridge, taking out two beers, twisting off their caps and handing one of them to Angel before sitting back down again. "Big ball of fire in the sky? You've heard of it?"

"Yeah," Angel replied, wrapping his hands around the cool glass. "It's the thing that kills annoying vampires. Why don't you go take a look? I hear it's fun."

"By comparison, yes," Spike said, "But I'm stuck here till the Slayer comes."

The ridiculousness of the situation and Spike's words finally sunk in. "Why are you with Buffy? Why are you here? Why do I care?"

"'Cause she's strong an' brave an' her…" Spike cupped his hands by his chest in a dreamy fashion. Angel responded by flicking his wrist, making a stake come ratcheting into his hand. Looking at it, Spike snorted. "Thank you, Inspector Gadget."

Angel shrugged. "Yeah, well, it slices, it dices, it juliennes…"

Spike dropped his hands, finally becoming serious. Or as close to serious as he ever got. "She wanted to talk to Faith. So we came down. I dropped her off at the jail to wait for visiting hours and came here to do a little father-son bonding."

Angel was taken aback by the reason, but tried not to show it to Spike, covering the reaction by turning and heading towards the weapons cabinet. "Sure. I'll get the chains."

"And me without my riding crop," Spike said. "What's your safe word, anyway? 'Hair gel'?"

"No," Angel replied. "'Spike's here.' I find that kills any mood."

"'S not what Buffy says."

Angel slammed his beer down on the counter, turning and grabbing Spike in a blur of movement, positioning his stake inches from Spike's chest. "Why should I let you live?"

Spike tried to look non-plussed. "'Cause you'd miss me, sunshine."

"I was doin' fine before you got here, Spike," Angel said. "Don't really need you here now. But if you wanted to leave, I'd be happy to pretend I missed you."

"Pretend I've left," Spike said. He reached over the stake to grab a pack of cigarettes out of his T-shirt pocket. "Don't let me get in your way."

Angel frowned. Something about this was strangely familiar. The scent of Buffy on Spike was far stronger than it should have been. Hating the images that this brought to his imagination, he stepped back, gesturing with the stake in his hand. "I was doing that. I was doing that before you got here. I really liked it. Nothing to lose the soul over, but still. But then you showed up, instead of picking, gee, I dunno, any one of the thousands of bars, restaurants, hotels, and shopping malls in Los Angeles to stay in. 'Cause ya know, out of all those, I'm the one who's gonna give you a warm welcome." Rolling his eyes, Angel went back to the counter, slapping the stake down and chugging his beer.

"But where's the fun in that?" Spike asked, lighting the cigarette as he joined him and casually exhaling the smoke in Angel's face. "Besides, this place has the best rate."

"What makes you think I'm gonna let you stay here?"

"'Cause you don't want to piss the Slayer off?" Spike guessed.

"And she cares about you because why again?"

Spike shrugged. "You'd have to ask her, mate. I'd say it's a toss up between my classic good looks and my devastating charm."

"Yeah," Angel said. "Or maybe she just likes taking on charity cases."

Spike's jaw clenched as he blew out another puff of smoke. "No, 'cause she let you leave for L.A."

"If anybody's around you, Spike, it's pity," Angel grabbed the cigarette out of Spike's hand and stabbed it out on the counter. "And I didn't say you could smoke here."

"Pity's your line, Mr. I Can Never Be Happy," Spike replied. "Pity and guilt. The Slayer gave you her heart and you gave her Hell. She comes to me for a good time, and believe me, she gets it."

Angel responded with his fist, sending Spike spinning to the ground.

Spike got up with only a hint of difficulty. "Truth hurts, doesn't it?"

"No," Angel said. "I hurt you."

"Yeah," Spike scoffed. "When you don't have an answer."

Angel flicked his other wrist to pop his second stake out. "I got my answer right here."

"You gonna kill every boyfriend she gets?" Spike asked. "Or just the vamps?"

"Just you," Angel replied.

Spike straightened his shoulders. "All right then. Tell her I love her."

Angel felt a spark of anger flare up within him. "What the fuck is with you Spike? What's the scheme here, huh? You've been goin' at this for months now and you know what? I'm bored. So whatever it is, lets just get it over with, 'cause I got enough to deal with."

Spike stared at him blankly. "Months? I grant you this conversation feels like its been going on forever, but I just got here."

"This whole scheme with Buffy, Spike," Angel repeated. "What's the goal?"

"Dating. Sex. Love," Spike replied. "Y'know, holding hands in public and making Xander sick to his stomach?"

"Why Buffy?"

"'Cause I love her. We did that bit."

Angel tossed the stake in his hand onto the counter with contempt, grabbing at his beer and walking away. "You don't even know what love is."

In a rush of air, Angel found himself tackled to the ground as Spike leapt on top of him, pressing the point of the stake into his back and causing the beer bottle to go flying across the floor. "Don't you bloody tell me about love, Angel. You left her."

Angel jabbed back with his elbow, knocking the stake out of Spike's hand and Spike himself off of Angel's back. He rolled over, pinning Spike down by the neck and growling, making a show of yellow in his eyes. "Yeah. I did. And if you loved her, you would too."

"What?" Spike asked, giving Angel a growl of his own. "Runnin' off when things turn ugly is how you treat someone you love? I shoulda known."

Angel sneered, tightening his grip on Spike's throat. "You don't know anything."

Spike looked up without flinching. "I know I'll fight for her and I'll die for her and I won't fucking leave her alone."

"She doesn't need you."

"She needs someone," Spike said. "And I'm all she's got."

"Got the whole gang of Scoobies, Spike," Angel said. "She doesn't need you."

"Then what the bleedin' hell am I doin' here, huh?" Spike asked. "See any Scoobies?"

Angel could picture himself tightening his hand even more, crushing Spike's throat and spine with his bare hands. "I don't fucking care. She's lived without you before; she can do it again."

"For how long?"

Angel blinked. "What?"

"How long," Spike repeated. "How long would she live without me to guard her back when she takes on the sodding vamp hordes?"

"Yeah," Angel said, "'Cause if there's one thing a Vampire Slayer needs, it's a vampire to help her."

"'Super strength, rapid-healing powers, insight into the enemy mindset. And a partner who can supply the occasional quip.'" Spike quoted.

Angel pulled Spike up by the throat and slammed his head down onto the floor, standing up. "Leave her, Spike."

Spike stood, hopping up onto the counter and making himself comfortable. "Promised I wouldn't."

"Break it."

"Die first."

"Happy to help."

"Why?" Spike demanded. "I'm helping her, you moron!"

"You're a vampire, Spike," Angel said, amazed that he had to explain it at all, let alone repeat it. "You can't help anybody. Just yourself."

"Yes," Spike said, speaking with exaggerated slowness. "Me vampire. You vampire. You help people. It's on your bloody business cards. Me help Slayer. Slayer hit things. Vampires, surprisingly, quite good at violence. If the Slayer ever decides to hand out Bibles, then no, probably not so much an asset to the bleedin' team."

"So what," Angel asked, thoroughly unconvinced. "You get this …chip thing in your head and now you're one of the good guys?"

Spike blinked. "'Course not. I help the Slayer. What's good got to do with anything?"

Angel put a hand to his head, feeling the beginnings of a headache. "Why didn't I kill you in 1884?"

"'Cause Dru threatened to cut up all your poncy clothes," Spike replied.

"Oh, yeah, there was a good decision. Let you live, or have a shopping spree." Angel shook his head, unable to believe which choice he picked.

"Yeah, well," Spike shrugged. "We had to get out of town in a bit of a hurry, and Nancy boy you didn't fancy roughing it till we got to Madrid."

"I don't like sleeping in graveyards!"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Oh, no, you'd rather pay a bloody fortune for a room with a view. Which you can't see 'cause it's dark out!"

"Darla liked the view and…shut up!"

"Oh that's witty repartee," Spike replied. "Oscar Wilde's got nothin' on you. 'Cept for the clothes maybe."

"No," Angel repeated, holding up his hand as he tried to listen for a sound he was convinced had been there just moments before. "Shut up!"

Just then the doors of the hotel burst open, spilling humans and demons into the lobby. Angel whirled around to face them as Spike hopped off of the counter, ready to join in.

"Get him!" one of the men shouted, and the mob of attackers came forward in a rush.

Having no idea which "him" they were referring to, Angel decided to defend himself first and ask questions later. He grabbed his axe out of the umbrella stand and headed towards the largest demon, hacking at it with the blade. But on the third strike, the demon managed to grab the handle and yank the weapon out of Angel's grasp, throwing Angel himself across the room with surprising strength.

Stars danced in front of Angel's eyes for only a moment before he could regain his footing. Across the lobby he could see Spike grappling with two smaller demons - one on each arm. Spike managed to dispatch one against the countertop before being tossed against a wall by its friend.

Any desire to help Spike - if he would have had any desire to do so in the first place - was forestalled by the approach of two humans bearing crosses. With thinning patience, Angel spun, kicking the cross out of the hand of one and cracking the head of the other as his kick followed through. Grabbing them both by the hair, Angel knocked their skulls together and dropped them, unconscious, down onto the floor. Thinking that the night was definitely easier when all he'd had to worry about was what song to pick at Caritas, Angel once again turned to see how Spike was doing, only to find that somehow during the battle Spike had been overtaken, and was now lying prone on the floor.

Instinct took over. Angel lunged forward, aiming for the minions who were hovering around Spike's body. A sharp burst of pain blossomed out between his shoulder blades. Thinking it was no more than a regular bullet, Angel changed face, turning towards the shooter…

…only to find himself stumbling down to the ground as the drugs inside the fired needle took effect, making him pass out.