The First Few Steps

By Girlpire

1. Admit that you are powerless over alcohol - that your life has become unmanageable.

It was harder to do than it sounded, admitting that he had a problem. When you were a monster who had become a champion who had become a human - who had become an alcoholic - things were even more complicated.

Angelus had always been in control, no matter what the situation. Nothing had ever been unmanageable to him, least of all life. Angelus had a handle on life. He took it, he granted it, he commanded it. There was never a time when he felt powerless. Even the rare times he'd been captured - by the Inquisition, by the Immortal, a few times when he'd woken up tied to the bed frame by his own sire - he'd always managed to get the upper hand in the end.

After the curse, he'd still managed. He wasn't powerless, he just wasn't evil. But the power was there, secreted under his skin. He didn't always use it, but he never felt that it wasn't there. There was a real difference between feeling powerless and feeling useless.

As a champion, he'd been almost more powerful than before, or that's what it felt like. It was harder to save a soul than to destroy one, given that the souls that needed the most saving were the ones in the process of destroying themselves already. And he'd done his duty, and he'd been the one in control, and he'd been powerful, and he'd been the one that everyone else looked to for guidance and strength and discipline and fucking virtue.

There was still power in being a human, Angel knew. Just because he wasn't physically strong anymore didn't mean that he couldn't control his own life, everyday situations, his destiny. He thought of Wesley, who'd also been a champion. Wesley was human, and he'd had strength Angel didn't even understand. He'd had power, too, and not just the magical kind. Wes had had a power over Angel - as his friend, his confessor. The power of Wesley's loyalty and trust was overwhelming to Angel. And when Wesley had died, a part of Angel, the part that was always in control, faltered.

Yeah, he drank. That part was easy to admit. Easy to see, even. And to smell. Spike told him regularly that he reeked of alcohol, but he paid no attention - and it wasn't as if Spike didn't also smell strongly of JD, stumbling into their shared apartment just before dawn, tipping gracefully onto the couch, and snoring the day away while Angel sat quietly drinking his breakfast, lunch, and dinner as if he lived on whisky now, instead of blood.

He hardly ever left the apartment.

In the end, that was probably what convinced Spike that Angel needed help. It was different, he'd said, going out to pubs and getting drunk and rowdy with other people. Because you're with other people, being social-like. But spending months sitting at home, staring at the wall and staying right sloshed for days on end just wasn't healthy. 'Specially if you didn't have vamp constitution anymore, and you actually used your liver (but buggered if he know for what). A vampire, see, can stop anytime. But humans get a thing called dependent.

Which is how Angel ended up in the program in the first place, and found himself admitting - even though it was terribly difficult - that he was powerless for the very first time, and that his life had become unmanageable.

2. Believe that a Power greater than yourself exists, and can restore you to sanity.

He actually laughed out loud when he found out about this part of the process. Oh yes, he believed in Higher Powers. His entire existence had been written and directed by such. And sure, he'd go ahead and believe that they could restore his sanity as well. The Powers were powerful; he got that. And it isn't as if one Power in particular hadn't only months ago put him back on his path as a champion of the world already.

Before the other Powers fucked them over by killing her off for good.

Okay, so he had issues with the Powers. But he did believe in them. And if Cordy were up there with them right now, he really really believed in her. If anyone could restore him to sanity, she could. She always had.

Plus she would probably really enjoy it if he prayed to her. That made him smile.

3. Make a decision to turn your will and your life over to the care of God as you understand Him.

This one took him a while. He didn't really believe in God, but he knew about the Powers, and he believed in Cordelia (he played with the idea of starting a cult, but the only person he could think of who would join it was Harmony, and he'd had as much of her as he could stand already). He liked the idea of turning his will over to Cordy as much as he had liked the idea of turning his credit card over to her a couple of years ago. Although someone probably couldn't spend your will on Prada boots, higher power or not. Well, maybe a higher power could. Maybe that's all they did, spending your will on things that weren't important and served no one but themselves. But he didn't want to think about that.

Angel didn't actually want to give his will to anyone, now that he thought about it. Free will was something he'd fought for forever. Or, well, for about eight years. It wasn't that long to a vampire, but he was human now, and he'd worked hard to earn the right to make his own decisions, and for that matter, it was his decision to sit and stare at the wall and drink, wasn't it? He'd earned that! What right did Spike have to drag him to these damned meetings twice a week and force him to turn his free will over to a God he didn't even believe in?

"Get in."
...
"Get in."
...
"Get in."
...

Spike sighed theatrically and looked upwards, his jaw clenched in frustration. "You know I'll put you in the car if you don't do it yourself, Peaches. Which would you rather, you get in like a good little poof and let me drive you to this meeting, or I throw you over my big manly shoulder and carry you the whole way? Don't make a difference to me if you'd rather embarrass yourself for twelve blocks. You're going, either way." He paused. "Now don't give me that look, wanker; I know where you sleep."

He'd practically already given up his free will anyway.

Angel thought about that. Turn your will and your life over to the care of God. Spike was no God, to be sure... but Angel had already turned his will over to him. And Angel really had no one else in his life - all of his friends were gone, dead. Spike was the only one who had stayed with him, had been there for him through everything, the final fight, the Shanshu, this struggle to deal with it all. Spike was caring for him now, even by making him go to these ridiculous and sometimes painful meetings that made him remember things he didn't want to remember. Spike was already caring for the new life inside him.

Good enough. Angel mentally amended the rule: Make a decision to turn your will and your life over to the care of Spike as you understand Him.

He didn't think he'd talk to Spike about this step. It would just inflate the blonde's ego. And anyway, they'd decided there wouldn't be anything mushy or sentimental between them. Their relationship was one of convenience. Not like they were friends.

4. Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of yourself.

Spike bought him a red spiral notebook and a pack of gel pens. He'd written "This book belongs to Peaches" on the inside cover and drawn a smiley face with a big forehead and hair that stuck straight up. Angel woke the morning after one of his meetings, found it on the bed next to him, and sighed. He'd mentioned that he was supposed to write everything down, take stock of his produce and throw out the bad apples, as it were. So here was a notebook and a pack of new pens, and no excuse not to do it.

He sort of hated Spike for caring so damn much.

It took him several days to make his list the way they do it in the Big Book. He wrote down the names of people, institutions, and principles that he resented, why he resented them, and what parts of him that resentment affected. Every word he wrote made him want a drink, but Spike had done away with all the alcohol and would have been able to smell it on him anyway. And Angel had noticed that Spike himself had stopped smelling so strongly of Jack Daniels these days. Spike was supporting him, the bastard. He finally added Spike's name to the bottom of the list, wrote that he resented him for being so fucking supportive without being overbearing or arrogant about it, and that if he were completely honest, it affected his pride.

And as long as he was being honest, he added a few more people to the list, citing long, involved reasons why he was resentful of them, not least Buffy with her superior attitude and Giles with his own special brand of condescension. And then he went back and scratched through Spike's name because damn it, he was shaping up to be a pretty good friend, and there was no good reason to resent him for being supportive. Which he kind of resented.

Angel considered the final draft of his list. It was a lot longer than he thought it would be. Of course, many of the people on it were dead, but still, as a champion he had not allowed himself to admit that that one guy in accounting - the one who always wore those skinny ties - threatened his masculinity by being so ripped that you could see his perfect abs through his shirt. Things like that built up inside him without being acknowledged and made him grumpy and prone to drink. Now that he had written them down, he did feel sort of liberated.

He also resented Wesley, Gunn, Cordelia, Doyle, and Fred for leaving him, which threatened his sense of security and made him feel vulnerable.

After making his list, it took even longer for Angel to master his resentment. He was supposed to accept that some of the people who had wronged him ought to be thought of as being sick, spiritually. That wasn't so difficult. But he should regard them as sick people: not blame them for being sick, but treat them with tolerance, pity, and patience. He was supposed to forgive and pray for them.

"Cordy, please help Harmony not to betray anyone else to the Senior Partners."

When he'd dealt with the people who'd wronged him, accepted that they were spiritually sick, he started working on the people he resented through no fault of their own. This was harder. Where Angel saw his own faults, he wrote them down on another page of his notebook. Where he could have been more sensitive, or open-minded, or thoughtful. He thought about his friends who were gone. He could have done things differently. Maybe if he hadn't been so willing to sacrifice everything he could have come up with a better plan. Why hadn't he stopped to consider that it was his fight, not theirs? He'd put all of their lives on the line time after time until he was the only one left alive, when his life was the one life he'd been prepared to give up. He'd taken them for granted and now he was alone. And God, he missed them so much...

Spike found him later, face-down in his red notebook, tears making the ink run. He put one hand on Angel's back and let it rest there until Angel turned, wrapped his arms around Spike, and held on tight. Spike just stroked Angel's hair and let him cry.

5. Admit to God, to yourself, and to another human being the exact nature of your wrongs.

He'd started immediately into this step, as soon as he'd found breath to talk. Spike had listened quietly to his halting monologue, which he began with his most recent wrongs against his friends. He moved back over the years, not always going into detail about his crimes, but always making sure it was clear when he was the one to blame, and what he could have done differently. It took hours.

Angel found himself leaning against Spike's shoulder as they sat on the bed late into the night. Their fingers occasionally brushed against each other on top of the covers. They ignored their no-mush rule for the time, allowing Angel to get out everything that he needed to, Spike nodding and sometimes touching his hand when it was called for. Angel felt the blonde tense up when he began to talk about Buffy and her friends, but he didn't stop. Then he was moving backward again, feeling some of the tension in Spike's shoulder soften as he described other things he wished he'd handled differently... 1952, that whole hotel full of people... Lawson, during WWII... and back, and back...

1898...

"Hush, Angel, no need to go into that." Spike's voice was quiet but firm. "Can't help anything you did before you got a soul. Wouldn't be right, blaming yourself for your demon's actions."

"That was the year I got my soul," Angel told him.

"Then you were scared, confused, maybe did some things you aren't proud of, but there's no point dredging all that up now. You did what you thought you had to do at the time. Let's leave it at that, yeah?"

"I thought the point was to get it all out," Angel said, lifting his head from Spike's shoulder to look him in the eye.

"Leave it," Spike repeated firmly. At Angel's expression, he sighed. "You've suffered, Angel," he said, touching Angel's hand again. "You feel remorse for the things you've done wrong. For everything. I know it, you know it, the Powers that bloody Be know it... so there's no reason to spell it all out again. As far as I'm concerned, everything you've told me tonight has been cleared off your record. Just don't... don't think about it anymore. I don't want to see you hurting." He squeezed Angel's hand and slowly climbed off the bed. "I'm proud of you, Angel," he said. "Now get some sleep. It's been a long day."

6. Be ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
7. Humbly ask Him to remove your shortcomings.

Angel lay in bed alone and considered steps six and seven. Had his talk with Spike already taken care of those two? He thought about what Spike had said to him. That was exactly what the program called for. But then, he hadn't been ready for Spike to absolve him, and he hadn't exactly asked for it either. He supposed it didn't make a difference. The fact was that Spike forgave and forgot, and it was precisely what Angel needed. He felt free for the first time in a very long while.

He was also very glad that he hadn't had to confess everything to another human. He couldn't even begin to imagine that sort of conversation with an ex-Scooby.

8. Make a list of all persons you have harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all.

In his red notebook (Spike had drawn a peach on the cover), Angel made his list on the front and back of one page. He drew a small box next to each one. He placed a check in the box next to the names of people he was willing to make amends to.

He found he couldn't remember if he'd ever apologized for killing Willow's fish. Of course, he hadn't had a soul then, but it was only polite to say you're sorry for something so rude.

It took him nearly two weeks to finally check all of the boxes. The last two names without checks were Riley Finn and Rupert Giles.

Spike was looking at the list over his shoulder. "Gits, both of them," he'd said, indicating their names. "I ever tell you the Watcher tried to off me when Buffy weren't looking?" He scowled at the memory.

"Well, that doesn't help," Angel said, putting his pen down with a sigh.

"And soldier-boy there called me ass-face."

Angel broke into a grin. "Really?" He picked the pen back up and pretended to check the box next to Riley's name.

Spike shoved him. "Not nice."

Angel's grin faded as he stared at the empty boxes again. "I wouldn't even know where to begin with Giles," he murmured.

"So don't begin with him," advised Spike. "Think of it as finishing with him. You'd never have to talk to him again, right?"

"That's a good point," Angel admitted. He put a checkmark next to both names, then smiled innocently at Spike. "Thanks, ass-face."

Spike rolled his eyes and shoved Angel again. As he did, he glanced down at the list, noticing for the first time his own name next to a checked box. He raised an eyebrow at Angel and picked up the pen, drawing one line straight through his name.

"Don't worry about that one, pet," he said. He patted Angel on the back and walked away.

9. Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

Again, most of the people on his list were dead. He wrote them letters anyway, long and detailed, then put them away in his sock drawer, trusting Cordelia to send the messages along. When he'd finished with those, he began writing letters to the living people on his list, after deciding that personal visits probably wouldn't go over well. He knew that showing up on Buffy's doorstep as a human - and a recovering alcoholic - when she was happily in the middle of a satisfying relationship with the Immortal would probably cause more pain than was necessary, so he wrote her a letter too (leaving his apology to the Immortal in a one-line P.S. at the end of Buffy's twelve pages).

Willow wrote him back. So did Andrew. Riley sent a postcard: "Thanks. I'm over it." The picture was a man wearing a tutu, on whose face he'd drawn fangs. It was labeled Hostile 17. Angel found it more amusing than Spike did.

Spike took him to visit Connor in person at Stanford.

On the way back to L.A., Angel requested a stop. It was a little out of the way, a Midwestern tourist trap Spike had barely heard of, but Angel gave precise directions from memory, and Spike had no trouble finding it.

They ended up sitting in the car outside of a smallish Donut Hut for about twenty minutes before Spike finally said, "Fine, I'll ask. Why this place?" He gestured toward the retro-style building. "And please tell me we don't have to go in." He looked at Angel. "You didn't want to eat here, did you?"

Angel shook his head. "I ate here once... about thirty years ago," he said. "I've never been back." He squinted through the windshield. "It looks just the same."

"All these places look the same to me," Spike said.

They were quiet for a while. Then Angel said, "Did you ever feel like you really needed to say something, but you didn't quite know what it was, and even if you did know what it was, you wouldn't be able to figure out what words to use to make it come out right anyway?"

Spike blinked. He opened his mouth as if to reply, then hesitated. "I used to be a poet," he finally said. "A bad one. Pretty much felt like that most of the time."

Angel nodded. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded envelope. He handed it to Spike.

"What's this then?"

"I wrote you a letter," Angel said. Spike started to say something, but Angel cut him off. "You don't have to read it," he hurried. "I just... I needed to."

Spike stared at the envelope for a long moment. Then he nodded and tucked the letter into his pocket, not looking at Angel.

Angel turned and looked at the Donut Hut again. "It's hard," he said. "Being human. I didn't think it would be."

Spike didn't say anything.

Angel continued, "Not harder than being a souled vampire... Really, I'd say it's almost equal. You just have different ways to punish yourself."

They sat in silence for a few minutes more, and then Angel finally said, "Okay, I'm ready to go now." He watched Spike crank up the car again. "Thanks," he said. "For being there for me. I couldn't have, you know, made it this far without you."

Spike glanced in the rearview before backing out of the parking space. He half-shrugged without looking at Angel and began to pull out of the lot back onto the road. "The first few steps are the hardest, Peaches," he said. "Just don't go getting all sentimental on me again. It's a long drive."

~Fin