Spike held the document in one hand, a quill in the other. Martin was lighting the headmaster's pipe again, with some difficulty.
"Oh, before I sign this thing, question?" Spike said looking up from the piece of very official looking embossed paper.
"Hmmm?" Martin replied absent-mindedly.
"Why all this?" Spike waved his index fingers around, indicating his unflattering, uncomfortable clothes, and his current surroundings-the Headmaster's chambers.
"Funny, huh? This some place you used to work or something? Freakin' old."
Spike watched as smoke emerged from Martin's mouth and the end of the pipe. "Somethin' like that, yeah." He was niccing. Bad. How was that even possible? Dead people can't have nic fits, can they?
"The Even-Higher Powers like to let people's subconscious decide what things should look like around here. This place is what you associate with structure, bureaucracy, and authority. We're like heaven's City Hall. People picture anything from the DMV to the set from Night Court."
"And these bloody awful clothes?"
"You got me."
Spike sighed, and placed the paper on the Headmaster's desk. He took an emotionally necessary deep breath, and signed his name at the bottom, next to the X. None of this 'William the Bloody" nonsense. Just Spike.
~~*~*~~
Angel's hand found its way around the small man's neck easily. He and Fred had left Gunn in the hallway with Sleepy McUseless, and snuck into the bedroom, where they found Mr. McUseless' long lost brother, Snory. Otherwise known as Hingston Monroe (as it so conveniently stated on the letterhead Fred spied on the dresser). He had fallen asleep watching Elimidate. And now the dark haired, angry looking vampire was about to wake him up by shaking him by the neck. At least that's what it looked like to Fred, until Angel, his hand still loosely around the neck of Mr. Monroe, motioned with his head for Fred to come closer.
"Get on top of him," he whispered.
"Angel!" Fred was not on board with this plan.
"Hold this up to his throat." He handed her a switchblade. She still did not move. "You need practice with the threatening."
She climbed onto the bed, like a kid walking up to the blackboard in the class they didn't do the homework for. She straddled the man, who looked to be about 50 years old, and reminded her of the guy in her hometown who worked at the gas station who looked like Steve Buscemi. Now Angel seemed somewhat amused by the whole situation, which frankly, annoyed the heck out of her. He stepped away from the bed, grabbed the remote from the night-table, and switched off the TV.
"Monroe!" he yelled. The man's eyes opened immediately.
"Don't move an inch-unless of course you enjoy having sharp metal objects inserted into major arterial veins?" Fred tried to sound as menacing as possible, and she turned to Angel for approval. He gave a half-hearted nod and snarl, the kind that evokes 'passable.'
"Oh, she's vicious. Don't piss her off. She doesn't look too tough, but, you know that guard dog of yours? She broke its neck and ripped its legs off, no problem," Angel said matter-of-factly.
"Th-th-this is unacceptable!" He stammered, writhing under Fred's weight.
"I know! These curtains with that bedspread? What was the decorator thinking?"
"What do you want?" Monroe said awkwardly, trying not to flex a muscle in his neck. Fred stared down at him intently, squinting her eyes like a character from a Sergio Leone movie. Although she had been reluctant at first, she was starting to enjoy this little role playing game.
"Taken inventory of your Gatbars demons lately?" Angel asked. Monroe simply made a loud gulping noise. "They aren't too bright, those Gatbars. Follow orders fine. Sometimes too fine, isn't that right?"
"I hired that girl. We had a deal," Monroe whined.
"Let me guess: you knew that someone had successfully used the Stone for the first time. Knew what it would look like? Told your muscle to find the red rock, and bring it home to daddy? What you didn't know was that the essence was released from the stone and it was back to being white. It's okay, we all make mistakes."
"Those damned lawyers stole it from me. I am the only person entitled to the Stone of Hrathgund."
"And what makes you so freaking special?" Fred snapped.
" My name at birth was Tobias Iversen. That stone was made by my ancestors hundreds of years ago. It was only during the Napoleonic wars that my great-great-great grandmother lost it when those barbaric British soldiers bombed our home in Copenhagen. It belongs to me."
"It's dangerous. Why should we trust you with it?" asked Angel gravely.
"Why should I trust you? I only want the Stone in order to keep its powers from being abused, its value to me is sentimental. I have a duty to my family to keep it safe. I swear." Monroe gulped again as he stared back into Fred's most convincing psycho girl expression.
There was a noise, like a deep growl, that came from out in the hallway. Angel and Fred turned to the door, which vibrated as a result of a loud thump.
"Security," Monroe informed them.
~~*~*~~
Gunn had been guarding an unconscious Spike in the hallway when he heard the footsteps. They were getting louder quickly. He assessed the Spike situation again: leaned over him, shook his shoulder and said "Spike! wake the fuck up!" and then observed a gigantic bear (although Gunn wasn't sure how big bears were supposed to be, since he had never met one before) lurch towards him on hind legs, and slam him against the door. Wait. That wasn't part of the assessment.
"Shit! What is this place? Clive Barker's Animal Kingdom?" Gunn asked himself, as he fought off the furry brown beast, which no, was not as cute in person as on the National Geographic channel. As he laid a nasty punch into its big black nose, it let out a terrific growl that Gunn could feel reverberate through his entire skeleton. But the bear took a stumble backwards, shocked by the blow, and allowed Gunn to manuever behind it, to try and take it down, somehow. The bear, of course, had other plans. It found something better to play with, something lying perfectly prone on the floor like a new doll. It lunged at Spike, claws first.
~~*~*~~
"Just give me the Stone," Monroe said
"How about we make a deal?" said Angel, listening to the thumps, bangs and growls coming from just outside the room. "I mean you aren't exactly in a position to make demands, but I'm feeling philanthropic. Stop harassing Gwen Raiden, don't let whatever the hell is out there kill any of my people, I'll give you the Stone."
~~*~*~~
The bear was making a light snack of Spike's shoulder when Gunn realised what was happening and climbed onto its back. He reached around its tree trunk neck, and tried to strangle it. As he clenched his arm muscles he could hear bone cracking under the pressure of the animal's unforgiving jaw. Not good. And why the fuck didn't he have a weapon? He always had a weapon. He must have lost it outside fighting the pooch. Spike, who was now bleeding all over his, had a weapon. As Gunn reached for it, other arm still strangling the bear, he heard Wesley's voice:
"Gunn, move out of the way!" he yelled. Gunn released his hold, and rolled efficiently to the other side of the hall. He looked up and saw Gwen reach towards the bear with a dark silver staff. But before she could zap it, the bedroom door opened. In the doorway stood a short, awkward faced man, in green silk pyjamas. Fred stood close behind him, holding a knife to his throat.
"Loki, bedtime!" he cried. The bear stopped mid-snack, and looked up at his master.
"Bedtime!" Monroe repeated. Loki, face smeared with blood, looked down at the floor. He then proceeded to curl himself up into a ball like a house cat, and close his beady black eyes. Fred released her grip around Monroe's neck, and she and Angel stepped around the animal, and into the hallway. Angel pulled the Stone of Hrathgund from the depths of his pants pocket, turned back towards Monroe, and tossed it to the impish millionaire.
Meanwhile, Gwen and Wesley assessed Spike's damages. Gwen had seen some pretty nasty stuff, especially with the recent apocalypse and all, but not like this. Cartilage, bone, ragged flesh- it was messy. Very messy. When she bent down and realised she was a bit too close, she turned away and held in a wimpy girlish gasp, while Wes did the best he could to tidy things up. Spike's shirt was already drenched in blood, so he used his own, and tried to decide how to put it to use.
"Anything remotely evil happens in the vicinity of that rock, I'll know it, and you'll answer for it. Do not doubt that," Angel said to the cowering Tobias Iversen, who crouched next to his pet bear, as if using the huge sleeping creature as a shield.
"Angel, we'd best get him home . . ." Wesley said, interrupting Angel's wet-yourself threatening glare at the man behind the bear.
"Fine," Angel replied, as he helped drag Spike down the hallway. "He's going in your car though."
~~*~*~~
As soon as he laid the quill down on the desk, Spike was somewhere else entirely. Beneath him was a metal cot. The room he now found himself in was brightly lit, and small. There was some medical equipment in one corner, a heavy steel door, then more equipment-but the supernatural kind. There were some ancient wood and stone carvings hanging on hooks, a few bottles of oddly coloured potions, and a dozen or so jars filled with various specimens and ingredients, zoological, cryptozoological, geological and a bunch of other 'ogicals'.
A hissing noise started to come out of the wall somewhere, followed by a deep male voice:
"Please remain seated. An attendant will be with you shortly."
Spike tried to stand of course, but found that an invisible force was holding him down.
"Typical." Spike tapped his fingers on the cot, and looked around the room for a camera or listening device of some kind. "I'm here you wankers!" he yelled out at the walls. "Come get your pound of flesh! Let's have it done with." The steel door opened. A middle-aged woman in a white lab coat who reminded Spike uncomfortably of the Initiative bitch-except brunette-approached him with all the goods she needed to draw her little sample; an empty plasma bag (just a few drops, eh?), tubing, needle. She didn't speak. Just grabbed his arm, tied a rubber band tight around, pinched the inside of his elbow, and stuck him. Spike didn't twitch a muscle. He just stared at the woman, who was definitely avoiding eye contact, he decided.
"So, what do you do for fun around here? Wherever here is," He asked suavely. Blood was beginning to fill the bottom of the bag, and the woman patted it. She furrowed her brow at his question.
"Fun?" she said quietly.
"A shy one, aren't ya? I like the shy ones. They don't scream so loud. But when I rip into them . . ." he said softly into her ear, as if it were the most original pick-up line ever uttered. He was bored, and irritated. Making his own fun.
"Is that supposed to scare me?" she said-not so shy suddenly. "You're forgetting who I work for. They have mail room clerks scarier than you, punk."
"You haven't read my resume obviously," Spike said in his gruff voice. "Are you going to tell me what this is for?" he asked, pointing with his chin towards the bag of blood that was already nearly full. "Not like there's anything I can do about it now, is there?"
"No. There really isn't," she said, in a tone that definitely reminded him of Dr. Butch from back in Sunny-D. He cringed.
"What could you possibly do that's so horrible with just a pint of blood?"
"Oh, not just any pint. You know that."
"Vampire's. Not hard to get your paws on really. This seems like a hell of a lot of trouble to go to," Spike said with an air of curiosity, as the woman pulled the needle from his skin.
"Nice try. I'm not telling," she said, labelling the bag of blood.
"He won't remember. Tell him, it might prove interesting," said the voice from the wall. The woman didn't look up. She must have been accustomed to people giving her orders through PA systems.
"Yes. Please do," Spike added.
"We are going to use your blood for breeding. You were the last sample we needed. We've had the other three, Darla, Angel and Drusilla, for a while now. But we found they just would not do. The blood requires, shall we say, unique qualities. We knew yours would accommodate us."
"Breeding," Spike laughed. "That's the brilliant plan? Artificially insanguinate some ex-cons? Revive the old order of Aurelius? Oh, the horror," he taunted.
"You're half way there."
"Alright, enlighten me. What evil scheme have the Wolfies come up with this time?"
"We are going to turn one who has already been chosen. The childe destined to be a brilliant leader and a great fighter. That was always the trouble with vampires. They're stupid creatures, living on instinct. Except for the chosen few. The Aurelians. And now we can customize the next addition ourselves."
"You make it sound like a bloody hot-rod. They can't expect this vamp to do their bidding, can they?"
"Of course not. We understand that vampires are independent creatures, especially your line. We just want to influence the results."
"Results?"
"In the prophesy we found, it states that a new Aurelian will be sired, and that it will have the power and intelligence to lead thousands of Vampires, and other beasts. What it doesn't say is what side this Aurelian will be on. It's been left up to fate. A fate we already have a hand in."
"Except you're forgetting one thing. If it's an Aurelian you're looking to create, you'll be needing a bond. Between me and the kid? Gotta drink his blood too for that to happen."
"Oh, you will."
There were plenty of reasons to say no. Totally valid, believable reasons. All of which would have been utter bullshit. Except the one where she said: "No, I'd prefer it if we didn't bring Spike to my apartment, because I have a huge crush on him, and I will feel extremely uncomfortable alone there, alone with him lying half-naked and bleeding on my couch." But Gwen didn't say that, or anything at all like that. In fact, when Wesley suggested it ("Well, you are closer, and that penthouse is still quite a shambles from your brawl last night with the demons"), she simply nodded, and asked if he had any hard liquor in the car anywhere.
So now she sat in her armchair, drinking the most foul tasting whiskey ever to impose itself on her taste buds, reading John Donne, and occasionally glancing over at the vampire lying half-naked and bleeding on her couch. Thankfully, he was still unconscious. And whether it was because of the memory spell, or because he had been mauled by a bear was really of no consequence. All that mattered was that he wasn't in any apparent pain, and she did not have to interact with him. Because, damn it, she wasn't in the mood to act all googley and smooshy. She had no experience in that field. She was new to the touchy feely stuff, and she knew, she just knew, that the second Spike woke up and started making little moaning hurt-boy noises she would be utter mush. Awkwardness would unavoidably follow. Then she would have to insult Spike in some dry, sarcastic manner, and he would retort with some snide remark about her red leather furniture, and that would be the end of it. She would go to bed, and Spike would leave the next morn- oh, well evening anyway, and they would never see each other again. The thought alone made her practically suicidal. What the hell was wrong with her?
He was shirtless, except for the large section of his torso around the right shoulder blade that had been patched up in the car. The bandages Wes had found in his trunk next to the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red (Gwen preferred Glenlivet, but desperate times called for. . . getting plastered on whatever was in arm's reach) were soaked, but not dripping. Her book was basically a prop at this point. She was just watching Spike now, mesmerized. He was completely still: his limbs did not move, his chest did not rise and fall, his head did not toss. The only thing that gave indication of life was the slight twitching of his closed eyes. He frowned slightly, and his hair was dishevelled, which seemed to soften his sharp features. He didn't look, what had Wesley told her? 130 years old? And it wasn't because of the obvious. Of course physically, he didn't look it. That was part of the vampire package. But he didn't give off that old person vibe. Like even some little kids do. They say they have old souls. She supposed Spike had a very young soul.
She wanted to know more about that soul- about how he got it back; if it was the same one he had before he was turned and it had just been in cold storage or something; or if it was a brand new one. Before meeting Angel, she hadn't even thought they existed. Then suddenly she had one too. But how come she couldn't feel it? Where did it come from? Did Charles Manson have one? Her mind was bubbling with questions as she watched Spike slowly open his eyes. Hey! He was, wasn't he? Gwen knelt beside him, as he squinted at the ceiling. He mumbled something under his breath that she couldn't make out.
"What?" she said, not really expecting a response.
"I said," he whispered, looking over at her "That fucking hurts!" He said it significantly louder this time.
"Oh, you were, ah, attacked. By a bear," she said apologetically.
"Right, I must have been in the loo at that part," he said, groaning a bit as he reached for his wounded shoulder.
"Don't move around so much. You need to let it heal." She sounded more annoyed than concerned.
"S'nothing."
"You haven't seen it. You're lucky the arm isn't still in San Pedro." Gwen noticed she was pointing her finger at him. The booze was finally hitting her. She always pointed a lot when she was drunk for some reason. Spike looked uninterested. He was thinking, scheming perhaps.
"Got to go, luv" he said, and began to get up off the couch. Gwen held her hand out to block him.
"You're insane! You won't make it to the lobby," Gwen said, pushing him gently back down with little effort. "Where do you have to go so urgently anyway?"
"Bit of business to take care of. I didn't drink from him. I won't," Spike spat out, frustrated.
"Hold on. Lose the schizophrenia." Gwen flopped her hands around in the air. "I wasn't the unconscious one, but I still apparently missed something."
"It all came back."
"Your memories?"
"Yeah," Spike sighed, letting his head fall back, and closing his eyes. "They took my blood. Said they want to turn some prophesied kid with it. Make him part of the family. The order of Aurelius." Gwen nodded in comprehension. "Said I would drink his blood too. Nothin' I could do, she said."
"But you know about it now. So you won't, right?" Gwen said, the serious tone of Spike's voice sobering her up quickly.
"Oh bloody hell!" he blurted out, as he opened his eyes.
"What is it?"
"Where did the blood in the fridge come from?"
"You mean back at Wolfram and- shit."
"Angel didn't put it there, did he?"
"I just assumed . . . That was it, wasn't it?"
"Shit. They've turned him already." Spike's face twisted up in anguish, and he let out a low growl.
"What's wrong? Are you okay?" Gwen tried to keep the panic from surfacing in her voice.
"I did this." Spike managed to say through jaws clenched tight.
"Don't worry about it," Gwen answered, as she placed her hand firmly on his. Spike peered down at this with speculation. She withdrew quickly.
"And if it's too late?"
"It's not."
"I have to find him."
"You will."
"You seem so bloody certain."
"Yeah. Well, how hard can it be? It's just another vampire right? Stabby stabby, dusty dusty," Gwen replied glibly.
"Have you lost your wallet?" Spike grumbled. "The Order of Aurelius is unlike any other breed of vamp. We're more vicious, more deadly, stronger, and what's worse- we're smart. Moriarty smart. And it sounds like our newest family member might have a bit of a God complex."
"So no stabby stabby?" Gwen said, trying to make light of the situation she wanted no part in.
"It's going to take more than a round of Pin the Stake on the Vampire to clean up this mess."
"Well good luck with that."
"I'll be off then," Spike said, pushing himself off the couch once again. Gwen almost stopped him, but decided to let him see for himself how stupid he was. He stepped away from the couch, and walked as slowly as possible, while still appearing nonchalant. Gwen thought for sure he wouldn't make it past the bookshelf, but he was already at the front door. She scrambled to block his exit.
"You Fucktard!" Gwen exclaimed. Spike looked at her, confused by her awkwardly coined insult.
"What? I'm a what now?" Gwen jabbed him in the shoulder with her middle finger, and he promptly sank to his knees.
"Argggh! You bloody venomous- ow!" Gwen stood over him, breathing in the sweet aroma of self-satisfaction.
"It's a portmanteau. Two words put together to form a new meaning. Fuck-tard. Fucking retard."
"Name one real portmanteau that you didn't make up." Spike challenged, regaining his façade of composure. Gwen looked around the room nervously.
"Easy. Just give me a second." She was not going to let him win this one. No way. "Spamburger."
"Oh, well! I stand corrected."
"Actually, that's more of a kneel you've got going on," Gwen said as she helped Spike to his feet. He didn't appear too appreciative. "And if you think you are going to rack up any dead demon points tonight, you're more mistaken than the last guy who tried to pick me up in a bar." Spike looked at her bemusedly. "Lets just say he mistook me for a dumb slut, and my fist mistook his face for an electrical outlet."
"That's all very enlightening but I can't just sit here while the next evil plot to take over the world is being hatched just because I didn't want to stay dead."
"What were you planning on doing anyway? You don't even know who this new villain guy is, where to find him, anything."
"I could go out, ask around. I know a few vamp haunts around town. You'd be surprised how much the undead love to gossip."
"Really?" Gwen said, scratching her cheek. "'Cause you and Angel seem so reserved."
"This is something I have to do. Come with, if you want. I really don't care."
"Damn it, Spike! Why are you dragging me into this! My life was so simple before: break in, steal, get paid oodles of cash. Now it's demon this, spell that, apocalypse this, prophesy that. I am just not mentally equipped to deal with the absurdity of it all." Spike looked a little stunned. "Fine. You know what, you stay here and I'll go. Gimme the fucking addresses of these vamp hang-outs, and I'll get your info. But that's it. I refuse to be a part of this insanity. I have no room in my life for enchanted swords and slaying dragons, or windmills or fucking Scandinavian Circus Bears."
Spike scribbled a couple of vague addresses on a slip of paper and Gwen grabbed it and walked out the door without saying another word. Spike stood in the doorway, pondering the curiosity that was Gwen Raiden.
~~*~*~~
The place was a rat-hole dive, just like the last one. Why couldn't vampires frequent exclusive clubs or martini lounges, Gwen thought to herself, as she took a second look at the address on the slip of paper she was holding: 'North on Kensington, an orange neon sign that says Reggie's.' Unfortunately, the place met Spike's description. It was on the bottom floor of a decrepit town house that looked otherwise condemned. Gwen descended the slanted stairs with unimpressed determination.
"Give me a red eye," she said, slapping a five onto the bar. The place was about half full. Mostly vamps. A few funnier looking guys.
"Beer and Tomato juice? No! That's disgusting!" winced the tall, lumberjack-like bartender, who had a long, purple horn protruding from his forehead.
"You don't have to drink it. Just make it," she snapped.
"I refuse on principle"
"Your serve vampires human blood, and refuse to make a red eye on principle?" asked Gwen, perplexed. He simply folded his arms and nodded. "Fine. I'll have an ice water."
As the bartender searched for ice, Gwen readied herself for the beginning of the investigation. "Hey," she spoke more quietly now. "Have you seen any new vamps around? Maybe strange ones, too smart for their own good."
"I don't make it my business to notice anything strange," he said flatly, placing a tall glass of water, no ice, on the bar in front of Gwen.
"Would you know anyone who does make it their business?"
"Well. I might," he said leaning his elbows on the counter and moving his head closer to hers. "There's a room in the back where I might have a name written down somewhere. You'd have to help me find it." He licked his lips. Nice. His tongue was purple too. "-naked." Gwen grabbed the glass of water in one hand, the demon's plaid collar in the other. She smashed the glass on the edge of the table, and held it to his throat.
"Listen to me, swizzle-stick head. I am going to put a twenty on the bar. You are going to tell me what I want to know, and then I'm-" Gwen's head swung towards the front door. "Angel?"
"And what hand were you going to use to get the twenty out of your pocket? The one grabbing his collar, or the one holding the glass to his throat?" Angel asked sardonically, breezing through the door and up to the bar. Gwen rolled her eyes, and turned back towards the demon. How long had he been following her? Had Spike put him up to this? Didn't think she could handle things on her own? Gwen was fuming. Things weren't looking too good for the purple-horned bartender.
"Okay. Lets try: tell me or I slice your neck open with this very uneven, unsanitary piece of glass. How 'bout that? Does that work for ya?"
It stank. No, it really stank. And Angel, a creature with supposedly heightened senses seemed un-phased. The sewers were meant to be among those places that real people never had to go. Like the veal farm. Or the McDonald's bathroom downtown. And yet here Gwen was, trudging reluctantly through an unlit, dank tunnel on the verge of passing out from the wretched miasma of stink that had plagued her from the moment Angel had lifted the manhole cover.
"How do you do that?" Gwen asked desperately.
"Do what?" Angel replied, too busy scanning their surroundings to look back at her.
"Turn your nose off."
"I stop breathing," he explained bluntly.
"Ah, yes. Some of us are just unlucky to be alive I suppose."
" Yeah. Sure," Angel said with a non-committal shrug. Gwen knew he was offended by her comment, even though at the moment, she would have sold her soul for the ability to hold her breath for an indeterminate amount of time.
"Unicorn boy said this snitch wasn't far. We've been down here for ages. Maybe he gave us the wrong directions," Gwen speculated, a hint of hope seeping through, at the idea of resurfacing for slightly more tolerable LA air.
"Nope. This way," Angel waved her over, moving ahead more quickly than before. "We're close."
"Okay . . . " She wasn't sure how he knew this, but he seemed certain enough. And she wasn't in the mood to argue. "Hey! I'm the one on the mission here." Well, maybe a little. "You're the tag along," Gwen griped. God, she really was not a team player.
"And why is it you're here exactly? Last I checked you only cared about a job if there was something in it for you. So what are you expecting?" Angel was looking right at her now. He had stopped walking, just to turn around and stare at her with a look of condescension that made her jaw quiver.
"Spike doesn't have any money," Angel continued, "or did he promise to be your best friend? What is in it for you Gwen?"
After a moment's thought, she was no longer hurt, but angry. Who was he to deride her for being self-centred? So she looked out for number one. At least . . .
"At least I know where I stand. Yeah, I work for myself. Who do you work for? The helpless? Or is it the heartless? So easy to get the two confused."
"I'm a good guy, Gwen. And you know it," he snapped.
"Yet somehow, that didn't seem to dissuade you from setting up shop in Gargamel's castle," Gwen remarked, scratching her forehead sarcasticly.
"It's more complicated than that, " Angel grumbled. Dodging the subject, he added, "You never answered my question. Why are you doing this?"
"If I didn't, Spike would have. Or, more accurately, he would have passed out trying."
"And . . ."
"And he's kinda grown on me. He's . . . a good guy," Gwen said obstinately, knowing how much it would piss off Angel.
"Spike? Spike Spike?" He looked about ready to go into anaphylactic shock.
~~*~*~~
"Buffy."
"What? I told that git Angel to keep his bloody trap shut!" Spike yelled into the phone, holding the receiver tightly in his good hand, ready to throw the thing across the room.
"He did, Spike," Wesley replied calmly. "Willow detected your return somehow."
"Bloody witch works fast," Spike mumbled.
"She was very adamant about seeing you."
"Red?" Spike squirmed impatiently on the couch, jostling his wound, and flinching in the process.
"Not Willow. Buffy. She has Gwen's address and she's on her way there. I thought I'd give you fair warning." The only thing heard on the other end was a click. "Spike? Hello?"
"Perfect bleeding timing as usual Slayer," Spike moaned to no one, as he paced the floor frantically. A part of him longed to see her again, to hold her and kiss her and well yeah, boff her of course. But that was the old Spike. The new Spike, who was having some difficulty getting his point across at the moment, knew that there was too much on the line already, what with his less than kosher return to existence. And who knew what kind of highjinks this newly turned Aurelian guinea pig was up to already. He didn't want Buffy in the thick of it with him. Especially when there was a good chance that his little deal was about to go more sour than a 60 year old lady bus driver.
The new Spike also recalled his and Buffy's last conversation. And it was meant to be the last. Ever. There had been closure. Or at least, that had been the intention. Because those last words he had uttered didn't seem so cool anymore. Had he stayed dead, maybe. But now he had to face her reaction to his rather blunt dismissal of her grand romantic statement. Maybe she appreciated his candour, and admired his ability to face up to the facts. But somewhere in the recesses of his sentimental old heart, he dared to imagine that she might have been telling the truth. And if she really believed she loved him, and he had rejected the idea, he was in some deep shit.
Spike made his way to the nearest exit.
And of course, there she was.
~~*~*~~
"Why?" Angel asked, shaking his head out of its shocked state.
"We just seem to understand each other. You know, without trying," Gwen said as they turned down the next long stretch of stinky tunnel. Angel's head fell back as he let out a high pitched edge-of-sanity type "ha!"
"You're having some trouble with this aren't you?" Gwen asked.
"French, I have trouble with. This? This is outright stupefying."
"Well get over it."
"Door," Angel blurted out. Gwen was more worried about the sanity now. But then she saw that he was pointing at something. Black within blackness. Stupid un-enhanced vision. She shone her flashlight around until she found what he was pointing at and followed Angel swiftly up the tunnel, until they were standing in front of a heavy steel door. There was a plaque on it that read "service entrance." Angel knocked politely, and a few seconds later, the door opened.
"I told you guys, I don't have your fucking rollies, so- oh. Who are you?" enquired the short, iguana-ish demon in a New York drawl. He was half-asleep.
"Merl?" Angel exclaimed, "You can't be- I saw- with the guts and the. . ."
"What are you? Slow? I look nothin' like Merl."
"Oh," Angel sighed, dejected, "sorry. You knew him?"
"Uh, yeah," the not-Merl said snidely, "he was my cousin. You knew him?"
" Yes. He was my, my . . ." Angel stuttered. "Well I guess it's a family business then."
"Back-handed double dealing? Yep. It's a gift-handed down for generations. The name's Carl," he said, and shook hands with Angel and Gwen. He backed into the room, allowing the other two to enter. "What can I do for ya?"
The place was like some middle class swinger's basement from the 70's: shag rug, orange velvet couch, tiki- bar. There was also an elaborate blue glass hookah on the coffee table. Someone had eaten Urban Outfitters and thrown it up in this place.
"Do a lot of entertaining here, Carl?"
"I try to make visitors feel at home. I got cable TV this month."
"Wow, you're really pulling out all the stops," Gwen remarked, examining the hookah with morbid fascination.
"Uh, yeah," Carl replied, incredulous, "lets skip the chit-chat. What do ya want?"
"Information," Angel said, glancing up from a colourful assortment of drink umbrellas shoved in a huge martini glass on the bar.
"Could you be a little more . . . with the words?" the demon replied, fixing himself a drink. Angel continued:
"We're looking for a Vampire. Don't know much about him. Could be a her. Newly turned. Smart. Brilliant, probably. Stirring up trouble in the demon world. Might claim to be of the order of Aurelius?"
"You ain't givin' me much meat here."
"That's all I've got. Oh, and he's most likely a loner. No sire, no master. Might have some minions of his own already. I doubt it."
"Well, shit, man! I think I got a handle on this vamp. A new guy, goes by the name Angus. Looks like a Berkeley student or some shit like that. And he's got a couple minions. Picked them up at a fucking poli-sci lecture. Those fucking Jello Biafra wanna-be's," Carl commented contemptuously. "He's holding a lecture for vamps only. Tomorrow night. Under Pershing Square."
~~*~*~~
The awkward silence lasted about 30 seconds. Probably a record, considering Spike's incredible inability to keep most of his thoughts from attaining verbal life. She looked different. Her hair was short again, and darker. And she looked healthy. A bit paler than the old Sunnydale version, but England tended to do that to a person. At least, Spike assumed that's where she had been from her tight blue t-shirt with the cartoon Beefeater on it.
"I guess I didn't make the cut." She said, arms crossed, drawing Spike from his reverie.
"What?"
"Onto your to-do list? Call Buffy to tell her I'm not dead? Just not a high priority, huh?"
"Buffy, you don't-" and before he could finish his sentence she was hugging him fiercely, wetting his t-shirt with her tears. And he was hugging back. "Things are complicated right now. I didn't want to tell you until it was all squared."
She broke her hold on him and took a step back. "Complicated? How much more complicated than the end of the fucking world can it be?" she snarled, wiping the tears off her cheeks. Finally noticing the bandage around his upper arm, she added, incongruously sincere, "What happened to your shoulder?"
And Spike sat his ex-lover down on Gwen's red leather couch and told her tales of a strange man named Martin, a contract with Angel's new bosses, a pint of blood, and an angry bear. When he finished, Buffy sighed and scrunched up her face to make that "this can't be good" expression. She shook it off, and traded it in for a calmer, more serious, "I'm the president, and I say we blow the fuckers up" look.
"I want to help."
"There's not much you can do, love. Not yet anyway."
"Well, I'm not leaving town until this is settled."
"Hell, Slayer . . . ."
"Hey, you know the old adage:" she warned, "'Don't argue with Buffy, or unpleasant things will happen to you.'"
"It's sewn on one of those prissy doily whatsits and hanging on the bleeding wall of my mind."
"Um. Good. Are you okay here for tonight? Who's place is this anyway?"
"A friend. Gwen. Nice girl. She's running some errands, but she'll be back."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Buffy said with suspicion. Spike glared at her, almost hurt by the question. What right did she have to joke about their relationship, when she wouldn't even acknowledge their last, really dramatic, and bloody well pivotal conversation together?
"I don't know. Should it?"
"Well, what kind of errands could she be running at 5 in the morning anyway?" Now, she was playing the avoidance card. Fine. Spike had one of those up his sleeve.
"You really have to ask?
"Ah. Those kind of errands. That kind of friend."
"Yeah. You got a place to crash?"
"Yup. Got a room in a snazzy hotel downtown. I'm on payroll. Watcher's Council inheritance all went to Giles. He's a pretty important guy now, I guess."
"That's great, Buff. God knows those prats should have been padding your wallet from day one."
"Yep. Look, I'm gonna go. We'll meet up tonight, right? Strategize and what-not?"
"What-not? You have been across the pond."
"Tonight, Spike," she said with a smile. "I'm glad you're not dead," she added, planted a kiss on his cheek, (Oh, the cheek! Spike could feel that piece of hope in his heart's recesses sink into oblivion) and walked swiftly out the door.
His last words to her had been the truth, and she knew it as well as he did.
2 days earlier . . .
In a cramped, dusty, basement office at the University of California at Berkeley, two men were standing over a desk, looking down at something in amazement. The younger one wore brown dress pants and a curry-yellow shirt (starched, ironed to perfection, and tucked in meticulously). He held a small, thick book open laxly in one hand, as if reading from it was no longer necessary. The other man was approximately twenty-five years his senior and dressed in clichéd anthropology professor garments which included a tweed coat with elbow patches. He whispered to his protégé in a gruff, Welsh accent, "Angus, my boy, we've done it." The young man dropped the book on the floor, and reached with both hands towards the object on the desk.
"Astonishing," said Angus, then jerked his left hand back. "Ouch!" He watched as blood collected on his middle and index fingers. "I've already given blood today!"
"Feisty little we'en, isn't it?" commented the Professor.
"Well, Professor Morton, that's hardly an issue," Angus replied, as he pulled the heavy steel shutters down around the black, pyramid shaped cage. Something inside scratched frantically, making a god-awful noise just like nails on a blackboard.
"Ack, for pity's sake!" growled the Professor, and he flung the cage across the office, and accidentally into his I-Mac, which crashed onto the floor along with the cage. The down side was that there was no way Professor Morton would find funding for a new computer screen. The up side was that the scratching noises had stopped.
~~*~*~~
That night there was a Wine and Cheese for all of the Grad students in Liberal Arts programs. Angus decided it would be the perfect opportunity to put his newly summoned friend to the test. If everything went according to plan, by the end of the week he would have the Chancellor, the administration and the Student Union hanging on his every goddamn word. And once that happened, local politics would be a laugh in the park. His American Domestic Policy Professor had told him, as a strapping, idealistic young lad, fresh out of boarding school, that "No, you can't change the world. You can only strive to understand it." Angus didn't understand very much about the world despite his disgustingly high GPA, but he was determined to change it regardless. Now, he had found a way.
The Wine and Cheese was being held at the chair of the Poli-Sci department's home. It was about five blocks from Angus's apartment, so he went home first to brush his teeth and wash his face before he headed over. Stepping out of the elevator, he found his door already open. He lived alone. He stepped inside, and found a tall brunette sitting comfortably on his couch. She was in her mid forties, short hair, conservatively dressed, and a bit masculine. She didn't look surprised to see him.
"I've been waiting for you, Angus."
"How do you know my name?"
"Well, it's written on the buzzer downstairs, isn't it?"
"Who are you?" Angus had a funny feeling in his stomach. The kind you get the day before you have the flu.
"I have a gift for you," She said, pulling a syringe out of her pocket. At the same time a man with a deformed looking face and glowing yellow eyes appeared outside his doorway. "A very special gift . . ."
~~*~~*~~
After winning an argument about state-controlled political fundraising with the host of the party and all his star students, Angus turned two of them. He hadn't been turned the traditional way himself, but something in the blood had given him the power to do it on instinct. As least, that's what he surmised. And once he explained the benefits to them, they had been more than willing-they practically begged him. He was impressed with himself beyond words. Not only had his new friend, which he had summoned with a bit of help from the oafish Professor Morton, turned out to be more that he had ever imagined, but he now had the chance to live a new, immortal life as a vampire, and change the world again and again, until he had it just right. Before he was turned, he had assumed the logical place to start would be within the University. But now, he had other designs.
~~*~*~~
"Hello, Professor."
"Angus, where have you been?," Professor Morton asked without looking up from his books. "You missed two tutorials. And that wretched creature of yours is making an awful racket. I threw it in the filing cabinet. I'd rather you kept-" he looked up from his book at this point, and gasped in horror at what he thought had been his pupil, but was in fact not Angus at all. It was a chillingly hideous creature with his voice, and his clothes-with significantly more blood on them than the last time he had seen them.
"Hmm. I see your point," the creature replied, leaping onto his desk like a wild cat. The Professor sank as far down into his chair as he could before it grabbed hold of his collar, and yanked him back up. "Now, I realise that I said the first draft of my thesis would be on your desk by the end of next month, but I'm afraid something's come up." And with that, the creature who still called himself Angus snapped the older man's neck, and sank his shiny new set of teeth in for a spot of elevenses. After a few minutes, he tossed the body aside, fetched the cage from out of the filing cabinet, and sauntered out of the office, and down the corridor of the Kroeber Hall basement in search of the sewer duct from whence he came.
~~*~*~~
He set up shop for himself in an abandoned public bath house. There had been a few squatters to tidy up, but he and his two children had been feeling a bit peckish anyway. The place was perfect really, with so many drainage ducts leading into the city's underground. Angus made an office of the old sauna, whose cedar benches were in surprisingly good condition. He set his precious cage down on the small platform that once served as the coal burner, and opened one of the three shutters in order to peek at the creature.
"Well, little friend, this has been an unexpected turn of events, but I have confidence that we shall persevere. You remain mine for as long as I live- which might turn out to be a long while, in fact- and you will make me a great man. A master among my kind. I will guide them, and they will follow, 'cause I'm leading them to a world where we rule above all fucking else. As it should be."
~~*~*~~
COKTAILS WILL EMMIDIATELY FOLLOW LECTURE
"No."
COMPLIMENTARY WARM BODIES
"Arg! That won't do!"
FRESH BLOOD WILL BE SERVED
"No. Hmm. . . . Aha!"
FREE BLOOD
Angus glanced down at his scribbling with pride, as the ex-poli-sci students, Jaleel and Tiffany looked on in awe of his brilliant marketing skills. "Yes. That'll do nicely." He tore the top page off the scratch pad, and started fresh. When he finished, he handed off the piece of paper to his two minions. "Go photocopy this and plaster it all over. I want everybody to be there. Everybody who's anybody, at least," he ordered, slipping into game face.
~~*~*~~
Fear. Angus could smell it dripping off of her, and it was exactly intoxicating. And she had an extra heartbeat-that much easier to follow her through the crowded streets. He had spotted her at the 7/11, looking for a carton of milk that wasn't already expired. He made sure to breathe in her scent as he brushed past her. As he finished off the kid at the cash register, a pimply faced Hispanic boy, she ran past him and out of the store. But he was gaining on her quickly now, and it was only a matter of time before she reached her apartment. He would take her on the front steps. And he did just that.
An older couple with bad eyesight walked by and sighed, "oh what darling young lovers," as he sank his fangs into her jugular. He dragged her limp, but not quite dead body around the side of the building, where it was too dark to see them from the street. Her shirt was already torn off, revealing her big, tight belly. She was probably due very soon. He listened for its heartbeat, residual blood dripping from his lips onto the pale, taut skin of her stomach. Then, he scratched two lines across, her warped belly-button acting as the axis. Small drops of blood swelled, and he bowed over like a pet at its water dish, and lapped it up. She mumbled, starting to regain consciousness, and he swiftly slammed her head against the concrete, insulted that she dared to disturb his special moment. Then, as if he had been holding back for hours, with only his teeth, he ripped her open and felt his way in: a vile, rabid hound, digging out the fox. A pool of blood encircling the three of them now, and the woman's stomach in meaty, shredded bits, the child began to cry out as he lifted it into the air. Angus stopped it, however, by covering its already blood-drenched face with his sticky, red hand. He turned its neck, and brought it towards his mouth.
That was the moment he felt it. The Horror. The lurch in his stomach. The bile in his throat. The panic and the . . . the . . . what? Guilt? No! No. He dropped the baby, and ran. He sank down a manhole, and curled up in a ball on the edge of the tunnel. Maybe he was just confused, he thought. He was new at the killing thing, so maybe there was an adjustment period. Yes. That had to be it. He would snack on a few vagrants in the train yard, and would be in great shape for his big meeting. A small lapse in reason was all it had been. Or a bad dream.
~~are you hungry?
are you sick?
are you begging for a break?
are you sweet?
are you fresh?
are you strung up by the wrists?
we want the young blood
are you fracturing?
are you torn at the seams?
would you do anything?
flea-bitten? motheaten?
we suck young blood
we suck young blood
won't let the creeping ivy
won't let the nervous bury me
our veins are thin
our rivers poisoned
we want the sweet meats
we want the young blood~~
~Radiohead, We Suck Young Blood
He was there. He saw everything. And it was too much. Just more than he could take, after everything that had happened. He knew that he hadn't done it, but he felt what the boy was feeling-the lust, the rage, the pleasure. He felt her flesh tear under the pressure of the boy's bite, her womb being splayed open like a fresh loaf of bread. And his soul screamed out, and he screamed out.
Spike awoke with the taste of vomit and blood in his mouth.
~~*~*~~
Gwen got home at around 7 am. She figured Spike was snooping around somewhere, the library maybe, since he wasn't in the living room where she had left him. She found a clean towel in the linen closet, and headed for the bathroom to de-sewage herself. Someone, apparently had beat her to the shower. It was running.
"Spike, could you hurry it up?" she whined. "I smell like a questionable Greek resta-" she stopped, noticing that the silhouette of the person behind the translucent blue glass wasn't standing, but sitting, with his knees tight against his chest, and his head tilted back and pressing against the wall.
"Spike?" What was he doing? Gwen felt her heart start pounding against her chest. Whenever someone sat in a shower, all crunched up like that it was because they had just been raped, or because their girlfriend died, or because they were trying to break a bad heroin habit. Something was very wrong. She opened the shower doors and turned off the water. Spike was still wearing the black Dickies Angel had bought for him, but he was shirtless, and the bandage was gone, which was okay, because the wound looked pretty much healed. He was staring at the ceiling, hugging his knees, and shivering. Gwen knelt down next to him, oblivious to the fact that her clothes were getting wet, and that she was wearing shoes in the shower. She took his cheek in her hand, and wiped the water droplets from his forehead. He didn't acknowledge her presence.
"You really are one screwed up son of a bitch, aren't you?" she said, but kindly. "and you forgot to take off your pants." At that, he lowered his head and looked at her, his eyes bloodshot, and spent, as if they had seen a thousand wars.
"Don't you wish I hadn't," he replied, as statement of fact. Gwen grinned, muscling back her tears.
"Showers aren't the most flattering . . . come on, lets get you out of here," Gwen insisted. Spike didn't object as she guided him out of the shower, wrapped him in the biggest towel she could find, and sat him down at her kitchen table; but he was there in body, and barely in mind.
"I picked this up for you," she said, placing a wide-mouth mason jar of blood in front of him. "It's only pigs blood. I'm not really familiar with the underground blood trade. Don't particularly want to-"
"Thanks. But I'm not hungry." Spike replied bluntly. He turned his head away from her and the blood, and sighed deeply.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on in that fucked up head of yours? Or are we going to sit around like morons, pretending like I didn't find you in my shower in the foetal position, practically catatonic?" Gwen asked, arms crossed, leaning on the table. Spike ran his hands through his damp hair, stopped at the back of his head, and pulled on his neck. "'Cause, you know, whatever works for you."
"Angelus-I mean, Angel ever tell you about bonds? Between Childe and Sire?"
"Frankly, I learned more from Sesame Street about Vamps than I have from Angel. It's been a learn as you go kind of deal," Gwen explained, putting the kettle on.
"Right," Spike replied, as he pulled the towel around himself more tightly. Gwen wasn't even going to get a smirk from him for the Sesame Street crack? Something was bothering him. He continued, sombrely: "The bond's meant to help a sire keep track of his childe. It's like a psychic thing, yeah? Sense where she is and all that. Dru said she could see me sometimes in her dreams. She knew exactly what I'd been up to. Got me in a snag a few times, that did. Thought it was just 'cause she was a bleeding loon, but now. . ." He shook his head and sighed again. Gwen had to give him credit, he knew how to build the suspense. She poured herself a cup of tea, and one for Spike without asking. He accepted it gratefully.
"The boy. The one Wolfram and Hart turned with my blood? I bonded with him. It wasn't pleasant, and that's putting it bloody mildly."
Gwen stopped dunking her tea bag, and her eyes widened at the expression on Spike's face. It was one of disgust, of pain and of pure horror. Not fear, though. She didn't think Spike would be afraid of a fledgling vamp. But he seemed completely stricken by whatever images he couldn't get out of his head.
"You mean, you saw . . . in your dreams?" she asked softly.
"More than saw," he replied, tears swelling up in his eyes, "felt." The word seemed to take all the strength out of him, and he slouched over in his chair, and sobbed almost inaudibly.
Gwen stared at him for a moment, stunned. What was she supposed to do? She could continue to just stand there and watch him crying quietly, like a man who knows he's not supposed to. Or she could go to him. She had no clue what she would say or do, or if it would make an iota of difference. All she knew was that she didn't enjoy watching him like this. He looked alone. Very fucking alone. And she knew all too well how that felt. So, she knelt down next to him, and he slid off the chair into her arms. He cried on her chest, and she held onto a troubled soul for the first time in her life.
"What am I doing?" she whispered to herself, as they rocked back and forth. He was trembling fiercely, and gasping for unneeded air. She thought, for a moment of the absurdity of it all. She-a 26 year old, who, eight months ago, had never kissed a boy, let alone slept with a man-was on her kitchen floor, comforting Spike-a 100 and something year old vampire who had probably seen more action than all the pool boys in Beverly Hills.
~~*~*~~
He was crying in a girl's arms, and he didn't give a rat's. Spike knew that under any other circumstances, he would force down these pathetic nancy-boy feelings, bottle them up nice and tight, and release them at a convenient moment involving loads of unencumbered violence. Sometimes though, pretence crumbled, and there was nothing to be done about it. The image of the dead woman, her middle ripped open, the blood soaked child, and the sensation of her flesh against the boy's teeth lingered like a cancer, eating him from the inside out.
Normally, he felt it was his duty or obligation to put on a brave face, and never be upset or scared or hurt (fine, he was always fine) because he was a fucking island, a demon, a warrior, the one who could withstand weeks of torture and bounce back after a good kip, and all that rubbish. He could be lying with his guts spilling out on the sodding pavement, and he would still be the one saying that everything would be fine. It was as if he always had something to prove. Like how incredibly strong (or daft) he was. Here with this girl, for the first time in a very long time, he felt there was noting to prove, that she had no expectations. He knew, somehow, that he could do this with Gwen-fall apart-and she wouldn't think much of it. Because she'd probably fallen apart a few times herself. And she'd pulled herself back together.
What confused him was the fact that he had memories of killing hundreds of people, for christsake. What made this one so unbearable, so bloody debilitating?
"Why does it hurt so fucking much?" he asked, his voice angry, hoarse and shaky. Gwen pulled him in tighter, and bloody hell, if that didn't feel right, and warm, and good.
"Don't you see, Spike? It's your soul."
How did she know these things, this girl? Spike's brain started working, and he began to understand. He remembered everyone he had killed, and as terrible as the visuals were, the emotional memories were . . . nice. It was hard to deny-he had enjoyed it, at the time. As for the kills from last year, when the First had his brain all boggled? They seemed like almost forgotten dreams, fuzzy and distant. This dream, the boy, his brutal kill, had been different. He didn't have to struggle to remember. He was having trouble putting it out of his head for two bloody seconds.
"There was nothing I could do but feel him rip her open, watch it happen, and feel . . . everything."
"It's okay. We're going to stop him," Gwen said with a determined look into Spike's eyes. As she helped him stumble from the kitchen floor to the big couch in the living room, much more conducive to sitting, she told him of her and Angel's encounter with a Mod Squad-esque informant.
But Spike couldn't stop thinking about what he had seen. He was responsible for that woman's death. He knew it, and Gwen knew it-even if she wouldn't say it out loud. Sure, he could probably stop his fledge at this stupid meeting relatively easily, before he off'd too many more people. But how many would that be? Spike alone could recall various occasions which had lasted no longer than two hours, and had ended with him standing in the middle of a room, feeling very full, with 20 to 60 people lying dead on the floor. How many people were going to die between now and tomorrow night, the devil only knew.
"I should have stayed dead." He said it so simply and easily, as if it were an answer to a question about something rather insignificant-like what he wanted from the grocery store, or if it was supposed to rain on Saturday. But he had to clench his jaw to hold back all the pain and anger that threatened to burst out of him and break every piece of furniture in the place. When he looked up at Gwen, who was sitting next to him on the couch, one arm still around his hunched shoulders, he could see the confusion and fear in her eyes.
"Fuck you," was all she said, as she removed her arm, and stood up in front of him. And she sounded like she meant it.
"What?" Spike was at a loss.
"You heard me. Fuck You. Or like you Brits say, smeg off? I crawled around the goddamn cesspits of this filthy city for hours for you tonight. With Angel no less, and that was just a blast and a half. I found the info. Good info. And you know it's do-able, but all you have to say is 'I should have stayed dead'? Really fucking insightful."
Spike looked Gwen in the eyes with disdain. "Yeah? I'm sorry it took so bleeding long for it to occur to me!" he shouted.
Gwen shook her head. Spike was so sick of dealing with women and their utterly irrational reactions to every sodding thing. He never had trouble pissing a girl off, that was one talent he would never lose. Even if he didn't know how he did it.
"Not 'Oi, thanks mate,' or 'Cheers,'" Gwen continued, trying to inflect a decent British punk accent, but it came out sounding more like a drunk Australian. "Just 'I should have stayed dead.' Well that's encouraging." Understanding finally dawned on Spike, as he rolled his eyes. He should have known.
"That's not what I . . . I am . . . thanks, yeah? Thanks." How was it that she was managing to making him feel guilty? He dropped his face into his hands. An instant later, Gwen had collapsed onto the sofa once again.
"Oh, God. I'm such a bitch," she groaned regretfully. "I wasn't thinking. Or, I was, but of myself, and not . . . fuck. " Spike could feel Gwen's knee shaking nervously, as she said, "here you are, a big wreck, and I'm all curt 'cause you've got bad manners. "
"'S fine. I know I'm putting you out. I should go. I can take care of this kid alone. No need for you to run any more errands for me. 'M all healed up, see?" he said, shrugging towards his shoulder. "Good as new." He had no idea where he would actually go, but he despised hanging about when he wasn't being any help. Well, unless he was just trying to raise someone's hackles. That was just good, clean fun.
"Spike, I . . . I know that before, when I left . . . I said that I didn't want to do this . . . that I wanted to go back to normal."
"Yeah. I know. You can do that now. I'll just-"
"No! Spike!" Gwen said, almost frantically, as she turned herself sideways to face him completely. "What I mean is, now . . . I don't want to go back to normal. And who am I fucking kidding anyway? My life has been about as normal as an episode of the Outer Limits. I'm glad I helped you. I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you materialized in my bed while I was sleeping. And I want you to stay. I mean . . . if you want."
Spike stared at her, astonished. She was glad? She wanted him to stay? These words . . . put together like that made little sense to him. "I want," he answered softly.
"Good. Now why don't we both get some sleep."
"Doubt I'll be getting any sleep tonight, luv. But don't let that stop you."
"You have to at least try. You look wiped."
"Nah, just a bit dry-eyed," he said sheepishly. But the truth was he was totally spent. The last time he had a good day's rest had been in a prior incarnation, and he was really starting to feel it. But there was no way he would find enough peace of mind to rest until he took down this childe of his. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling wearily, and tried to think of nothing.
~~*~*~~
After having her long-awaited shower, Gwen peeked into the living room, where the curtains had been drawn tight, to shield the vampire on her couch from the morning sun. He was awake, stretched out, and staring at the ceiling, still. It was kinda creepy. What the hell was so interesting about her ceiling anyway? She decided steps had to be taken. After all, it was obvious that Spike had been lying, and that he was in fact, very, very tired. She picked up a book from the coffee table, not really paying attention to which one it was. That didn't matter.
"You smell a hell of a lot better, girl.," Spike noted, glancing over his shoulder at her as she took a seat on the same chair she had sat in hours ago, pretending to read.
"Thanks." She flipped through the pages of her book absentmindedly. "You're not asleep."
"No. That whole sheep counting thing is over-bloody-rated if you ask me. Only made me peckish for a nice lamb curry."
"Mmm. What if you counted slugs or something? Who wants to eat slugs, right?"
"Well, actually-"
"Forget it. I don't want to know." Gwen looked down at her book apprehensively. Maybe this idea she had was very lame, with extra lame sauce, but she had a feeling it just might work, so she had to try. For Spike. Lame sauce be damned.
"Uh, do you like books?" Oh, man. She sounded like a kindergarten teacher.
"Well, I have been known to read one or two on occasion," he said quizzically.
"Look, I just thought, if you can't sleep, that I could read this book, out loud, and you could listen, until I, you know, bore you to sleep. Kind of like falling asleep in front of the TV, except classier."
"Sounds really nice that."
"Good."
"Read away." Gwen's heart swelled at that moment, as she opened the book to the first page.
"'So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by, and the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness . . . "
By the time the Geat warriors arrived at Heorot, Spike was out. This became clear to Gwen, when he started mumbling in his sleep. Then he spoke one word, very clearly.
". . . Buffy . . ."
Buffy? Who the hell was Buffy?
On the way to Wolfram and Hart, she finally asked him.
They woke up at 5 in the afternoon, she made egg rolls and vegetable soup, and Spike finally downed the jar of blood Gwen had offered him earlier-after adding a broken-up egg roll to it. She shuddered as she watched him drink down his imaginative concoction proudly. He looked at her as she finished her soup, and it occurred to him that when she was holding him in her arms on the floor that morning, he had not thought of Buffy. He had not wished that Buffy had been the one holding him. And that struck him as strange. He always wished it was Buffy, didn't he?
Gwen called Angel, asked if they should come over, and said, "who was here?" and "when?" and "now?" Spike knew he had forgotten to tell her something. So he told her. He told her about Sunnydale, the infamous chip, the soul, the crazy basement Spike, and the died-for-the-world Spike. He also mentioned the Slayer a couple of times along with phrases like "a bit obsessed," "kind of had a thing for a while," "not considered necrophilia," and "some gimboid named Robin." She nodded a lot, and he figured she got the gist of it. But, by the time the sun was almost down, and they were in the car that Angel sent to pick them up, she asked him.
"Are you in love with her?" She asked very nicely, and calmly, like a totally impartial observer. Except she was looking out the window, and not at him.
He had fallen in love with Buffy and she had hurt him a hundred different ways. But in the end, she had given her heart to him. She had let him use it for a while, because she knew he needed it, and he supposed that she needed his in a way too, those last few days on the Hellmouth. So, of course, he would always love her. But was he still in love with her? How was he to tell the bloody difference? He had never felt what it was like to be loved as simply a friend. Spike was certainly an incredibly passionate creature, full of intense emotions. The problem was with the subtle differences. Love. In love. He never had been one for subtlety.
"Honestly? I don't know."
~~*~*~~
She was shorter than Gwen had imagined. But she was certainly beautiful. She sat on the sofa in Angel's office, Wesley and Gunn standing nearby, Angel at his desk, with a predictably laid back Lorne sitting on the edge of the large piece of mahogany furniture. She seemed like she should be his secretary or personal assistant or something-except for the look in her eyes, and the way she seemed to sit, back arched, legs crossed, like she owned everything in the building from the liquid paper to Angel himself. Gwen could respect that. God knows, she had used her fair share of body language in order to gain an upper hand.
Small wisps of dirty blond hair fell from her short ponytail, and she swept them aside delicately every few minutes, as she examined a blue piece of paper with Wesley. This was Buffy? She looked so . . . so . . . prissy.
"Evening all," Spike said as he entered Angel's office behind Gwen. Buffy looked up from the paper in her hand at Spike with a kindhearted smile. Then she looked directly at Gwen. The smile faded. This did not bode well. There was a brief, uncomfortable introduction, and then, thankfully, they got straight down to business.
The blue paper was a flyer for the childe's big meeting under Pershing Square. It said "Free Blood" at the very top, in bold. Under that it read "We are the Chosen Few, Absolute Power is only just out of our reach!" and under that "Come and learn of your greatness." The time and place were scribbled in less eye-catching handwriting at the bottom.
"So this is his maniacal plan?" Gunn asked. "Take the vampire world by storm through an evil lecture series?"
"He could be trying to start some kind of cult or angry mob . . ." Buffy added, not even taking her own words very seriously.
"Read that issue of L.A. Undead, except, pyramid scheme," Gunn replied.
"So we go in, send him and his groupies to the big dustbin in the sky, and call it a day's work. Am I missing something?" Angel asked, irrationally cheery.
"There's something up with this boy that we aren't in on. Bet my favorite pair of Doc's that if we go in there all lemon squeezy, that we'll botch it all to bloody Hades," Spike warned.
"I think the best approach would be for Spike and Angel to 'attend' the meeting," Wesley suggested, "do some reconnaissance, while the rest of us wait outside. Then, once they have a handle on things . . ."
"We break out the champagne and pointed sticks," Lorne added.
"Oo, oo, and cheese, can we have cheese too?" Buffy asked playfully. Everyone in the room seemed confused or lost, except Spike and Angel who both looked at her and smiled, as if she made any kind of sense.
~~*~*~~
For the better part of a really long time, Spike stood around awkwardly with Angel, waiting for the childe to show up. They were in the old, redundant wine cellar of a recently restored hotel that connected to the underground service tunnels of Pershing Square. Oil lanterns hung on the walls, and metal folding chairs had been set up for a crowd of maybe 100 vamps. Angel was wearing the inspired disguise of glasses-the square, black Elvis Costello kind-and a green trucker cap that read "Fitchy's Gas 'n Go." But he still looked more uncomfortable in a tie, Spike decided. Luckily, Spike hadn't spent any serious time in L.A. since the height of the California Punk scene in the early 80's. No git-like accessories required. He vaguely contemplated the sad state of affairs the genre was in now that bratty spoiled 14 year olds considered themselves punks, while the crowd slowly trickled in. Angel finally motioned for them to sit in the back row, the closest seats to the exit.
"What is this? No crudités?" said a short, bald vamp to Angel and Spike as he wandered to a seat in the next row. "Some people have no sense of hospitality. They could at least put the blood out."
"God knows it's the only reason any of us are here," Angel growled.
"Fret not, friend," said a voice from behind, as a hand fell on Angel's shoulder. Spike suddenly felt that sick feeling in his gut like he had last night, and didn't have to turn around to see that it was the childe speaking, in a soft Scottish drawl. "I think what I have to say will interest you greatly. I can tell that you're an intelligent vampire, wise and experienced. You will be of great assistance in the upcoming revolution," he said to Angel, looking directly into his eyes. At first, Angel avoided his gaze, but Spike noticed a change as he slowly looked towards the boy, as if he were preaching the gospel.
"I'll do everything I can . . .?"
"Angus." He walked away, disappearing into the growing crowd.
"The upcoming revolution? That can't be good," Spike said, still a bit stressed by the close encounter.
"Oh," Angel replied abruptly, as if woken from a daydream. "No. Evil revolutions are bad."
"Yeah." Spike was a bit puzzled by Angel's odd behavior. A low hum suddenly sounded from the other end of the room, where a makeshift stage had been set up. The Childe was standing at a mic. Without a word, he had the undivided attention of everyone in the room. Spike was catching on. Maybe it was because he had sired the bugger, but for whatever reason, he was immune to the Angus kid's hypnotism that had everyone-including Angel, who was gaping like a mechanic at a Formula 1 car-hanging off his every facial expression.
"My friends. I have asked you here tonight to give you something. And I'm not talking about the warm bodies waiting in the closet behind me." Angel and the rest of the crowd laughed lightly. Hmm. Not funny. Christ, the poof really had checked out in the brain department. Angus continued, "I'm giving you power. The power we deserve. And the silly thing about it is, it's always been in our grasp. The only thing preventing us from taking our place as the dominant species of this pathetic planet has been a lack of leadership. Vampires are stronger. They are faster, better, and smarter. If only they could work together, right? Because we all know that vamps are worse than pirates. We're untrustworthy, sneaky backstabbing bastards. And that's the truth. No reason to be ashamed. But the time has come, my friends, for us to work together, and re-build L.A., take down the city of men, and build a city of super-men. Let me show you the way-but first, we feast!"
As the crowd cheered, and Angus disappeared through the door behind him, Spike noticed an iron cage on the side of the stage. It looked old, oddly out of place and most definitely suspicious. When he left his seat, Angel was too busy chatting excitedly with the girl next to him about how smart Angus' plan was to notice. He slid stealthily along the side of the room towards the stage, and grabbed the cage. There was something inside, and only one way to find out what.
~~*~*~~
The unflattering glow of dozens of flat screen TVs, and the pair of six-limbed demons observing them gave the otherwise empty room an uninviting ambiance. But something akin to a glimmer of humanity trickled into the room, as the black furred demon made a loud slurping noise as he finished off his Super Big-Gulp.
"So how's it look?" asked a tall, slightly masculine woman, as she entered the room.
"Good," the more lightly furred, and almost dappled demon replied. "Just as we suspected. Blondie's different from the other one. And his kid's going nuts. It's all coming to an exhilarating thrill ride of a climax. Really. This is good stuff."
"I'm hooked," his co-worker replied, setting his empty plastic cup aside, scratching his back, and adjusting the contrast on TV number 6, simultaneously.
"And there's this really funny bit where the kid- Spike's childe?- thinks he can, like, stage some kind of vampire coup or something. He's so cute."
"What?" the woman asked, confused.
"Yeah, yeah. He's got this imp. We didn't know about the imp?"
"No."
"Huh. That's weird. Anyway, he's thralling them with it- with the imp, I mean. "
"Tell her the best part," the dappled demon cajoled.
"Oh, yeah! The best part's he put the imp whammy on Angel."
"You're kidding me. I have to see this."
"Ah. It's classic. Just classic," the dark coloured demon sighed, and leaned back in his chair, resting his head on his four hands.
"Umm. Guys?" Dapple asked, staring and pointing at TV number 7. "What's he doing with that corkscrew?"
The woman only let out a short expletive before dashing out the door.
"Shit!"
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