Spike had no idea where the hell they were. Midwest, since it was flatter
than Illyria's chest when she was out of the blue cat-suit, which was
something Spike would be perfectly happy to never have to see again. There
wasn't a jot of sexual attraction between the two of them. Not since they
were too busy looking over their shoulders, certain that something big,
red, scaly, and with breath worse than a trucker's after a binge would be
right there.
"We should stop," Illyria announced abruptly. Spike ignored her. He was getting good at that. Her prattling had the same lyrical quality that Dru's had had, and for a while, he'd wanted to get lost in the music of her deep, husky voice. But Illyria wasn't insane, which was half Dru's charm, and Spike didn't have the time or patience to try and find the entertainment in how she hated being weak and injured and running from creatures she used to command.
And that was better than the bullshit before the major fight.
Thinking of that made Spike wince and drive faster. The cheap vinyl of the steering wheel creaked under his hand, threatening to rip right off the dashboard. He loosened his hands, knowing it'd be a bitch and a half to try and find another car to steal if they busted this one.
Angel was still alive; he'd gone south with Gunn, babbling something about doctors and warm air and hiding as best they could with an old friend while Gunn healed. And he would heal. Spike held onto that thought with the strength of obsession, refusing to let himself be practical because fuck it all, he deserved a little white lying. Maybe if he believed hard enough it'd be true. Angel was a little loopy himself, but Spike knew the old bastard would right himself out eventually.
He and Illyria had chosen to go north. Angel had babbled something about Lorne, that he needed to be checked up on. Spike had a decent inkling of what'd gone down from the rest of what Angel murmured as he tried to help an unconscious Gunn into another stolen car, and figured that Lorne didn't want to be found right then. That was okay, actually. He had enough problems to deal with, first and foremost being Illyria's damned insistence that she wouldn't shift into her seeming of Fred—which freaked Spike the fuck out every time—because she was too tired.
Too tired. They were all too tired, and hurt, and fucked up, and walking around with a girl who was blue head to toe didn't exactly make them in- bloody-conspicuous!
The steering wheel creaked alarmingly.
"Spike stop!"
Illyria shouting usually meant trouble. He slammed on the breaks, car screeching to a bouncing, ungainly halt. Tense and more nervous than he'd like to admit, Spike turned this way and that, trying to see—scent, hear, didn't matter—what'd made her yell like that. Saw nothing.
"You bloody bitch! The fuck did you ask me to stop for? There's nothing here, and we've gotta make it to here—" he stabbed a place on the map that looked like it was in Nebraska, "—before it turns light out because you can't drive and this car doesn't have sun-proofing glass on it and you won't let me paint it because then we'd attract attention, like a girl that's drenched in blue koolaid isn't a fucking problem!"
Illyria ignored his rant, hurrying out of the car. She scooped something up and returned, cradling whatever it was in her lap. "What creature is this?" she asked. Her hands, blue dappled, but still long and delicate the way Fred's had been, ran over a small creature covered in ratty grey fur that turned slit-pupiled eyes up at Spike and mewed pathetically.
A kitten. A little starveling stray kitten.
"What—where did that—"
"Your erratic driving startled it," Illyria accused. "It ran out into the street, frightened and alone, and then you nearly ran over it."
The kitten in her lap raised up onto its hind legs, butting its head into Illyria's chin. It mewed again, looking away from Spike to turn the eyes of doom Spike knew too damned well onto Illyria.
He could practically see her melt.
"Fuck. I've know you almost half a year, Smurf, and now is when you choose to act like a real girl? We don't have time for a cat! Send it back out on the street and it'll find its way home all on its own. Like a homing pigeon."
"A homing pigeon? I used to keep stables of creatures, just for—"
"So help me, if you finish that statement and I'll shove you out of the car and drive the fuck away."
Delivered in a low, menacing tone, it got through the wall of memories Illyria wrapped herself in. She didn't want to be alone anymore than he did, and they both knew it. "I know this creature. It is a cat. A kitten. She kept one once—a small, stripped female she called Newton." Illyria never said her name, not in Spike's presence. It was a true they'd worked out, for when she needed Fred's memories to survive. "It. . . was her friend."
"Yeah? How adorable. Right now, that's trouble on four legs and we've already got enough of that! We're on the run, did you forget that? Stopping to take care of a bitty kitten that just needs food and maybe some affection. . ." The kitten delicately walked from Illyria's lap to Spike's. It looked at him solemnly, judging. Then it mewed again and curled up in his lap, a little ball of fluff and warmth and a purr that made his whole body tremble.
"Isn't possible," he said weakly. "We need to be quick, not weighed down by anything. Able to go at a moment's notice."
The kitten was a tiny thing, though. Certainly small enough to fit into one of Spike's pockets if they needed to. The bones of it—her, Spike discovered—were small enough that he doubted she'd get that much bigger, even with a lot of food. Not that they had food. But they could get food, Spike knew what kittens ate after taking care of a few of Dru's and stealing cat food wouldn't bother his soul anymore than stealing blood and food for him and Illyria did.
Illyria transferred the kitten from his lap to hers. He glared at her, hating the yowl of surprise the kitten let out, before it resnuggled itself down and began purring again. Illyria drew her fingers along the side and back of the curled up kitten, smiling.
He'd never seen her smile before. Not like that, with warm and affection instead of cruel control. It was. . .
It was foolish. They really didn't have time or the ability to care for the kitten. He wasn't exactly good with small animals and Illyria probably used to crush kittens just for the fun of it. Even though she was being very gentle with the little thing now. It was the worst thing they could possibly do, he knew that. But he also remembered a lot about the last few years, about how if you didn't have anything to fight for—to love—then you stopped fighting. Oh, you still killed things, and mouthed the proper words, but you didn't fight anymore. You just existed. Even if you didn't have a soul and still fought against the corrosiveness of humanity with every breath you didn't take.
And out of anyone in the world, Spike was pretty sure he knew Illyria best. Probably even better than—than the only other one to get close to her. She wasn't as god-like as she pretended, anymore, and a lot of the quirks and humanness she tried to deny was coming out. Spike encouraged it—and not just because it meant she'd survive longer. It'd been years, but he still remembered what the Judge had told him. And how it had saved him.
"We're calling her Dawn," he said abruptly. "An' you get to take care of the litter box."
Two hours later, attentions divided between the road and the antics of the kitten who didn't seem to mind Spike's driving in the least, Illyria smiled at him. "Thank you."
"We should stop," Illyria announced abruptly. Spike ignored her. He was getting good at that. Her prattling had the same lyrical quality that Dru's had had, and for a while, he'd wanted to get lost in the music of her deep, husky voice. But Illyria wasn't insane, which was half Dru's charm, and Spike didn't have the time or patience to try and find the entertainment in how she hated being weak and injured and running from creatures she used to command.
And that was better than the bullshit before the major fight.
Thinking of that made Spike wince and drive faster. The cheap vinyl of the steering wheel creaked under his hand, threatening to rip right off the dashboard. He loosened his hands, knowing it'd be a bitch and a half to try and find another car to steal if they busted this one.
Angel was still alive; he'd gone south with Gunn, babbling something about doctors and warm air and hiding as best they could with an old friend while Gunn healed. And he would heal. Spike held onto that thought with the strength of obsession, refusing to let himself be practical because fuck it all, he deserved a little white lying. Maybe if he believed hard enough it'd be true. Angel was a little loopy himself, but Spike knew the old bastard would right himself out eventually.
He and Illyria had chosen to go north. Angel had babbled something about Lorne, that he needed to be checked up on. Spike had a decent inkling of what'd gone down from the rest of what Angel murmured as he tried to help an unconscious Gunn into another stolen car, and figured that Lorne didn't want to be found right then. That was okay, actually. He had enough problems to deal with, first and foremost being Illyria's damned insistence that she wouldn't shift into her seeming of Fred—which freaked Spike the fuck out every time—because she was too tired.
Too tired. They were all too tired, and hurt, and fucked up, and walking around with a girl who was blue head to toe didn't exactly make them in- bloody-conspicuous!
The steering wheel creaked alarmingly.
"Spike stop!"
Illyria shouting usually meant trouble. He slammed on the breaks, car screeching to a bouncing, ungainly halt. Tense and more nervous than he'd like to admit, Spike turned this way and that, trying to see—scent, hear, didn't matter—what'd made her yell like that. Saw nothing.
"You bloody bitch! The fuck did you ask me to stop for? There's nothing here, and we've gotta make it to here—" he stabbed a place on the map that looked like it was in Nebraska, "—before it turns light out because you can't drive and this car doesn't have sun-proofing glass on it and you won't let me paint it because then we'd attract attention, like a girl that's drenched in blue koolaid isn't a fucking problem!"
Illyria ignored his rant, hurrying out of the car. She scooped something up and returned, cradling whatever it was in her lap. "What creature is this?" she asked. Her hands, blue dappled, but still long and delicate the way Fred's had been, ran over a small creature covered in ratty grey fur that turned slit-pupiled eyes up at Spike and mewed pathetically.
A kitten. A little starveling stray kitten.
"What—where did that—"
"Your erratic driving startled it," Illyria accused. "It ran out into the street, frightened and alone, and then you nearly ran over it."
The kitten in her lap raised up onto its hind legs, butting its head into Illyria's chin. It mewed again, looking away from Spike to turn the eyes of doom Spike knew too damned well onto Illyria.
He could practically see her melt.
"Fuck. I've know you almost half a year, Smurf, and now is when you choose to act like a real girl? We don't have time for a cat! Send it back out on the street and it'll find its way home all on its own. Like a homing pigeon."
"A homing pigeon? I used to keep stables of creatures, just for—"
"So help me, if you finish that statement and I'll shove you out of the car and drive the fuck away."
Delivered in a low, menacing tone, it got through the wall of memories Illyria wrapped herself in. She didn't want to be alone anymore than he did, and they both knew it. "I know this creature. It is a cat. A kitten. She kept one once—a small, stripped female she called Newton." Illyria never said her name, not in Spike's presence. It was a true they'd worked out, for when she needed Fred's memories to survive. "It. . . was her friend."
"Yeah? How adorable. Right now, that's trouble on four legs and we've already got enough of that! We're on the run, did you forget that? Stopping to take care of a bitty kitten that just needs food and maybe some affection. . ." The kitten delicately walked from Illyria's lap to Spike's. It looked at him solemnly, judging. Then it mewed again and curled up in his lap, a little ball of fluff and warmth and a purr that made his whole body tremble.
"Isn't possible," he said weakly. "We need to be quick, not weighed down by anything. Able to go at a moment's notice."
The kitten was a tiny thing, though. Certainly small enough to fit into one of Spike's pockets if they needed to. The bones of it—her, Spike discovered—were small enough that he doubted she'd get that much bigger, even with a lot of food. Not that they had food. But they could get food, Spike knew what kittens ate after taking care of a few of Dru's and stealing cat food wouldn't bother his soul anymore than stealing blood and food for him and Illyria did.
Illyria transferred the kitten from his lap to hers. He glared at her, hating the yowl of surprise the kitten let out, before it resnuggled itself down and began purring again. Illyria drew her fingers along the side and back of the curled up kitten, smiling.
He'd never seen her smile before. Not like that, with warm and affection instead of cruel control. It was. . .
It was foolish. They really didn't have time or the ability to care for the kitten. He wasn't exactly good with small animals and Illyria probably used to crush kittens just for the fun of it. Even though she was being very gentle with the little thing now. It was the worst thing they could possibly do, he knew that. But he also remembered a lot about the last few years, about how if you didn't have anything to fight for—to love—then you stopped fighting. Oh, you still killed things, and mouthed the proper words, but you didn't fight anymore. You just existed. Even if you didn't have a soul and still fought against the corrosiveness of humanity with every breath you didn't take.
And out of anyone in the world, Spike was pretty sure he knew Illyria best. Probably even better than—than the only other one to get close to her. She wasn't as god-like as she pretended, anymore, and a lot of the quirks and humanness she tried to deny was coming out. Spike encouraged it—and not just because it meant she'd survive longer. It'd been years, but he still remembered what the Judge had told him. And how it had saved him.
"We're calling her Dawn," he said abruptly. "An' you get to take care of the litter box."
Two hours later, attentions divided between the road and the antics of the kitten who didn't seem to mind Spike's driving in the least, Illyria smiled at him. "Thank you."