Title: Spike in the Hole
Summary: Spike goes to Angel seeking one final favor
Author: Rosa Seravo (pseudonym)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Seasons two through four
Disclaimer: The characters and world contained in this fanfiction are the
property not of myself but of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy, The Warner Brothers
Network and Fox Network.
Spike in the Hole
The pedal was to the metal. Spike's old Dodge spend on the 101 freeway toward downtown Los Angeles at 4 a.m. through empty lanes and silent night.
(Her hands in his hair. His lips on hers.)
Skyscrapers loomed as he boarded the Harbor freeway and was sucked into the bowel of dowtown hell.
(Butterfly fingers tickling his ribs...not that, love! anything but that!..)
He knew the address. He'd been there before, stood and faced steel-eyed Cordelia's crossbow. Now he was back for one final favor.
(Mastering her body. Surrendering his own.)
Spike parked in the warehouse district and didn't bother to lock the car. He got out stiffly, his hips still bruised from the hard marble floor of the Santa Barbara crypt. He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth but didn't light it. He walked steadily, almost ploddingly, unlit fag hanging out of his mouth.
(Their toes entwined. Sweet lips on his neck.)
He saw the light through the window. He climbed the stairs to the office suite and knocked. He waited.
(Mouths whispering against each other in the warm abyss of afterglow.)
He heard the familiar, heavy footstep clunk toward the door.
(The hideous crash of morning.)
The door opened.
"Spike!" Angel hissed. Cordelia jumped up from a chair behind him and threw him a stake. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Spike knew then that Angel knew about his implant. He'd be dust now otherwise. "Lemme in," he said. Angel didn't oblige. "What? No warm welcome for your son?" Spike's face took on a shadow of the old smirk. The word "son" made a shadow cross Angel's eyes. He stepped back and let him in.
(She loved having the soles of her feet kissed.)
"Get out, Cordelia," Spike shot out.
"It's all right, Cordie. Go downstairs and wait for me there." Cordelia glared at Spike, reluctantly obeying her boss as she boarded the elevator and rode to his quarters.
Now Angel and Spike were alone. Angel took in the visage of his last surviving vampire son. He hadn't had anything to drink in a couple of days, that was clear. His eyes were sunken, dark circles underlining the despair in their depths. His skin was pale even for him, the handsome lines drawn and haggard.
"Getting bored with pig's blood?" Angel quizzed. "You look a little peaked."
Spike took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth. He walked to his sire and looked in his eyes, concealing nothing of the pain in his eyes or the scent on his body.
"I love her," he said.
Angel's narrow eyes turned to slits and his mouth hardened. "You love who?" His menacing voice was barely audible.
"You know who."
Angel grabbed Spike's head and smelled his hair, his neck, his shoulders. It was everywhere. Her scent. He pushed Spike away then struck him hard in the side of the head. Spike only staggered.
(He felt like she'd taken a knife and opened his chest, kissed his still heart long and fully until it beat again and then left him with his heart exposed to heat and air, the elements ravaging it into raw, stabbing pain.)
"So help me Spike, if you hurt her..."
Spike laughed, a high, bitter sound that was close to tears. "Come on, mate. Could I even hurt Buffy BEFORE I got this chip in my head? Think."
"It's not possible."
"Oh it's possible. We were shagging two nights ago in a crypt up in Santa Barbara." Angel's gasped in air that cut into his dead lungs like scissors. "And you know why, mate? Because of you. Because she sensed your blood in me."
Angel stood, paralyzed, unable to think or speak. Spike knew the feeling. He'd been like that for forty-eight hours.
"It's all your fault, daddy. You left her alone and now I'm all she has of you. I am your 'son,' after all. Your blood pumps through my veins and she gave in to its siren song at last. Of course," he laughed, "I'm such a wanker I thought it was me she wanted. Then morning came and as she was waking up in my arms she called me Angel."
Angel sank into the divan, his head in his hands, rocking, rocking. Buffy still loved him and her love had driven her into the arms of the evil thing before him. What had he done. What had he done. Of all of his sins, this must be the worst, to make Buffy love him and give her to Spike.
"You have no reason to be jealous. She despises me." Spike's voice was flat, emotionless. "Maybe you should go to her."
Angel got up and seized Spike by the lapels of his leather jacket. "Why did you come here, Spike."
Spike's voice was desperate, this word with his sire his one last hope, the thin string keeping him out of the hole. "I wanted to know...what do I do now? How do I live without her? How do YOU?"
Angel let him go. Spike's face was a skeletal, empty shell, his eyes two sockets of oblivion.
"Why did you come here, Spike?"
His vampire son looked at the rug. "I was sort of hoping you'd stake me." He looked up again with a half smirk which died as soon as it appeared.
Angel regarded him somberly for a minute or so. He still held the stake Cordelia had tossed him. He fiddled with it and eyed the chest of the pale thing in front of him.
"I'm not going to stake you, Spike. Loving Buffy and living without her is the most fitting punishment for you. For us."
Spike's jaw dropped as if he didn't have the strength to hold it up any longer. If there is a pit below hopelessness, Spike reached it then.
Angel suddenly gripped his shoulder. "I'm sorry, William. I'm sorry I made you. Eternal life is a misnomer, isn't it? Eternal death is more like it." And Angel moved slowly away, his shoulders heavy, boarded his elevator and left his vamp son alone.
Spike crumpled over and there he still lies, a black and white heap upon the floor.