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Chapter Five
Spike's POV
I didn't leave my sire's bed for a week. I shifted sometimes, sure; turned the pillow over when one side became too bothersome, even sat up enough to smooth the sheets out around me so my naked body was completely covered. Peaches would usually sleep in the chair by the bed, saying that he didn't want to crowd me, or some such rubbish. Once in a while, though, he'd sleep beside me. He'd toss an arm over me and pull me against his broad chest and I'd whimper like a nancyboy and burrow my nose into his shoulder. It's true that two colds don't make a warm, but it's never closer than when I'm with my sire.
When he was out working, the cheerleader would systematically come down to check on me every hour and a half. It hurt to be near her…to know that she was there and helpless and human, but I couldn't bite her. No, because fangs and food led to great big brainsplittin' pain for yours truly. I'd told them this much while I was sobbing and blubberin' on like a royal ponce. I think she knew it, too, but untrue to her character, she didn't rub it in.
"98.6 degrees," she'd cheerfully proclaim, and I would feel the bed depress as her tiny bit of weight settled next to me. Then she'd uncomplainingly feed me heated up pig's blood from the warm mug and slip in things about how I should get my dead arse out of bed and take a shower because I smelled bad and being depressed never did anyone any good.
It was always the same. Every hour and a half.
Sometimes the mick would come downstairs, too. He wasn't all that bothered by the smell, but you know how micks are. They're Irish, like me sire…only me sire's all girly so he's not dirty like a normal Irishman. Anyway, Doyle would bring me some whiskey occasionally, not at all encouraging me to get up. But he'd set the bottle to my lips so I'd have a good swig and sometimes I'd even say a few words or give a chuckle when he said something about my sire's forehead. He did have quite the forehead, after all.
It wasn't until the night that they all went off to fight the bloody good fight that I got out of bed. I stretched long and hard and yawned and yowled like a fierce jungle cat (if I do say so myself), shakily walked to the bathroom, blasted the water to full heat, and bathed for what seemed like two hours. I rinsed and soaped and soaked until there wasn't a smattering of BO left.
Then I scrubbed me skin raw because it feels better when it hurts. I suppose it would be much like a sunburn when you practically make the water boil to burn the burn out…but I don't much know about sunburns, so that's probably just rubbish and I don't even know what caused me to have such an illogical thought that in no way relates to my situation as a vampire. What I mean to say, is sometimes its better to hurt the hurt out, or at least drown out one hurt with another, such as scrubbing and rubbing my skin until it was red and breaking. At least Cordelia wouldn't talk about how I smelled anymore.
Peaches had girly shampoo that smelled like green tea. I used it three times…washing, rinsing, and repeating.
After my elongated bathing session was over, I pulled on a pair of my sire's huge pants and was about to crawl back into bed when I heard noises from upstairs.
Crying, whimpering…it was the cheerleader. I could hear her small sobs through the ceiling and I heard my sire's quiet voice murmuring despairing comforts. Something had happened. Something bad.
I made the decision to go up and see, thinking if anything, my clean appearance would cheer the three do-gooders up.
But I was wrong.
It was just the two of them, no mick to be seen. Cordelia's pretty face was smeared with mascara and black tear streaks streamed down her tan cheeks. My sire was gnawing on his lower lip; his own eyes wet with unshed tears, his brow furrowed in the daddy of all broods. They looked…defeated.
"What happened?" I asked quietly, taking a few steps closer to my sire so I was at an arm's length. He reached out and touched my face, stroked my cheek with his big thumb and when I took a tiny step forward, he pulled me onto his lap and hugged me so tight it pinched.
"You smell nice," Cordelia sniffled, instead of answering my question. "You got out of bed…and y-you took a b-bath. You don't s-smell like a d-drunken Irish lout on a street corner anymore…" She broke down again.
That was all that really needed to be said. The mick had met his end.
I felt a pang of sympathy. Doyle was a nice sort of bloke and I knew he'd meant a lot to my sire and the cheerleader.
I rested my head on top of Angel's, uncaring as his stiff, gelled hair scratched at my cheek. He held me even tighter in return. He held me so hard his arms started to shake.
My poor sire.
The cheerleader choked on a sob and started to cough, but the tears were streaming faster than ever and her delicate nose was startin' to run, which I never even thought it could do. I reached out and stroked her long hair.
"'S alright, Cordelia," I said awkwardly.
She shook me away. "Ew, don't touch my hair."
I quickly retracted my hand and rested it on my sire's strong arm. Despite her earlier protests, Cordelia moved closer to us.
Bloody hell. First I get this thing done to me head and now I'm getting all with the touchy feelies with these two.
I repressed a sigh. I should have me own show. I'd call it My-So-Called-Unlife and an attractive redheaded bint would play the part of me. I'd kill off the little bitch with the crazy hair, though. She'd be Doyle. It's gotta be true to life. Alcoholics bein' alcoholics, and all. That's life- even if life isn't a craptastic MTV teenaged drama.
People die in real life. Not me, though. I don't die. I'm not a person. I'm a rash, impulsive, 120-something vampire perched on my 240-something sire's knee. I feel like I'm little more than a child.
I feel helpless.
A few days later…
Angel's POV
I hate it. I'll never stop hating it.
Staying young. Not growing any older. Not dying.
Watching him die.
"Where do you think you're going?"
I watched as my insolent childe shrugged on his leather duster and felt around for his pack of cigarettes, which I had conveniently disposed of when he had started to smoke in my bed. I enjoyed my sheets ash-free, thank you very much.
"Gonna go buy some cancers, mate."
What a silly little boy I had.
"No you're not."
"I am. Just ask me. 'M standin' right here."
I growled. He cocked an eyebrow in return and started moving for the door. I snarled, leapt up, and shoved him none-too-gently onto the bed.
"'Ey!"
"No. You're. Not." It was my right to use Sire voice when he got like this. It was for his own good, anyway. What if he got kidnapped and got something else stashed into that little head of his? What if he got mugged? What if he sacrificed himself to save a clan of half-breeds from the fascist demon order known as the Scourge?
"Why not?" he snapped, jutting out his chin in that defiant way he had.
"It's too dangerous."
"'M a vampire!"
"A handicapped vampire," I shot back, but instantly regretted it when I saw the hurt look in his eyes. Though, some of the guilt washed away when I heard him call me a 'berk' under his breath.
"'M not your bun and 'm not in your oven."
I refuse to acknowledge that comment.
"Will," I started in a softer, more controlled voice. "I don't want you going out on your own yet. Something might happen to you. If you were to run into trouble, you wouldn't be able to defend yourself and you might get hurt or…or…"
"This a repercussion of Doyle coppin' it?" I felt my throat constrict. "Just because your mate died doesn't mean I should be punished."
"It's not punishment, it's-"
"You takin' care of me?" he snorted.
"Well…yeah." It was after all.
"Well, can you take care of me outside? Y'know…on the way to buyin' a pack of smokes?"
At least it wasn't an argument. Did you see that? He's learned to compromise! My sweet, sweet Will…my good little-
Spike's POV
I couldn't see my sire anywhere. One moment he was by my side, the next he was caught in the crowd of people millin' about on the promenade. Maybe I should go look for him…
I smirked, shrugged to myself, and shoved a smoke between my lips. The longer I got to stay away from Commander of the Brood, the longer my freedom was intact. I would take advantage of this time outside, by myself, while I had it.
"William the Bloody," a low voice growled next to my ear.
I jumped, surprised, and whirled around to see a prim, young man clad in dirty leather.
"'S me," I said uncertainly. "Who're you?"
He raised his nose like a snooty lil' aristocrat and smoothed out his jacket. "The name's Wesley Wyndham-Price. I'm a rogue demon hunter."
A right trainspotter this one was.
"And…?"
"And I'm going to kill you."
Ah. He was going to kill me…where was my sire?
"You don't want to do that, mate. I'm neutered."
"Neutered?"
"Yeah, can't hurt a fly anymore, much less kill a human." He looked rather taken aback, so I took that as a good sign and offered him a fag. "Smoke?"
He blinked in surprise, and then waved the offer away. "N-no…I'm trying to quit. Terrible for the lungs, you know."
I smirked. "I know."
We stood in awkward silence for quite some time. Such a long time that I started to paw at the ground with my toe and he began to whistle.
"So…" I tried.
"So…" he tried, too.
"WILLIAM."
Uh oh.
"Where on EARTH have you been? I've been looking everywhere, and I tried to sniff you out but there were too many people and too many of them had cigarettes and-" he stopped abruptly when he noticed Wesley. "Wesley?"
"Angel?"
"Spike?" I added for good measure. That's when he did the most embarrassing thing possible: he picked up my hand and slapped it as if I were five years old. He could have at least punched me! That would have been far less humiliating. "Ow!" But bugger, it hurt.
"Don't go running off again." He then turned back to Wesley. I guess they're old acquaintances or something. I never met this bloke before. Seemed like a nice enough chap, though. I'd probably bite him if I could. Seemed kinda virginal to me. Mmm…virgin blood…
"WILLIAM."
I snapped out of my reverie and realized that I was about fifteen feet away from my sire, and about as close to this honey-blond, fourteen-year-old girl that I could get without having the coppers called on me.
"Oops…sorry," I apologized lamely, giving her a quick grin when I realized that she was gazing at me with unabated admiration. I quickly walked back over to my sire and groaned when he grabbed my hand and didn't let go. "Siiiire…."
"If I can't trust you not to stray away, I'm holding onto you." I pouted. He growled. "And that's not going to work."
'Course it wasn't. Bleedin' poof.
"'M hungry." It occurred to me then that I was whining like a child and he was treating me like a child and this was just no good. However, I was going to milk it all for it was worth. Maybe if he got aggravated enough, he'd HOPE that I'd get killed and let me go out by myself at night.
"We'll go home soon."
"'M hungry now."
"Perhaps you should go home and feed him, Angel," Wesley said, inching away a bit. I grinned at him. At least he was afraid.
"Don't worry. He can't hurt you."
I growled. The insensitive prat….
He shushed me and stroked my hand with his thumb. Grudgingly, I calmed down.
He and Pierce Brosnan Jr. yammered on for a few more minutes, exchanging phone numbers and addresses and such before finally giving awkward goodbyes.
"Finally," I huffed.
"He's an old acquaintance," Peaches tried to explain.
"Don't care. Hungry."
I didn't care. There was no reason to care. I had no doubt I'd be seeing the stuffy little berk all the time and that just destroyed the mystery of it all.
"He was a watcher," the poof offered.
"Explains why he wanted to kill me."
"He wanted to kill you?" My sire sounded alarmed.
"Well, he did. Then I told him I was harmless and he didn't care. Then I offered 'im a fag, but he said he was trying to quit like we were schoolboys or some such. Bloke's got an inferiority complex. Take care of his feelings."
My sire was quiet for a bit. Then he said, "I'll never understand how you can take that much from a person just from a brief encounter."
I shrugged. "Know the enemy. It's why I was the best."
Was.
I chewed my lip and lowered my eyes to the ground.
My sire squeezed my hand.
Was.
Past tense. History. Dead.
Was.
I was the Big Bad. Doyle was alive. Things change. Time changes.
Was.
We went home.
TBC…