At first sight, it was just a random abandoned warehouse, easily dismissed by passersby and civilians. But it reeked. Not to the human nose, to the advanced trained nose of a vampire. Aside from the blatant smell of burning rubber (coulda noticed it from at least ten miles away) and the alarm bells resounding through his skull, the bad guys always chose the deserted warehouses. It was like a law.
Even his childes shacked up in one a long while ago. In Sunnydale.
His childes. Somehow it always came back to them. Full Circle. One in particular. With obnoxiously blonde hair and an arrogant smirk. Plagued his existence for over 100 years and continued to today. It had gotten worse ever since that damn amulet arrived at Wolfram and Hart. And that was at least a month ago. He was honestly surprised he hasn't staked the annoying pest yet.
In fact, that pest was the reason he was stuck in middle of nowhere (in the middle of nowhere in the middle of Los Angeles) searching through rundown buildings for his sorry ass. Spike had disappeared a few days ago. Went out for drinks after getting in his daily annoy-the-fuck-out-of-Angel quota.
Angel figured he was passed out in the shade of some alleyway, collapsed in filth, completely plastered. But when he failed to attend a weekly board meeting and didn't pick up his blood from the front desk, Fred had gotten worried, insisting that Angel interrupt his busy schedule saving the world (brooding) and search for him.
She was fond of the blond. Which was not good. Piles and piles of no good.
((God. I sound like Buffy))
He wasn't jealous though. Nope, no jealousy at all. He hated Spike. Despised him. Loathed him even.
Spike. With that infuriating smirk always plastered on his face and that duster...how could he even keep that? He stole it off a dead slayers body for Christ's sake. You would think that the soul, which he claims to have (Angel still isn't completely convinced), would be giving him enough guilt to make him stand in a patch of bright and cheery sunlight and burn to a crisp. Ha. Now that would make him so happy he would probably lose his own so-
The smell of rotting flesh and blood drew him out of his thoughts suddenly. Like slamming into a brick wall of rancid stench. Angel stumbled backwards, gagging on the smells that assaulted his nose.
The warehouse was dark with only scattered beams of light squinting through cracks of the decaying ceiling. Angel could sense something. Or rather his demon could. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a shiver coursed down his spine. There was something irreplaceably off about this warehouse.
A movement to the left caught his attention. Before he could react though, a moan broke the eerie silence. Angel peered into the murky blackness, searching for the source. He willed his eyes to adjust and ventured deeper into the darkness.
Every step brought up a cloud of dust, making vision and smell nearly impossible. Blood stained the walls. Both new and old. He tried to discern the different scents. Most of it was human. Three women. A few men. And...uh oh. Spike.
Angel hurried forward. The air was coated with Spike's scent. He didn't know why he didn't recognize it before. Or sense him. Was he just not concentrating? Was he dead?
No. No. He was here. Somewhere.
He tripped over bodies that littered the center of the enormous room and nearly slipped on the slick blood that was slathered across the floor.
His childe was hurt. The demon raged inside, pushing against the bars, ready to snap.
The smell became stronger. Whiskey. Alcohol. Tobacco. Blood. Torture. Death.
He quickly rounded the pile of boxes stacked inconveniently in the middle of the building and came to a halt at the sight before him.
Spike. Lying on the cold cement floor in a very large puddle of his own blood. He was on his stomach, a sword impaled through the heart. Even with enhanced vision, Angel couldn't see much in the suffocating dust filled air, but as he got closer, the angry red lashed across his bare back criss-crossing with bright purple and black bruise became visible.
Angel knelt beside his childe, gently prodding his shoulder. He was unconscious, which would make this a lot easier. Angle grasped the sword and tried to carefully pull it out, but it wouldn't budge.
((It's stuck in the damn floor)) He realized angrily as his mind rapidly put together what had happened. ((The bastards impaled my boy to the floor...then beat him unconscious))
Angelus's fury was sated slightly as the demon planned the tortures the fuckers who injured his childe would soon endure. It would hurt. Last for days. Maybe weeks.
Angle grimaced and silently apologized for what he had to do. He didn't want to further harm his boy, but how the hell do you get out a sword driven through solid cement?
He stood atop Spike, placing his feet on either shoulder blade. Bracing himself, he gripped the handle and pulled with all his vampire-graced strength.
It took two efforts for the sword to finally come loose. Whatever had done this was strong.
Angel gingerly rolled Spike over, and winced in sympathy at Spikes broken body. Bruises decorated his face and body in colorful bursts
The color of soggy purple Marti Gras confetti.
Angel took inventory of the injuries. From what he could make out through the blood that veiled his face, the nose was broken; he had a split lip, and as a minimum one nasty black eye. His ribs were probably broken too. At least four. Damn.
Angel was startled when Spike convulsed abruptly, coughing blood onto the already red cement. Angel put his weight across his shoulders in an effort to calm the vampire down.
"Spike. William. Calm down." Angel commanded, going for soothing, but sounding more Angelus-y than his intention. Spike seemed to hear him, and relaxed anyway, some of the tension leaving his skeletal body.
His nostrils flared and he tried desperately to figure out where he was. The action flooded his lungs, and he choked, gushing more blood onto the floor. Opening his eyes took too much energy, but he already knew who was next to him.
"Angelus?" he croaked, his voice hoarse from unuse.
"Yes. Shh. I'm here," He ran his fingers through the mess of tangled curls, hoping to comfort him. Spike groped blindly for his sire's hand and gripped it tightly. Angel was moved by the silent gesture. His boy was always too proud to ask for help, much less accept it. But look at what he was reduced to. Lying broken and battered in a pool of his own blood. Oh, those fuckers are gonna pay.
Chapter 2. Part 1The door burst open, startling everyone in the yet to begin board meeting. They had been waiting over an hour for their boss and were about to give up and leave when he entered. The front of his shirt and hands were soaked in red, which alarmed everyone.
"Angel! Are you alright?" Wes asked getting up from his chair and ready to rush into action.
"Yeah. I'm fine. This...this isn't mine. Fred, I need you in the medical ward. Now."
"Okay. Everything is okay, right?" She asked nervously, gathering up her belongings. It was unusual for Angel to be so...upset. He was usually all broody and depressed. He looked distressed, like when Darla had died.
"It's Spike. He's hurt. Bad." He spun and left, nearly sprinting down the halls of Wolfram and Hart, Fred following, the others in tow. They weaved in between lawyers and clients, dashing after the vampire. Most employees didn't leave until midnight, at least an hour away.
Angel pushed through the group of scientists, which he had herded into the halls to keep his boy safe. Spike lay sprawled atop an examining table already smeared with blood.
"Oh God" Fred exclaimed accompanied by a little squeaking noise worthy of Cordelia. She rushed to Angel's side and looked over the damage. The others streamed in with similar responses.
"Ugh. What is that stench?" Gunn asked, backing away from the table. Everyone smelt it, but chose to ignore it.
"It smells like-"
"Burnt flesh" Angel finished Lorne's comment. He took a wet rag and gently wiped at his childe's cheek. The blood gave way to blackened burns imprinted into his usually perfect pale skin. The shape of a cross slowly began to form.
"My word. What did this Angel?" Spike was a skilled fight and the former watcher found it hard to imagine who could have done this. It has proved exceedingly difficult to get rid of Spike. The man came back from the dead (figuratively speaking) for bloody sake.
"I...I don't know." Angel admitted. He looked down at Spike, a wave of guilt rushing over him. Lorne, being the incredibly talented â and annoying â demon he was, sensed it.
"Awwww. Angelhair, this isn't your fault."
"Of course Angel. You cannot bla-"
"Look, can we save this for later? Spike needs help." His eyes flared with gold flecks and threatened to give way to his demon visage. Everyone seemed to back off, giving Fred and Angel some space.
"We need to get this blood off him before I can do anything." Cakes of dry blood covered his face and back, where the majority of his injuries were. It was hard to see anything, like a sheet of deep rust disguised his lean body.
"Alright. I'll get him in the shower, wash it off." Angel gathered Spike in his arms and carried him to the showers in the back corner of the room. He shut the door and laid him on the floor. Sighing he carefully undid the button and pulled off his trademark leather pants, which were nearly glued to his skin now.
His boy looked so fragile and small lying on the huge expanse of floor. Probably because he weighed next to nothing. Must have lost a lot of blood in the warehouse. He didn't think there was any left. But the tiny crimson droplets, which dotted the white tiled floor, proved otherwise.
Maneuvering him into the shower was fairly easy. Trying to support him, and scrub off the blood, while not further harming him was difficult. But he managed.
He wrapped deposited a clean Spike concealed by a towel back on the table. To his relief, most everyone had filed out, leaving only Fred behind.
The harsh light made his childe appear more gaunt and pale than usual. It also made the reds, blues, and blacks, brighter and more extreme. It was a job worthy of Angelus, Angel realized with a pang of familiar guilt. Although Angelus would have used holy water instead of crosses; it tended to eat through the skin deeper and hurt like a bitch.
((You bleed so pretty boy))
Fred moved from her place in the corner to tend to the vampire. She cringed as she nudged his purple adorned side for broken ribs.
The scent of his childe's blood filled Angel's consciousness and brought back unwelcome memories. With nothing to do but wait for Fred to finish her ministrations to the motionless body, lying vulnerable on the steel table, reality began to fade.
It was like fuzzy radio stations, you continue searching but can never find the right one. Even if you could, it would be too distorted and static-y to recognize.
((A loud scream unsettled the silence of the room yet again. "They've been at it for hours. Don't they know some vampires need their sleep?" Darla whined. The boy was all he ever thought about these days. He'd pay for that. Always does. "Now, now grandmum. Let daddy have his fun."))
He did pay. Darla strung him up by his wrists in a deserted cellar. The ones smelling of cheap whiskey and piss, with rats crawling from every crevice. Tortured him for days. Then left him there.
(("Where is my poor William? The raindrops carry his blood. Paint the city with it they do. And I can't seem to find him."))
(("The runt always is the strongest of the litter, isn't he Angelus?" "That he is"))
Angel shivered and ran a hand through his hair (yep, straight up). Spike was always the strongest. Never gave up. Even when he submitted to Angelus' endless torture sessions, there was always the glint of arrogance, of determination, of passion behind his piercing blue eyes.
Angel glanced over to the table again. No blue. He was on his stomach, hand draped over the edge. Fred was carefully cleaning the lashes across the vampire's back.
It must have been a whip. It looked painful. The wounds were still weeping, almost bleeding through. She delicately bandaged them anyway and shifted her attention to the gaping hole through his chest.
She didn't know if stitches would work. Did vampires even need them? She ran a wet rag over the blood-encrusted area, hoping to get a better assessment of the damage.
This was one of the worst parts of the job. Seeing your friends hurt and in pain, which would inevitably happen, and not being able to make it go away. Fred settled with making it at least a tad more bearable. Which is why she took pride in her job. Although she was not a qualified medic, she knew what she was doing.
In the corner of her vision, she could see Angel pacing back and forth, running a ditch through the floor. She wished he wouldn't do that. It was distracting.
"Bloody hell, luv!" She jumped back, startled that the muffled voice belonged to her patient. She must have lost herself and hit a tender mark or something. ((Oops.))
"Oh Spike! I am so sorry. I didn't mean tâ"She was cut off once again by Angel rushing to the side of the table.
"Spike? Are you alight?"
Stupid question. Spike tried to sneer at him and inject a clever and snarky remark, but instantly regretted it. A sharp pain shot from his cheek through his jaw. He hissed and moved to examine his face but Fred swatted his hand away.
"Don't touch it. It needs to heal." Oh yeah. The cross. Ow.
Spike resigned and let the girl finish poking at his back. His side ached and his flesh was on fire. Felt like a he was doused in holy water. Was he? The last few days were a blur of rank smells and pain. That was partly because he was pissing drunk, and partly because he'd been either unconscious or in the agonizingly slow process of becoming unconscious.
His head pounded and his nose throbbed (bollocks. Not the nose) and he desperately wished to be unconscious again.
He slowly became aware of Angel's staring at him and tried to ignore him. Was going to. Before he grew increasingly nervous and had the impulsive urge to run away and disappear.
"What are you gawking at peaches?" His voice was filled with contempt. Each syllable strained his cheek.
Angel diverted his eyes and muttered a quick dismissal before exiting the room. What the hell was his problem?
Fred yanked painfully on the bindings around his ribs and announced an offensively chirpy "All Done!"
Spike groaned and tried to sit up. Each movement was laced with pain, coursing through his body. Time was ticking by frustratingly slow, like in the Matrix. You got so fucking irritated at the actors being stuck in time, that you threw your beer at the telly, hoping to speed them up and get on with the damn movie. Or at least Spike did.
He was about to hop off the rather uncomfortable table, when he noticed only a towel covered him. He cleared his throat rather painfully, hoping to get the bint's attention, but she didn't notice.
"Uh, pet? Can I get something to...?" He motioned to the obvious nudeness "Cuz unless you want a peek..."
"Oh yeah! I'm sorry! I was just so preoccupied with the blood and you that I sorta just forgot. You know how it is." She turned a pretty shade of red and dug some sweats out of a drawer while continuing rambling.
"Yeah. 'S fine." The pants were a tasteless bland gray. Most likely the poof's.