Chapter 3. Part 1.
Fred scuttled out of the room and quietly closed the door behind her. Spike could hear every word through the not so reinforced walls.
"How is he?" Obviously Peaches. Was he worried?
"He should be alright, far as I can tell. Aside from your standard bumps and bruises, the only thing broken is his nose and a few ribs. He also has some nasty cuts and lacerations across his back, not to mention the hole through his heart."
The silence that followed must have been everyone trying to comprehend the hastily spewed words. Spike silently opened the door behind her and leaned heavily on the frame. He was going for inconspicuous. All eyes turned to him. He fidgeted anxiously and turned away from their close scrutiny.
His wet hair was mussed and sticking in all different directions. Moisture still lingered on his pale body, clearly distracting Angel.
"Hey Spikelicious, how ya feeling?"
"'M fine. Just a few scratches 's all. Angelus? A little help?" He motioned to his shoulder, "dislocated."
Angel moved to his childe, forcing everyone to give them some space. His eyes shone with warmth, a glimpse of pride. Spike suspected he was all self- important because he asked him, not any one else to help. That was only because his sire had done it before. Not like he trusted him or anything. ((Don't get too goddamn cocky you sod))
He grabbed Spike's bicep and forearm expertly. He'd done this before. Both had. Spike gave a brisk nod and clenched the edge of the wall a little tighter. An audible pop filled the air and Spike doubled over.
"Bloody buggering fuck!" he yelled, trying to regain composure. In a few seconds he returned to full height and gave Angel his trademark smirk. "Thanks mate."
"Well, um," Wesley stammered, straightening his glasses in that incredibly aggravating way watchers tend to do, "Spike, do you have any idea who did...this?"
"No, sorry watcher." He didn't want to talk about anything now. Just wanted to sleep, for a very long time, maybe the rest of his unlife. This discussion would lead nowhere.
A growing sense of anxiety washed over him, and the need to flee intensified. Angel thankfully sensed this and decided, against his better judgment, to talk later, one on one. Spike was too quiet. Something was definitely wrong. Bringing everything to attention now would not help, no matter how tempting – very, considering the patience level of the demon slaying crew – it is.
Wesley had other ideas though. "So you didn't see anything at all? Distinguishing marks? Symbols? Hear anyt—"
A deep growl rumbled in Angel's chest protectively, warning Wes to shut the hell up before he ripped his head off. It was a familiar sound to Spike. Angelus used to do it all the time. Whenever he was brassed off or about to beat his ass. Hearing it again set him on edge, even if it was directed elsewhere.
"But we can talk later. You should rest. Get back your strength." Wes smiled smugly, proud of his recovery. The group quickly dissipated, going off to rid the world of evil. Some more.
Spike, drawing his focus away from the piece of paper lying on the floor, tried to take a deep breath, attempting to move, but instead got a lung full of blood. Coughing violently, he would have crumpled to the floor if Angel hadn't caught him. Red splattered the hideous beige carpet, dripping from his quivering lip in steady beats. Angel waited patiently for the dead weight in his arms to recover. His boy needed blood. Now.
Fortunately, Harmony was close by and delivered a jug full of 0-neg to her boss's suite. Finding his strength, Spike shrugged off Angel, trying to salvage what little dignity he could. All ready reduced to nothing but a trembling form seeking refuge in a not-quite-evil vampire's law firm. Bloody hell. He really was pathetic, wasn't he? And to make it worse, there was a building full of humans – disgusting revolting lower species humans –witnessing and mocking at his demise.
With a determined grimace, he took a couple shaky steps, faltered, but again the sodding poof caught him.
"Somehow, I doubt that Spike. Come on." Angel suspected something was wrong when Spike relented. Seriously, horribly wrong. Without so much of a complaint or insult or even a grumble.
Every step caused Spike's shattered ribs to grind together, the crunch not escaping Angel's hearing. He would offer to carry him, but Spike would be too proud and goddamn stubborn to accept.
Incredibly, they traversed the stairs and reached Angel's room without resting. His whole weight (which really was not much) leaned against the older vampire, the stretch of touching skin bringing an old inkling of pleasure.
"What's this then?" He was trying not to aggravate the split lip or burn, but for some reason the universe hated him and it was impossible.
"You can stay here. Should stay here, so you'll be safe." Both heard the unspoken words, I want you here.
Spike was led to the bed, where Angel brought him a mug of blood.
He gulped down the warm liquid as fast as the injuries would allow and shoved it out for a refill. He was starving. Probably looked it too. Angel made a disapproving noise when on the third mug he gave it back half full.
"Spike. Drink some more."
He pressed his eyes together and delicately laid down on the bed. "No' now. Hurts." Everything ached and each moment was fucking suffering and Peaches was only antagonizing it.
Angel gave in, not satisfied, and disappeared from view to put the remainder of the blood away and change out of the ruin clothes. When he returned, Spike was already asleep, sweatpants discarded in the center of the floor.
Chapter 3. Part 2.
Angel trudged into the room. It was mid-morning, the rays of sun shining brightly outside. The heavy curtains were drawn tightly closed, even with the fancy windows that blocked the harmful effect of the sun. It was still unsettling and still set off alarms in his head. Very loud alarms.
After downing a glass of blood, he checked on his new bedmate. His childe was stretched out in the bed. The deep red sheets riding his waist dangerously low. The color was a nice a contrast to the beautifully pale skin (ignore bruising) and shock of white hair that curled softly around his race.
He was still extremely skinny and gaunt from blood loss; Angel could count every rib (which were wrapped in bandages but Spike was never patient enough to see it through). His hipbones jutted out beneath the flimsy sheet, leaving little to the imagination. Angel felt a surge of pride that he had created something so perfect.
Exhausted, he stripped off the horribly uncomfortable suit that he was forced to wear while prancing around the building. He hated it at Wolfram and Hart. Had trouble keeping the goal in view, the end.
Once in a while, he yearned to relinquish control and release his demon. Drink freely without consequences. A good massacre. Good for the soul. But of course that would be considered fun (is strictly not allowed) and would give him a "happy", so he couldn't. It was still an interesting idea, though. Too bad.
Angel wearily slipped into the huge bed next to Spike. The blond whimpered softly and instinctively curled into his sire, seeking comfort. Angel encircled the younger vampire with his larger body and gently stroked his hand through the surprising soft hair.
He had forgotten what it was like. Being close. To anyone. His family. It was nice. Warm. Welcoming. He was satisfied. Like nothing in the world mattered, but protecting the body against him. Forever.
Spike nudged his head against Angel's chest, just below the collarbone, the way a cat might do. His steady breath tickled Angel and sent a tingling sensation through his body.
He was content lying there. His chin rested upon Spike's head, bodies entwined and intimate. Just like old times, except without the torture, maiming, and killing. They were close. Where they were supposed to be. It was pure ecstasy. Like for once in the world, everything was right. Connected. In place.
He could almost feel everything fall into order, a huge shift that lifted the dark weight compressing them.
Spike's slender fingers glided down Angel's torso, creating a pattern only he could see. A slight smile played across his lips. This wouldn't last and he was counting down the time until the unavoidable smash. He tried not thinking about it and concentrated on relishing the moment.
Spike flinched and stifled a groan when his sire brushed an especially sore gash.
"Sorry."
Spike said some incoherent mumblings, pulled away from Angel and slid out of the bed gingerly, breaking the rare serene moment they had created. It was all or nothing: gentle heartfelt moments or violent rages of destruction.
"Spike, wait a minute, we need to talk."
The younger vampire stumbled to the drawer and pulled on some random clothes of Angel's that didn't necessarily fit, but would suffice. He stalled by asking for a drink. Angel disappeared into the kitchen and returned with warm blood and a bottle of Jack Daniels.
He took the bottle with a nod, given as a peace offering and a method of distraction. The two vampires sat together at the table furthest from the windows.
The afternoon light shone through the now exposed windows, their table just out of range, a wide arch of harmless light skimming the edge.
They drank in silence for a long while.
It disturbed Angel. Spike was always a constant ball of energy, never could sit still. But the vampire in front of him was quiet, defeated. Not Spike. Not a drop of defiance, of arrogance. He was slumped in his chair, favoring his left side.
Angel wanted desperately to help, to somehow guide him. Or just to hold him forever. He attempted eye contact numerous times, but Spike was engrossed with a knot in the wood, as if it contained the answers to all his problems. None of which the older vampire knew about. Never occurred to him to ask. Until now.
"Spike?" Angel asked softly, patiently. "What happened?"
"Don' remember."
"Bullshit, Spike. What happened?"
There was a pause. Confusion clouded his bruised face, as if he was trying to make sense of something, clarify some big decision that just wound itself into a bigger knot the more he thought.
"Remember 1897? In France?" His voice was reluctant, fingers running circles around the edge of his glass.
"Of course."
"Remember April?"
Angel didn't know what he was getting at. There was nothing of significance in April 1897. Wreaked havoc across Europe, torture some people, killed a few more.
"Oh... Pères de Tomes."
Angel suddenly felt very heavy, a feeling of everything spiraling out of control. The Peres de Tomes were some badass guys. Spike, he had killed at least ten of their members. A massacre. It was beautiful. Entrails draped across their fancy chandeliers and brain spattered the elegant drapes.
Course, he was barely older than a fledge, just going on eight. Didn't know any better than to piss off the biggest baddest clan in town. Probably enjoyed it the whole while.
They hunted him, vowing revenge and forcing the order to leave France.
"Y' know, I still hear them."
The shift in topic puzzled Angel. His childe suddenly looked very young and innocent, like when they first found him, which worried him.
"Who?"
"The people I killed."
Oh. Angel struggled against the urge to pull him into a tight embrace. He didn't how he would respond. Didn't know why he felt it either. He was supposed to hate Spike. Loathe him. Where did all the fuzzy feelings come from and why can't he seem to fight them?
"I know."
"Does it always hurt?"
"Yeah," he said frankly. He should know, lived with the damn thing for over 110 years.
"I told them I was sorry. Said I'd take it back if I could. Doesn't matter though does it? None of it."
"It will matter, some day. There's some means for redemption in all this."
"Yeah for you maybe," he snorted. "You get to be all shanshu-ed up. Be the sodding hero. While I get a one-way trip to hell, with bloody first class seats."
Angel fought for control of his anger and tried to remind himself that he was supposed to be helping.
"It's not like that."
"How would you know?"
"I don't, Spike. But I have to believe it."
"Really, why's that then? Is this some grand religious scheme of things? 'Cause you should know, I really don't swing that way, Peaches."
"I have to believe it. There's no other alternative in this, for either of us. We have done enough evil, both of us, to be damned for eternity, no matter how much good we do! This isn't about becoming human. This is about redemption and atonement. Isn't that why you got your soul? To make up for what you did, to Buffy. Tried to rape her so you figure you go get yourself a shiny new soul, make her forgive you. Guilt her into—"
"It is none of your bloody business why I got my soul! I did what I had to do, so you can sod off."
Spike downed his beer, searched through his pockets for cigarettes absentmindedly, signaling the end of the conversation.
"Bloody hell. You got some smokes on ya?"
Angel gave him an incredulous glance.
"Course not, why would ya...Do you think they're done?"
Angel lost his place again.
"Done what?"
"Exacting their vengeance."
"Probably not."
"Figured as much. So what's their next move?" Spike asked, shifting painfully in his seat. Why does a vampire have wooden chairs anyway?
"I don't know. But whatever it is, we need to be prepared."
"Don't know if we can be. They got reinforcements Angel. Lots of reinforcements."
"We have an evil law firm." A slight smile spread across their faces. "Doesn't quite seem fair, does it?"
"No' at all