Chapter 6. Part 1.

Where the fuck was he? Did he think it was funny? Just a big joke? No, the fury and turmoil in his eyes had been real. Sparkling with intensity. This was serious. And he had no idea what set it off.

No one had seen him since their fight and he was beside himself with worry. Thousands of questions ran through his mind, plotting out every scenario, possibly making a fucking graph of the outcomes where Spike comes back alive.

He paced back and forth, like a caged animal, occasionally growling when he caught a glance at the clock. Four days. 98 fucking hours. Still no sign of the bleached nuisance.

Normally he would be happy. Thrilled to have relief from the annoying constant banter of his childe. But his heart was weighed down with worry and his soul was drenched in guilt.

He should have left well enough alone. Never should have pushed Spike and been so damn stubborn. Should have paid attention to the fire behind the cerulean blue eyes. Instead of letting that infuriate him more.

Also should've considered the soul. Souled Spike is more complex than un- souled Spike. This was a whole new game. Not the same old dance they've been doing for so long. Need to write a whole new book of rules.

His musings were interrupted by Harmony's painfully cheerful voice over the intercom.

"Boss? Uh...we have a problem."

He groaned and picked up the receiver.

"What is it?"

"It's Spike."

"He's back?" He asked, letting hope seep through.

"Well yeah, but he's not looking too good."

"Where is he? Is he alright?"

"You should come and see. The security guards are having a little trouble."

"Where, Harmony?"

"In front."

"In front of what?"

"Me, silly."

He growled but decided she wasn't worth getting upset over.

"Fine. I'll be right there."

"Right boss."

He slammed down the phone and ran down the hall, passing a few—more than irritated—employees ranting over a crazy guy in the lobby.

He was going to kill him. Torture him for a few days, and then leave him in the sun to burn. That'll teach him to make his sire worry.

All thoughts of murderous rage dissipated once he saw the younger vampire. Clearly drunk, he was swearing rather loudly, while knocking out the occasional security officer who dared to get close. His words were slurred together in a random jumbled order, not making much sense.

Angel slowly edged forward, hoping to slip by him unnoticed. In his intoxicated state, the blond didn't sense him until he was trapped in a headlock.

He struggled, taking Angel by surprise with an elbow to his jaw. But the alcohol impaired his movement significantly and he was shoved into the wall. The bottle he hadn't realized he'd been holding crashed to the floor.

"Oi! That was me beer!" Spike didn't bother to fight back, just slumped in a pile on the floor, unconscious.

Angel, trying to hide a smirk, picked up his childe and carried him through the gathering crowd to his suite.

In the light he saw the bruises across his face and the few small cuts already healing. His knuckles were raw and bloody. He must've been in a fight. Least he was still alive—undead.

Taking about the task to undress him and bandage any injuries for the second time in a week, Angel noticed the return of his precious duster. What had happened to that thing anyway?

He realized he'd missed it. Made Spike...Spike. Although he still didn't agree with the method of acquisition his childe had chosen.

His ribs retained the most damage. Broken again. Once binded—which would be undoubtedly removed too soon—he laid Spike in the bed and set upon watching over him until he woke.

Chapter 6. Part 2.

Wherever he was, it was warm. And soft. And right. Happy. Content.

He delayed opening his eyes for as long as possible, fearing it might've been a dream. But curiosity got the better of him and he slowly cracked one eye.

It wasn't a dream. He was in Angel's room. In his bed. Oh bloody buggering fuck, not again.

He glanced around, searching for the ponce. Lounging in the armchair to the left of the bed, he looked to be asleep.

Spike tried to get up and make a stealthy exit, but in the process of moving, he hit his skull on the headboard of the bed and spouted out a loud string of curses.

Angel looked up, startled, and moved to help balance his childe, but was pushed away.

"Don't need your help you stupid wanker." His head was pounding and the world was blurred, making colorful blobs of paint smeared over the canvas. He swore a few more times and stumbled into the bathroom, puking his guts out.

Must've drunk a little more than previously thought. Hard to tell with a concussion where the limit is. Even vampire healing couldn't account for the alcohol he knocked back. And judging from the hot pain generating from his ribs, the injuries from the fight hadn't healed either.

A cool hand rested on his bare back.

"You drank too much."

"Really? 'Cause I thought it was just the birthday cake, Angelus. Sodding ponce. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"You're my childe. My responsibility. It's my job."

"Well you're fired."

Angel dragged him into the main room, throwing him his clothes. Face as hard as stone, not letting any emotion through, no matter how strong.

Spike has always been jealous of that. His face always betrayed him, showing every thought, every feeling, plain as day.

"You need a shower."

"I'll get one later." He pulled on his newly found duster and tried to hide his limp and stagger as he walked towards the door, hoping to escape without incident. Didn't feel like getting into another fight, because if Angel yelled at him for one fucking thing, that was what was going to happen.

"Where've you been staying?"

He paused. Not the harsh scolding he'd been expecting. "Around. Never really got a room."

That had stung. Not being offered a room in his Sire's own law firm. Most nights he crashed on a random couch in the building. Unless he wasn't kicked out of the bar.

Angel sighed. His shoulders were slumped in what would've been labeled as guilt if the blond didn't know better. Pity is what it was. Shame that his childe had turned out to be nothing but a poor, pathetic tosser, trying to pass as a human.

"Here." A shiny metallic object was thrown towards him. Without thinking, Spike snatched out of the air with supernatural ease. A key.

"527? That's right next door." Oh, that sly bastard.

"Yeah."

He left without thanks and walked the few feet to his new place. He knew a good deal when he saw one.

He opened the door. The room was almost a carbon copy of his sire's. Same bed, same kitchen, same table, same bloody color. Gonna have to change that.

There were a few minute differences he noticed as he opened the fridge, finding beer, blood, and frozen onion rings. The place was nice actually. Wasn't anticipating that. Guess he underestimated the poof.

A flat screen, Playstation, plenty of booze in different languages, and a closet full of new clothes. All his size, he noted, chugging down packets of nauseating pig's blood, and all in black. Damn, he just might have to apologize.

He spent the rest of the day sleeping, drifting throughout the night. Bed was a hell of a lot better than the sodding alley. Warm, comfy, better than the sarcophagus he put up with in Sunnyhell. Then again, everything was better than Sunnyhell.

But one thing was missing here. Buffy. The love of his life. Died for the bint. And still didn't get anything resembling love. Or gratitude. Or respect.

He had considered calling her several times, relying on the wishful thinking that things would be different. But deep in his soul, he knew she could never love him. Even with the spark. The light. They would never work. Never fit.

Deciding to end that train of thought before reaching full-on brooding, he forced himself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water cascaded down his sinewy body, still bearing some scars. He leaned heavily against the tile, resting on his forearms. He stayed in that position, letting the warmth soothe his muscles, clearing his mind of everything, blank, until the water ran out, the cold bringing him out of his reverie.

Chapter 7.

The next day was spent in front of the telly, recuperating with a Jack Daniels and O pos chasers.

Basically, avoiding Angel. He wanted things to be the way they used to be. Without the confusion and unannounced feelings, festering behind a rock until they suddenly popped out, making themselves glaringly obvious. Back when he was William the Bloody and his sire was Angelus. Everything was simple. Black and White. Rage and affection. Pain and love. One or the other.

Until his sire got a soul. And left them. Left him. Without saying goodbye. Without saying anything. For months, they didn't know whether he was even alive or not.

Spent weeks searching. Wearing himself thin, only to come home to harsh lashings and verbal beatings.

Darla blamed him. Said he drove Angelus away, poisoned him out of spite and jealousy. Bitch. Didn't stick around more than a week. Fumed off to her mansion in Italy or something. Not before leaving her mark.

Dru had been inconsolable. Wailing hysterically, refusing to eat or talk. Repeated her sire's name over and over, like a mantra, willing his return. As if he could hear her. After she got over the despair and shock, she was pissed. Pissed that daddy had left her. She blamed him. Said he made the stars shoot daddy, sent a light down to earth, to destroy him. Ended up throwing a lit kindling at him, along with the rest of the fireplace.

But he didn't leave. Not after that. Stayed with her, like he promised. Seemed he was the only one in the family to ever keep one. Held her shaking form, comforted her as best he could, not a single tear leaving his eyes, no matter how much they pushed.

He did cry though. Not in front of others. Alone. In his sire's old room. Relived memories, deep-rooted feelings, mourned. For the loss of a mentor. A hero. A companion. A lover.

When the news had reached them as to what really happened to Angelus, he raged. Tore the house apart. Trashed everything that belonged to the older vampire, burned it.

It wasn't enough. The deep aching, pulsating in his gut, grew stronger, threatening to overtake him.

So he took it out on the civilians. Biggest massacre in the history of France. Bigger than the various wars and battles fought there. Towns decimated, rivers tinted red, women and children hung on the walls, spikes driven through their heads. Unknowingly created a name for himself. William the Bloody.

What people don't know—not even the fancy Watcher's Council—is Angel came back. Returned maybe ten years after his ensouling.

His sire tried to talk to him, tried to make amends. He wouldn't hear it though. There was no way the sod was going to apologize for leaving him. When he promised he never would. Promised he would never break that promise.

They argued, throwing insults back and forth. Both needing to vent, expel all the frustration mounting over the years.

(("You left me! Left the family! When you swore you never would!"))

(("Was it all just a lie? Huh? Did you lie when you told me you loved me? When you said you would die for me?"))

("Will, please listen te—""My name isn't Will!"))

He had lost the right to that name. It had died when he left. Abandoned.

A new name was created out of necessity. The need to be someone other than the weak fledge, living with the dream of a sire. To be strong, different. Dominant.

Spike. Has a certain ring to it. Sharp and vicious at one end, blunt and smooth on the other. Black and White.

He felt a little guilty at treating his sire so harshly. If he had known what it was like having a soul, he would've let up a little. Not yelled. Would've accepted Angel's apology. If he had, maybe the last century would've looked a bit less like hell.

The phone rang. It was past four o'clock, the time of their weekly board meeting. He decided he would not attend early in the day. Didn't want to deal with the humans, or his sire.

"What?"

"Spike? Did you forget about the board meeting?"

"No, I didn't"

"Then why aren't you here?"

"Didn't want to get off my ass just to listen to your dull voice drone on about the mission and all that rot. Plus, Passions was on. Not gonna miss the season finale for you and your lot of wankers." Complete lie.

"The meeting involves all staff, including you. You have to be here."

"Desperate to remind me who I belong to, eh Peaches?"

"Spike. Just get out here."

"Make me."

"Don't tempt me. I expect you here in a minute."

"You can't possib—"The fucking bastard hung up on him!

He took especially long getting to the meeting, ensuring pissing off of his sire and taking the time to sulk. Also took a side trip to the bar.

Fred, Gunn, Wesley, Lorne and Angel were sitting around the table, looking incredibly bored. Except for Angel. He just looked incredibly pissed. Good.

The blond leaned against the farthest wall, opposite the older vampire. Everyone was staring at him, and he fidgeted, searching for something to keep his hands busy.

"Well? Stop staring like I'm a bloody zoo animal and get on with it," he complained, lighting a cigarette. Angel refrained from commenting, but was planning to later by the sour expression on his face.

"Now that we're all here, I want an update on the Pères de Tomes."

Fred spoke first. "I haven't been able to find much, except a few scattered dates pertaining to various massacres in Western Europe. Like in 1645 they torched twelve towns across the European continent and in 1739 four religious leaders were found in West Germany, hung by their feet in a barn with apparent neck trauma. They took credit for the attacks. Almost like an early version of terror groups."

"That was the extent of our research. The Pères de Tomes are considered a legend by many of the online and text demonology sources. I'm afraid finding information will be a great deal harder than previous thought."

"Great. Just Great."

"And in more bad news, we didn't have much luck either, Angelcakes."

"Yeah, even the big kitty had nothin to say."

Angel stared at his folded hands, scowling. Bloody ponce.

"Not all hope is lost, right? I mean we still have this." Fred pulled a large, dusty book from her bag.

"Yes, but unless we can find someone who reads and can fully comprehend H'kswark, I'm afraid it's of no use to us."

"Lemme see that." Spike moved from his spot, pulling the book towards himself and leaning it against his knee.

"Be careful with that! It's a rare ancient text containing an extinct demon language. Replacing it would be impossible."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Watcher." He studied the book, taunting Wes with his cigarette hovering dangerously close to the pages. "Seems our friends worship a god called...Diathaus...who is the bringer of darkness, keeper of time, beholder of the humans, blah blah blah. Bunch of nonsense this is."

"Since when can you read H'kswark?" Wes asked.

He looked up to find ten pairs of eyes staring at him.

"Oh...uh, Angelus had me be the...translator of sorts. Ya' know, communicate with warlocks, save his ass, curse at them, that sort of stuff. 'Member Angelus?" He asked, a small smirk on his face.

Angel tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. His eyes twinkled with remembrance.

Spike always had a knack for languages. Could remember anything. Photographic memory and all. A blessing and a curse. The good as well as the bad seared into his mind.

His linguistic skills weren't always up to par, though. Got them in trouble more than once. Called a Fyoral demon a "Fucking asshole with no sense of fashion" and a Y'nnad from Russia "a bloody ponce who smells like a cow's ass", which got them all covered in a sticky green substance that smelled like ammonia. Angel suspected miscommunications weren't always an accident.

"Spike. You think you can translate that thing for us?"

The poof must be crazy. He glanced skeptically at the book and furrowed his brows, looking up through chocolate lashes at his sire.

"This whole thing? Bollocks."

He ran a hand through his hair, contemplating the 300 plus page volume sitting in front of him.

"Fine. But don't say I never did anything for ya."

Angel smiled thankfully at the blond, holding his gaze. Assuming the meeting was over everyone started to leave.

"Hey kids, I have an idea," the green demon spoke up. "Spikelicious here can sing for me. Maybe I can get a read on him. Some clues on the Pères de Tomes."

Everyone nodded in agreement.

"Wait a minute. I'm not gonna sing. No bloody way am I gonna sing."

"It's the best chance we have." Fred said.

"Yes, don't you want to find them? Put an end to their evil plans?" Wes said.

"No' if I haveta sing."

The others objected, in a rumble of noise, telling him to be the hero and preaching on how it couldn't be that bad.

"Angel sang," Wes said.

"Angelus sang? You sang? In public?" The peroxide vampire laughed, stammering insults at the older vampire between gasps of breath.

"Yes, I sang. Don't see why it's so funny."

"You...you...s-sang...in...in..."

Angel waited for him to stop, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table.

"Are you done?"

"Yeah. S-sure mate." He managed to stop, a leer still plastered on his face.

"So, the karaoke open mic night is Saturday at Caritas. I'll see you there."

"Oh no you won't."

"Spike, we need you to do this."

"I'm already translating your pissing book, I'm no' gonna get up in front of people and sing."

"Please Will."

Oh now that's cheating. That was full blown unethical devious cheating. He was not going to budge. Was not going to sing. Be read like an open book. No way.

He put on his resolve face, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "No' gonna work, Peaches. You can just forget it. Now if you excuse me, I have the bloody Encyclopedia Britannica to translate."

Everyone grudgingly left, including Angel to his surprise. Without a word. Just got up and left, his face closed.

The blond sat heavily in the chair and opened to the first page. This was going to take his entire unlife.