Chapter 11. Part 1.
He hoped his eyes didn't show how betrayed he felt. It was a tad hard to control when you're blinded by your own blood and would be seeing red anyway from pure rage, but he didn't want Angel(us) to know that he was beaten. And he couldn't do shit to fight back.
The two sides shook hands and Angelus went on his merry way, with no more than a mocking smirk and wave before he drove away in his Jaguar.
Spike was left with an overwhelming feeling of despair watching the car lights disappear into the night. They (obviously the Pères de Tomes) were going to do whatever they wanted with him. And no one would care. Not Buffy. Not Angel. No one. He would die again, no more than a fool for love. His sire was supposed to love him. He was sure they were meant to be together. He was also sure Dru was. And Cecily. And Buffy.
Last time there had been no regrets. He was relieved to end that life and start a new one. Relieved to have another chance to be stronger. Better. Spike. This time was different though. This time he could list all the regrets. Like not telling Dawn he was alive. Not kissing Buffy one last time. Not visiting his old grave. Not reciting his poems. Not saving Angel.
Sifting through all the things he'd never accomplished, the regret and despair quickly shifted into determination and resolve. He wasn't going to find his end in a genetic warehouse, hung from chains and begging for mercy. If he was going to go down, he was going to do it fighting in a blaze of glory.
His captors weren't holding him too tightly and had obviously thought he was completely out. Not a threat at all. Too bad they underestimated old Spike. He gathered the warmth that radiated from his dead, unbeating heart and wound it into an orb of raw energy, emanating strength and power.
Without warning, Spike threw his arms forward, driving the vampires holding onto him head first into each other. Those four stumbled and fell backwards. The impact must've at least cracked a few skulls, if not some noses as well. The rest rushed to fill the unexpected gap that the fallen had left and flailed to get a hold on him again.
Dead hands squeezed around his biceps and shoulders, preventing him from escape. Spike grabbed a random arm from the mass and shifted his weight forward, sending the arm and it's owner flying into the sidewalk.
He elbowed a snarling game-faced vamp who was trying to sink its teeth into his neck and weaken him even more. The blow stunned him momentarily and caused him to collapse back onto a few of his comrades. That left only three vampires, each playing pile on top of the Spike. They weren't very good at it and Spike quickly over powered them, tossing them out of his way.
Whatever hadn't run or wasn't unconscious went for another go, which Spike welcomed. He was well irked and ready to kill anything—whether it be a twenty-foot dragon or a bloody butterfly—just to beat the shit of something.
It was a short and chaotic fight, one that he happened win. If they were stupid enough to want an encore after his show, they deserved it. Once the effects of—whatever it was that gave him the strength—wore off, Spike felt like he was ready to collapse. But he still had to finish his job. Still needed to save Angel.
He looked around for a car to steal, but the houses were either abandoned or had conveniently locked garages. He didn't know how far he could walk without collapsing and frying in the morning sun that was rapidly rising behind the skyscrapers of the distant city.
He stepped over the scattered vampires lying on the ground (just wait for the sun, fuckers) and began to walk down the cracked sidewalk to the next block. Maybe there'd be a car parked there.
Before he made it half way down the road, a black van sped up behind him and screeched to a halt beside the sidewalk. Must be his ride. Spike waltzed up to the dark tinted windows and tapped his knuckles against the glass. The van's balance shifted and he heard people rustling inside. Not humans though. The smell was off and they didn't have heartbeats.
It took about the time to light a cigarette for the door to swing open. A large game faced vampire tried to jump out of the van and catch him by surprise, but Spike swung his arm out, effectively clothesling the brutish demon. He was probably a football player in his day.
A metallic clatter, like the dropping of a sword, echoed off the houses in the silence of the early morning. The guy had brought a weapon. Spike picked it up—a rusted crowbar—and headed to the other side of the van.
He jerked the door off its hinges violently. This was not the time to mess with him. He was grumpy, pissed, needed a few dozen drinks, and had an intensifying bruise under his eye. The startled vampire in the driver's seat scrambled to arm himself but Spike quickly swung the crowbar at his temple, hitting it with a loud 'thwak'.
He couldn't sense anyone else in the van and really couldn't give a hot fuck. The keys were still in the ignition (thanks ever so much). Spike jumped in the car and started the engine. The Dixie Chicks blasted loudly as the car roared to life.
"Oh, fro Christ's sake." He swore and smashed the radio in with the crowbar. Slamming on the gas pedal, he tore down the road, running red lights and stop signs. If someone got in his way, tough shit.
Chapter 11. Part 2.
The streets were busier than he expected, but that didn't stop him. Angelus was most likely headed back to the law firm, and who knew what the fuck he planned to do then. He was in a major damage position. Head of a significant law firm, trusted comrade, martyr of The Powers That Be. He could do anything, and no one would expect it.
Spike pressed the gas pedal down even harder. He was not going to let him hurt Fred. And knowing Angelus, she'd be his prize. He always loved the innocent. Found pleasure in taking that away slowly. Like Drusilla. Crazy bint.
Most of the cars swerved out of his way. Which was good, 'cause he didn't trust the van to get enough traction to miss a car head on at over 70 miles an hour. Why couldn't the bad guys drive sports cars? Like a Ferrari or something. Least that way he had a fighting chance.
The other (correct) side of the road was clogged with early morning rush hour traffic. The odd car would occasionally choose to come straight at him, but they knew that he wouldn't get out of the way. Must've been the cause of at least a dozen accidents.
The first stray beams of sun gleamed through skyscrapers and reflected off the glass and shiny metal structures of the city. He wasn't about to test whether the van windows were sun deterrent or not, but was running out of time quick.
With minutes to spare, he slammed on the brake and sent the car into a violent spin, stopping right by the door to Wolfram and Hart. The sun glinted through the passenger window and hit his hand. He yelped and pulled it away before any damage could be done.
Spike was about to jump out of the car and make a mad dash for the door, but he noticed a group of familiar people peering cautiously at his car. Fred, Wes, Gunn, and Lorne stood outside on the sidewalk, looking confused and troubled.
At least Angelus didn't hurt them. Yet. He rolled down the tinted window and yelled for them to get in the car. Best to get out of here before Angel felt a little more soulless. The AI team ran to the car and jumped in without question. They must've thought of the same thing.
"What are you doing here? And where on earth did you get this car?"
"It's a long story, pet. Now who's gonna drive?"
"Why can't you?"
"Not too keen on being deep fried Charley...the sun, vampire." A steady stream shone on the steering wheel and was getting dangerously close to his legs and captain winkie.
"Not it." All three, excluding Wes, said in unison.
"Fine. Get out."
"And where do you propose I go?"
"Get in the back." Fred suggested. It was dark, windowless, and a dangerous race through bright cheery goodness.
Spike pouted crossly. What other choice did he have? There was no blanket around, and he doubted they could drive across town without once hitting sunlight. He pulled the top of the duster over his head and threw open the door. Crouching low, he hid in the slight shade offered by the van and frantically pulled the back doors open before jumping inside.
Aside from a few sizzling fingers, he made it in unscathed. The low rumble of the car engine vibrated and they leisurely drove away. He was about to criticize the ex-watcher's driving, but decided he really couldn't care. His mind was elsewhere. More specifically, in Angel land. Apparently everyone else's was too.
"How could this have happened?" Fred piped up, worry etched into her delicate features.
"Just as stumped as you Fredikins."
"He didn't...do the nasty...did he?" Gunn asked. It was a possibility.
"Buffy is still in Rome. He couldn't have seen her without our knowledge."
Spike snorted. Course, only Buffy could make the stupid sod happy. He was just a quick mindless fuck, no emotional impact and dust is, after all, a quick clean up.
He was vaguely aware of the group talking amongst themselves, formulating plans and strategy. Really wasn't his forte anyway. Was always the brawn, ready at a moments notice to run headlong into danger, no matter the consequences. Yep, that was him.
He knew Angel still had a soul, he reeked of it, but he doubted it was in the driver's seat. So, that would make him still Angel...just less repentant and more fangy. But that means there's hope, right? It's nevertheless there, inside, at least. Not floating around in the cosmos.
Spike realized Lorne was calling his name, and tuned back into the outside world.
"What?"
Lorne frowned and stared at him a few seconds, studying him a little close for comfort, before speaking. "Not that it's not appreciated, but how did you know to come and get us?"
It took a few seconds for his words to register. "Oh, Angel and some blokes attacked me. I assumed they'd come for you next."
"Did you notice anything different about Angel? Besides the obvious?"
"You mean besides the I'm-going-to-kill-you looks and fangy grins? That's a pretty big besides." Gunn said sarcastically from his spot in the passenger's seat.
"No. Wasn't noticeable."
"I agree, whatever happened was gradual. Which rules out losing his soul."
"Then how do you explain the evilness?"
"He still has his soul."
"How can you be sure?"
"So that really was Angel? He really meant everything he said?" Fred asked.
"No. He may have a soul, but it's not in control. Something must've happened to offset the balance between the demon and Lia—Angel's soul." He covered up his slip. Without thinking, the first instinct was to use his sire's human name. Weird.
"We don't know anything for sure yet. We'll go back to the hotel and hit the books. I'm positive we can find the answers somewhere."
"The answer is not gonna be in some dusty old book, Wussley. The Pères de Tomes are involved in this, and they do not fuck around with ancient bloody prophecy and fancy vampiric laws. So saddle up kiddies, this is the real thing and a real apocalypse we're dealing with."
"The Pères de Tomes? What the hell do they have to do with this?"
"What did I just say? Angel teamed up with them. And I have a feeling it ain't goin to be your run of the mill power duo. Is everyone around here this slow?"
"How do we know you aren't just out to save your own hide? Blame all this on the vampires that are after your ass, get us to take them out while the real enemy destroys the world?"
"You think you got it all figured out, Charley? I care about Angel just as much as any of you, and even if that means sacrificing myself to save the wanker, then that's what I'll do."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
The car pulled into the parking lot of the Hyperion and Wes switched off the engine.
"Oh thank Buddha. Getting a tad bit too testosterone filled in here for me." Lorne opened the door and followed Wes and Fred into the hotel. Spike and Gunn held each other's hard gaze for a few seconds before Gunn got out and too went into the building. Stubborn self-righteous bastard.
Spike surveyed the conditions, deciding on the best method to not get dusted. The sun shone even brighter than before, leaving only areas of dappled shade and scattered safe zones. It was either the frantic chaotic sprint or the old-fashioned hopscotch technique. Spike covered his head and neck with his duster and darted from the van into the old hotel. Frantic chaotic sprint it was.
"Bloody, buggering, fucking, sodding..." he muttered as he stamped out a small fire that had ignited on the sleeve. Does he have to carry a safety blanket with him everywhere he goes? He was lucky the hotel was a public place and he didn't require an invitation or else he'd be royally screwed. Even more so.
Chapter 12. Part 1.
Spike watched the white hats shuffle about around him. He walked into the center of the big open room and stood, not knowing exactly what to do with himself. Fred and Wes were looking through texts behind the front desk, Lorne was mixing a margarita, and Gunn was pulling various weapons from a concealed cabinet.
No one said anything. A distant silence filled the room, leaving him feeling dreadfully deserted. None of this was real. He was just an outsider looking in, watching himself. All sound washed over him. The sound of pages turning, metal clanking, and ice swirling was lost, spiraling down the drain. He glanced around, not really seeing anything. It was there, but not with him. Like looking through foggy glass.
Somehow he had gotten himself up the stairs and into one of the rooms. He didn't question it. Just slid down the wall, sitting and hugging his knees to his chest.
Angel was gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Was this his fault? Did he do something wrong? What atrocious crime has he committed to deserve this? Is he bad? Evil and soulless and just a thing? Could he have stopped it? Was he not watching close enough? Did he not pay attention? Would Angel still be here if he had?
Fred opened the door a crack and peeked her head in. She might've knocked, he didn't know. "Oh, hi. You disappeared and then I found this outside the door and I...Spike?"
She noticed he didn't seem to be aware of her presence. Just stared ahead at the wall, unfocused and cloudy. His forearms rested on his knees, hands dangling listlessly above his shins.
"Spike? Are you alright?" She stepped further into the room and stood before him.
"Is this all there is?"
"...What?"
"Is there nothing else? Is this how it's going to be, forever?"
"I—I don't understand."
Other than speaking, he didn't acknowledge her directly. Didn't move, didn't blink, didn't breath. Still as a rock. Or a corpse.
Fred sat down beside him, placing his duster on top on his arms, hoping to elicit some sort of response.
"You'd think it would be easier. Good guys are supposed to always win. Always triumph. Defeat the evil and save the day and all that fairly tale rot."
Fred didn't know what to do or say. She wasn't sure what this was about and was almost going to ask him to continue, but he'd already begun.
"What's a fellow got to bloody do anyway? Saved enough lives, repented for all the death and destruction, suffered for all the sodding pain. What's the bloody freakin' hold up?" He shouted, looking up to the ceiling.
She wasn't sure who he was talking to, but at least he wasn't catatonic anymore. "You mean Angel?"
"Yeah...yeah. Was living a well enough un-life before good ol' Spike comes along, flying out of that sodding amulet. Shoulda stayed dead." He stood and started pacing around the room, motioning emphatically with his hands. "You hear me? Why couldn't you just let me die? You fucking pansies! Would have been better off he would."
"Spike, you can't blame yourself for what happened to Angel. Someone did it to him, not you. You couldn't have done anything to stop or cause it."
"It is my fault! The Pères de Tomes wouldn't have done this if it wasn't for me. They needed him out of the way, to get to me! Don't you get it? If the sodding powers that be hadn't did the boogie boogie and sent me here just for bloody chuckles, none of this woulda happened."
Fred could see he was about to haul off and kill something. Most likely the nice lamp or maybe the coffee table. She came to his side and grabbed his hand, covering it with both of hers. "We need you here Spike. I don't care what you or anyone else thinks. You make the difference. You are worth saving, remember? You are worth love, and care, and, and, all sorts of good stuff. A champion."
He sighed deeply and ran his hand through his hair, breaking up the strands covered in dry blood. "Thanks ever so pet. Still doesn't change the fact that Angel's gone, and I can't do a bloody freaking thing about it."
"You love him."
It wasn't a question and wasn't meant to be, but he felt the need to say it aloud nonetheless. "I love him."
They both smiled, hearing it aloud. "You can't give up. He would never give up on you, would he?"
"No, stubborn old brooding sod. Even when it was good for him. Intolerable I was, don't know how he put up with me." Spike smiled in remembrance. All the riots he triggered, vampire-staking parties, police raids, impromptu vacations they had to take.
"We'll get him back, I promise. So, what do you say we go back out there and fix this mess?"
He nodded and shrugged on his duster. They made their way into the hall, but before she reached the steps, Spike grabbed her arm and stopped her. "Thanks...for the pep talk. Wes's a lucky bastard to catch a girl like you."
"Your welcome, I think."
They descended the stairs together, attracting attention from the group, who were assembled around the couches in the center.
"And where'd you two lovebirds get off to?" Lorne asked jokingly, taking another sip of his margarita.
"Haha." Fred picked up one of the ancient looking books from the front counter and flipped through its pages.
"We were all a bit curious in fact, mind filling us in?" A bit jealous is he?
"Not really, mate. So what's the what?"
"There isn't much what, actually."
"Yes, unfortunately all of my dark magic texts were left behind in Wolfram and Hart's research department."
"Which is now under the direction of a loony psychotic vampire killer. Gee, I feel safe."
"I can check online, I think I left a lap top in my office." Fred exited, leaving Spike feeling a little less confident. He wrapped his arms around himself, mumbling to himself about not having a smoke. The researchers were researching, what good does he do?
Lorne made a disapproving noise and frowned at his glass, already empty. "Time for another refill, kiddies."
"I'll have a whisky, straight."
"Taking orders on my day off. I really am I nice guy aren't I?" Lorne disappeared into the back for a few minutes, rummaged around and returned with a full glass. "Here you go amigo."
"Cheers mate." Spike quickly downed half the bottle Lorne had tossed to him. He'd never had this brand before, which was rare, hardly came across a beer he'd never tried. The name sounded Russian. Or maybe Norwegian.
"This is pointless." Gunn slammed his book shut and tossed it on the table. "There is nothing here Wes. Makes you miss the 'your-wish-is-my-command books', don't it? There has to be another way."
"I'm open to suggestions."
"Well, I'm just saying, we do have a more intimate source right here." Gunn said, directing his comment towards Spike.
"Hey, I had nothing do with captain forehead's dark side toasting your useless asses."
"You were the last one to see him before the big show. I doubt you guys went out on a fancy wine and dine date."
"Are you out of your gourd? I told you, they attacked me!" Spike and Gunn were getting increasingly infuriated, both in the others face and raising their voices.
"And who are they exactly?"
"Oh I dunno, the lollipop brigade."
They were about to come to blows, but Wes stepped in first. "Both of you stop this, right now. This is hardly the time for your childish squabbles. Angel needs our help."
Spike wasn't going to let the issue drop, but relented first and sat down on the arm of the couch. Gunn followed suit.
"Good. Although I do not agree with the method Gunn chose to pursue the issue, he was speaking what we were all thinking. Where did you and Angel go, Spike? And do be specific."
He glanced around the room. All eyes on him. "Or we could always have you sing for Lorne. Which ever you chose."
"Alright, no need to bloody threaten me. Angel said he'd found a nest of vampires and needed help taking them out. I didn't ask questions. Always up for a spot of violence. 'Sides, not like there was any big to do around this joint."
"So you left to exterminate a nest, then what?"
"Then all hell broke loose. A gang of vampires attacked me. Must've been at least a dozen, almost two. The ponce didn't do anything. Just stood and watched them beat the shit out of me." Spike snorted, "Didn't even care."
"So, he set you up?"
"Yup, just part of his fancy master plan."
"How do we know he's telling the truth? For all we know, he's making all this up, just to save his sorry ass."
"Then where did he get these cuts and bruises, Charles?" Fred defended him, "It makes sense, Spike was a threat to Angel's plans."
"But why not take him out himself? Angel's never been one to shy from bloodshed."
"He made a deal with them. Said so before he dro—"
"Then what's in it for him?"
"That's the scary part, they get Spike, but Angel gets what?"
Spike drained the last of the whiskey and got up for a refill. Did they have to refer to him like he wasn't present? Talking like he has no part in it. Must be a good guy thing. Happened all the time in Sunnydale.
Lorne had locked his alcohol cabinet, but it was no match for an expert like him. Spike pulled out a piece of flint (which somehow remained unscathed in the many battles that had ensued over the past days) from his pocket. He skimmed over the dozens of bottles that neatly lined the shelves. Something European. Preferably German or Dutch. They still brewed it the old fashioned way. Had a specific soothing feeling when it slid down your throat. Like being back at home. He eventually selected three bottles: vodka, tequila, and more whisky.
He didn't have any cigarettes, but managed to swipe some on the way to the kitchen. Lorne always had some in whatever flamboyant jacket-of-the-week he wore. Spike didn't think he smoked, but it was probably for the clients.
He took his stash to a back room, empty except for a desk, chair, and a pile of old magazines from the 30's. It didn't look at all lived in. Layers of dust sifted over everything, plus there was evidence of rodent infestation on the floor. Modern day mice were nothing compared to the enormous ones back in his day. They filled the cellars, crowded into cabinets, and infested the food barrels. Living in the dark ages sure gave you perspective.
Spike leaned back and propped his Doc Martin clad feet on the desk. Cigarette lit, wide variety of alcohol within reach, major brood-fest in progress.
Chapter 12. Part 2.
A dull throbbing in the back of his skull was the first thing he felt when he woke up. That quickly spread to the rest of his head and then his whole body as consciousness came round.
What the fuck happened? He couldn't remember much. A van. And escape. And a gang of vampires. And...his duster! His duster got burnt! He fingered the hole in the leather despairingly. He loved that duster. Oh well, there were more at Wolfram and Heart. Angel could always—oh, that's right. Scrap that idea.
He was laying on his back, amidst many many sharp fragments of wood. He was apprehensive about the idea of moving as the pieces beneath him might decide the wrong place to poke. The ceiling was stained, like coffee had been spilled on the floor above, but it was most likely just water leaking. The one directly above him looked like a duck. And that one on the right looked like elephant or maybe a whale with a pearl necklace.
Through the only window in the room a bright halo was created. The curtains were dark blue and heavy, but the light that wasn't caught was painfully bright, like miniature leprechauns with tiny swords stabbing his eyeballs.
No use just lying there, finding animals in the ceiling stains. Spike groaned and carefully got to his feet, using the wall for balance. The splintered wood shattered under his feet. So much for the chair. Could've been worth something, seeing as the thing was old as dirt, probably from the Victorian era.
His vision blacked out momentarily and he had to hold onto the wall for stability. The handy vampire constitution of his should clear up the hangover within the next hour, but until then he needed some major munchies. The fridge almost certainly was not stocked, with everyone being gone and all, so he'd have to go get something himself. And soon too, his head was pounding. Whether it was from the excess of liquor or hitting the hard tile floor, he couldn't remember. Most likely a mixture of both. Now the question was: did he pass out and then fall or fall and then pass out?
Once his vision cleared he exited the room and made his way to the front door. Halfway there he remembered the sun was still bright and shining with all its glory. So sewers it was. Wouldn't be light in another three hours, but he had nothing to do in the meantime, so he figured what the hell.
The group was still gathered; still slaving away at the worthless prehistoric books of prophecy and history in the big green room that made his skin go prickly. There was some magical presence left behind, like the feeling he got around Willow. Weird. Gave him the heebie-jeebies.
"Hey, I have a marvel idea, ever thought the answer could be right in front of you and you useless monkeys missed it?" They didn't pay much attention to him, didn't even look up from their books, all except Fred that is.
"We already looked Spike. We didn't miss anything."
"And what makes you so sure? Always looking for the answers in the past and future, why never the present? Past is full of betrayal and pain, and right now the future ain't looking too bloody optimistic either love."
"That's it!" Wes shouted as he rushed over to the front counter and pulled notebooks from the shelves, examining then tossing them every which direction.
"What's it?"
"Spike, as much as I loathe admitting it, has a good point."
"Never thought I'd hear that."
"Did I miss something amigos?" Lorne took another swig of drink number 1,542,098.
"We all did. We've been looking in all the wrong places. We need to concentrate on recent events, not the past nor the future."
"Thank you. 'Bout time I got some pissing credit around here."
"What are you looking for?"
"A phone number."
"Um...whose?"
"I'll know when I find it."
"Much as I enjoy you lot's company, think I'm gonna step out of this little pow wow, let the big kids play telephone by themselves." They were too absorbed in whatever thoughts they had to hear him. "Right then, I hate you all. You can go to hell for all I care." Still nothing. "In fact, that's a brilliant idea, you should try it sometime. Tell me what it's like, never got to go there myself." His voice trailed off as he got further away. He doubted they could come up with the answer, despite their epiphany.
Now that's an awful thought, what if there was no answer? No quick incantation to set the record straight? He paused to consider it but quickly threw it out of his head. They always find a way. That's why they're the good guys.
The sound of water trickling beneath the floor led him to the sewer entrance. Handy thing to have two feet from your bedroom door. Might have to move in when the ordeal's all said and done. Could be nice.
He made it into the butcher's without a hitch. The sewer opened up in an alley two buildings down, and better yet, it was a shaded alley.
A heaping paper bag of pig's blood later, he was on his way to the nearest grocery store. Normally, he would never step a foot into the damn things. Menopause soccer moms and old hags jam-packed the place, making it impossible to move without crashing into some desperate wife or widow looking for a quick affair. But he had to make an exception this time. The AI team wasn't going to break up their study binge and there was no way he could wait any longer without food.
It wasn't more than a miles walk through the sewer until his next stop. He got some strange looks from people, probably because he forgot to wash the dried blood off his face and change into some cleaner clothes. Not that he really could though; all his stuff was left in Wolfram and bloody Hart.
He did the best he could to clean up, splashing his face with rain runoff from the last storm. Still didn't erase the black eye and still healing split eyebrow he could feel throbbing away.
By the time he got out of the PMS hellhole it was dark enough that he could walk on the streets without being hit by any stray sunlight. He probably should be keeping a low profile, traveling underground no matter what time of day, but he never was known to be cautious. If they want to find him, let them come. He'll make them wish they never messed with William the Bloody.
Everything was going quite smoothly, no vampire attacks, helpless needing help, fire falling from the sky. That is, until he was stopped by the blinding idiot herself, Harmony.
"Blondie Bear! Oh my god! I totally didn't expect to see you here!"
"Let's leave it that way." He turned and walked away but didn't get three feet.
"Why do you have to be so mean Spikey? I just wanted to have a casual, friendly talk. Like old times, remember?"
"Not fondly. Look, I'm late for a thing. Give Angel my regards will ya?"
"He wants you dead, you know. Like really really bad. He was just telling me about how much he hates you."
He didn't respond and kept walking in the direction of the hotel. She didn't get the point and was still trailing along behind him.
"Spikey? Wait up, these are brand new Versaci. Slow down."
"Harm, stop following me like a bloody pathetic puppy and run off to the boss. Sure he needs a new massacre or something."
"He fired me."
"Great, join the club."
"Really? There's a club? Cuz I've never been in a club exactly. Well there was that one time in high sch—"
"For fucking Christ's sake! Will you shut up, you silly twit? I don't care. You hear me, I don't care! Now bugger off and bother some other poor sod!"
She jutted out her lower lip and sniffled pitifully. "Fine. I'll just go. Into the cruel cold world where dangers lurk in the dark...spots. Maybe I'll find a warm place to sleep tonight. Maybe I won't burn up in the sun and be all ash-y."
"Maybe. Good luck with that." He strolled around the corner and prayed that she wouldn't follow.
"Alright, alright, alright. No need to beg. I'll stay with you guys. Now I know it will be hard, me having to compromise my standards to live in poor quality conditions and all, but I think I can manage."
"No, no, no, bloody freaking no!"
"But why not? I'm sure I can find some way to repay you. If you know what I—"
"I know what you mean Harmony and the answer is no. Now piss off. I have things to do, places to go, and people to kill."
"Like the Pères de Tomes?"
He stopped mid stride. "What do you know about them?"
"Well, only what Angel told me. And what I sorta overheard while hiding in a closet. But that was an accident."
"Right, come on." He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and pulled her along behind him.
"You mean I can stay with you? Oh Blondie Bear, I love you so much." She pulled him into a big hug and kissed his cheek while bouncing around and squealing excitedly.
"Yeah, yeah, just keep walking pet."