Distribution, disclaimer, and summary can be found in the first chapter.
--
With a satisfying slump, Gunn belched and shoved his bare chicken bones into a nearby trashcan.
"T minus six hours and counting."
Spike looked at him in confusion, "What?"
"That's how long until they'll let me out of this place. I don't like hospitals; they've got this creepy smell—like banks or courthouses or dentists' offices." Gunn cringed.
"Maybe it's cause they're all owned by government-types," Spike suggested. "Do jails smell the same way?"
Gunn glared at Spike, and returned to thinking of his pending release. Two months of clothes with no butt and foods with little sugar—and even less taste—were nearly enough to drive him insane. Soon, he would be returning to the familiar homeliness of the streets. True, it's not really healthy to go back to navigating the sewers just after getting out of the hospital, but what choice did he have?
Wolfram & Hart still hunted for them. Only God knows how Spike managed to keep them away this long. One day, Gunn decided, he would have to ask how Angel and Spike always survived in the ugliest situations.
There were a few weeks where all that Gunn had to do to survive was keep breathing. The portal that the Senior Partners opened in that alley poured demons like his torso poured blood, and as Angel took down the dragon, Spike, Illyria, and Gunn divided the demons amongst them—a few hundred apiece. Gunn remembered well the struggle within his own mind, to just give in to the darkness and let the demons have him, but he continued to stand, continued to fight. He glanced around in the chaos; Illyria seemed to be doing well, no demon or combination of demons matched her godly strength. She continually took on five or six enemies at a time. Spike, not doing as well, was still holding his own. Like Gunn's injuries, Spike had holes leaking pints of blood at a time, but his undead nature worked in his favor.
Gunn found a rhythm in the battle: Ax up. Swing down. Chop left. Block. Ax up. Swing down. Chop right. Block. Before it could really register, Gunn was down to his last demon. With a quick swing, its head cleanly flew off, following the horizontal arc of the blade. Looking around, he saw that Illyria was also done. Spike had two demons left but made short order of them with the two swords he had contracted from a couple of long dead foes. The trio grinned at each other, overwhelmingly glad to still be alive. Amazed to still be alive.
And that's when a shriek pierced the air.
Spike smelled fear pervade the hospital room. He slowly realized that the pungent smell wafted from Gunn in waves.
"Hey, you alright?"
Gunn shook the memories away. "Yea, I'm fine. Just thinking of Angel. How is he?"
Spike frowned, "The same."
"No change at all?"
"Nothin'. But, we'll have to move again soon. The furies are getting a little drained from all the mojo. They can only baby-sit the poof for so long, then they'll have to recharge. It's takin' some powerful magicks to keep him protected. The Senior Partners are really pullin' out the big guns."
"Where will we move him?"
"I was thinkin' we'd go back to the Hyperion."
"The Hyperion?!" Gunn cut off his yell, remembering that it was after hours in the hospital. "It was our base of operations for three years. They'll be watching the place."
"No, I've been eyein' the place since we left the alley. No one enters or leaves it. And Wolfram & Hart's goons stopped checkin' on it a few weeks after the battle."
"Too much magic's been done there, Spike. It's on evil radar."
Spike slouched in his chair as he propped his feet of the edge of Gunn's bed. "Maybe that's why we should be there."
"What does that mean?"
"It's a fortress. We can protect him from there. Plus, unless you've done some magic there lately, the furies' protection spell still stands. We get them to make some allowances for me, Angel, and Big Blue and it's a no fight zone. It's the best option we got."
"Rome."
Spike froze as Gunn's implication slowly sunk in.
"We can't go to Rome."
"Why? 'Cause you're whipped by the slayer?"
"As much as I don't wanna see Buffy, there's a bigger story there."
"Which would be?"
"The Council."
"We don't work for Wolfram & Hart anymore, so no prob."
"Angel and I are vampires; the Council's a bloody mass o' slayers. Whether Buffy wants to help us or not, it's not about friends anymore—it's about politics—and the Scoobies know that helping us would put doubts in the girls' heads."
"Doubts. What doubts?"
"If they can't kill a vampire with a soul, then why are they killing vampires instead of ensoulin' 'em?"
"They're slayers; they slay evil thi…"
Spike paid no mind and continued, "If some vampires have souls, then how do they know which are good and which are evil?"
"Same way we do—take em out, but be careful until you're sure…"
Spike continued once again, "If they're trying to be careful all the time, how can they do their jobs?"
"A'right! I get the point!"
A knock rapped on the door. "Mr. Gunn?" The nurse from the front desk peeked her head in. "Everything all right in here?"
"I'm fine," Gunn said, obviously still a little steamed.
"I understand that Spike can't come in during the day, but he's going to have to leave. He's disturbing the other patients."
Spike rose and straightened his jacket. "It's okay, cutie. I was just thinkin' I should be goin' anyway." He nodded toward Gunn as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "See ya in the mornin', Charlie."
"Yea, Spike. Later."
Turning toward the door, he held it open so that the nurse could fully step in and then exited. With a relieved huff, she walked over to Gunn's bed and tucked him in.
"You shouldn't be arguing with him in your condition."
"Girl, I'm fine. I'm annoyed beyond humanly possible, but it's cool. I'm used to it."
Letting her gaze fall, she spotted the chicken bones in his trashcan. "I think I should be used to it too."
Guilty, and a little embarrassed, Gunn coyly smiled and sank further into the covers.
--
The furies were still fussing over Angel when Spike got back to his Wolfram & Hart-supplied apartment.
One girl massaged Angel's muscles and replaced his bandages, "This will help you stay mobile and strong."
Another ran a comb and scissors through his hair, keeping it spiky, "This will help you remain sharp and beautiful."
The third girl held the corner of a bag of blood just inside his lips, occasionally putting pressure on the bag and releasing sustenance into his mouth, "This will help you stay healthy and immortal."
Spike rolled his eyes, and walked over to the refrigerator. "You know, girls, if Angel knew you were messing with his hair, he'd remove your hands with a chain saw and eat em for dessert."
"Angel will be grateful…"
"…for the services…"
"…that we have given."
Emptying a blood bag into a coffee mug, Spike laughed, "If you say so, ladies."
Plopping down onto his couch, Spike took a sip of his blood and watched the furies as they continued to fawn over the fallen champion. They coddled and fussed over him as if he were no more than a child. This picture simply looked…wrong. Angelus wasn't supposed to be bedridden and broken. Angelus had his way with any woman who dared to venture near his cushioned domain. Angelus would have beaten back Wolfram & Hart with no more than a look as Darla laughed from the carriage behind him.
He couldn't bring himself to believe that the rag doll lying in front of him was his sire, his mind denying any chance that it be real. Memories drifted back to the hospital, back to Gunn. At one point, Gunn's smell changed from the hospital's clean, alcohol stench to a richer, more intoxicating aroma. He knew exactly what Gunn was thinking of when fear began to fill the air.
Gunn, Illyria, and he stood in the middle of the alley, believing that the worst was over and cleaning their blades of demon blood. Spike looked around in confusion—the skies were clear but he heard the constant beat of thunder shaking the skies.
He didn't have to wonder but for a moment. Craning his head toward the sound, Gunn and Illyria joined in, seeing the dragon emerge from behind the buildings. Its high-pitched screams were deafening, but awe overwhelmed Spike.
The outline of a master vampire could clearly be seen against the light background of the pre-dawn morning. Angel proudly stood atop the dragon, attempting to tame it as if it were merely a stallion. For a moment, Spike thought, it looked like a famous war painting in gloomy colors of deep grays and golden browns. He also remembered the ache he felt in the bottom of his unbeating heart when he noticed that a bloodied stump, cut off at the elbow, existed where an arm should have led to a right hand. Three holes diagonally marred Angel's chest and stomach; the dragon managed to bite into the champion some time during the fight. Yet, Angel still held his sword, and he was determined to end the battle.
Angel lifted the Claymore high above his head and rested all of his weight onto the blade as it ripped through the air and toward the back of the dragon's chest cavity. Shrieks accompanied repeated stabbings in unison, and the beast began to falter. A wing wavered and both Angel and his prey fell to the side. Spike looked to Gunn and Illyria as they all watched helplessly, waiting for the inevitable to play out.
Refusing to release his sword, Angel drove the point downward one last time. It anchored in the dragon's rib cage for an instant, but gravity pulled the warrior and his blade, slicing from rib to wing, and they were sent in a lethal spiral.
The apartment door slammed open, waking Spike from his unpleasant reverie. Looking down at his mug, Spike realized that it was empty, and further inspection of the room revealed the furies' fading smell. They had probably left with the sunrise—nearly an hour ago. With a frown, Spike did the math: he was sitting in the chair the entire night, drifting around in his own little world.
An unkempt teen stood in the threshold, panting from lack of breath and reeking of dirt and vampire dust. The blue of his eyes were glazed, yet his emotions remained well-guarded. Shadows graced his features as his gaze settled on his father.
With only a pair of pants covering Angel, Connor could plainly make out the cavities between his ribs. His arm had nearly grown back, all fingers present, but the skin covering the newly-regained limb was blistered, angry, and red. Bandages still adorned his pale skin, refusing to heal in the absence of proper nourishment. A tear paved a clean trail along Connor's dirty cheek as he realized that sunken sockets trapped his father's soulful gaze inside.
Spike rose and sat his mug into the sink. "Can I help ya with somethin', kid? Or are ya just lookin' for another fight?"
Connor wiped the unnoticed tear from his face and tightened his grip on the dagger he concealed behind his wrist.
