Disclaimer: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…
Summary: Sequel to The Vampire in My Living Room. Occurs around from You're Welcome to Why We Fight, but not down to the minute… Wherein things go from bad to worse, which doesn't really surprise us, does it? Rating T- M.
VAMPIRUS (NON) DOMESTICUS
Chapter 2 – Dinner Isn't Served
Wesley carefully skirted the garbage on the sidewalk as he made his way back to the 'Cuda, and though this was a reasonably "safe" LA neighbourhood, he never relaxed his vigilance as he walked along with seeming nonchalance. Five years at Angel's side and his own polished paranoia meant that Wesley was acutely attuned to the world around him. He was ready for anything from vampire and/or demon attack through pickpockets and prostitutes to gangs and suspicious police officers or even harmless-looking little old ladies stopping to ask him the time.
Traversing the crosswalk, Wesley became more alert, his muscles flexing and the various weapons secreted on his person instantly at hand. There was a health clinic that regularly ran blood donor drives on this block, which meant that vampire presences were higher than normal, the area drawing the undead who were too lazy, too cowardly or too incompetent to catch live human prey. He could see the clinic, set back in shadow on its lot, deserted at this late hour –
Wait. Wesley craned his head as he caught a flash of yellow. Looking closer he saw the cut-through at the back of the clinic where it backed onto the businesses that lined the sidewalk of the next block. A number of people, at this distance more or less just outlined bipedal shapes, were grouped near the back entrance of the clinic. The group shifted slightly and once again one of them moved into the pool of light projected by an overhead streetlight, which reflected off an unmistakable head of harsh, chemically produced bright blond hair.
A very large figure was standing opposite the vampire, even at this distance his stance clearly aggressive. A few weeks had passed – full of deeply disturbing events - since the night of Spike's precipitous exit from Wesley's apartment. The English vampire wasn't gaining either weight or colour, indeed was subtly but perceptibly becoming more and more tense as Wesley surreptitiously observed him, as if beating Angel to the Cup of Perpetual Torment, fake though it had proven to be, had sent the peroxide blond into a downward spiral of despair instead of, as you would imagine, raising his game once he had shown that he could best Angel in a literal fight, something he had never before accomplished.
The Englishman's booted feet made no sound as he drifted closer with a stealth even Angel would have envied and few people realised the usually somewhat 'bumbling' man possessed. Wesley was used to being what others expected him to be. Roger Wyndham-Pryce had expected a stammering disappointment, and got exactly that; Faith had expected an uptight prissy Brit Watcher, and got her expectations fulfilled; Angel had originally expected a buffoonish but academically brilliant male version of Willow and again had got what he anticipated. Clinging to the shadows like a lover, Wesley approached the group as if hunting a nervous deer – slowly, silently and downwind.
Spike faced off against the huge man and sighed theatrically even as he mentally exhausted every swearword he knew in every language he spoke. To buy himself precious seconds he reached into his duster pocket, pulled out a packet of Marlboros, extracted one and lit it with his trusty silver metal lighter, before dropping lighter and packet into his pocket and reaching up to remove the cigarette after taking a deep drag. "You're beginning to annoy me, Henrik."
Henrik's booze-bloated face twisted into a nasty grin. A natural thug, he had the vampire over a barrel and he knew it. The punk vampire might be de-chipped but was now carrying around a soul. He had been a Champion of the Light for that blonde Slayer whore back in Sunnydale, which meant that snacking on live people was a big no-no; like that Irish poof who'd got his soul first, Spike was now reduced to pig's blood or knocking off blood banks.
Henrik also had a huge advantage in that he could 'pass' for fully human unless you looked too closely at his skin and realised the mottled orange wasn't badly applied fake tan; besides the bad skin superhuman strength was the hidden legacy his other-dimensional heritage gave him, and it had proved to be a hugely advantageous secret weapon. Now he laughed coarsely in the vampire's face and his cronies edged closer forming a loose semi-circle, mimicking his laughter nervously in the presence of the infamous Spike. More obviously non-human but just as vicious as their leader they, in common with most other-dimensional beings, despised vampires as inferior beings because the undead were dependent on humans to survive.
"Cut the attitude, Willie." Henrik jeered, not understanding the flare in Spike's eyes but enjoying the way the diminutive seemed to disturb the vampire. "We all know what you need, and don't worry, I'll let you have some of the ruby red…if you ask prettily enough." Henrik was going to enjoy making the vampire beg…he might even let the blond drink a few sips before he dusted him. "Here –" Henrik casually sliced open his own wrist and let a few drops spatter down to the earth, grinning inside when he saw the flicker of hunger the vampire's pale blue eyes were momentarily unable to hide, "- you can suck my wrist…on your knees where you belong." His gang tittered at the crude double entendre.
Spike hadn't eaten in a week; he had been allergic to pork as a human, and his vampiric self didn't deal all that well with pig's blood. He'd wiped the floor with Henrik on a mission for "Doyle" but had made the mistake of sparing the thug's life, which he was now paying for. Henrik's revenge-fuelled investigation revealed Spike's identity as the other vampire with a soul, sidekick to that pathetic poor-me do-gooder Angel. Once "Doyle" had been spectacularly exposed as a fake, Spike no longer had the Powers That Be to invoke; Henrik had staked out the blood banks and clinics, causing the blond vampire to slip away to avoid a confrontation, but Spike had seen the apparently deserted clinic and the smell of the blood had been too much to resist. Henrik and his crew had appeared from the shadows like wraiths and blocked Spike's path and the punk vampire knew this was the showdown he'd sought to avoid.
He couldn't back down, for not only would he be unlikely to escape Henrik alive, but the destruction of his ferocious reputation would have every dime-a-dozen glory hound descending on LA like a swarm of locusts to kill him slowly and agonisingly. However, nor could he follow his instincts and sink his fangs into Henrik's neck. Not only was his soul a pitiless conscience over his past crimes, he was still a Champion of the Light and any chance of redemption would be out of the window and way down the block if he started taking people out just because they were assholes.
For a charged moment, the tension cloyed the air as Henrik and the narrow-eyed vampire faced each other.
"Spike!"
Everyone including Henrik, though he quickly covered it, flinched at the harsh, unexpected voice and all heads turned to the newcomer. A tall, slender man with dark brown hair and smoke-grey eyes stood in the middle of the alley, looking totally unconcerned about the large demon two feet to his right. The Ysak demon didn't look at Henrik, since it should have heard Wesley coming a good five minutes ago.
Raising his arm up and looking pointedly at his watch, Wesley told Spike crisply, "You can eat in a bit, we're working, remember?"
Spike knew they were doing no such thing, but he'd always been quick on the uptake and was helped along by a healthy dose of strong survival instinct. "I was just –"
"I said you can eat him later." Wesley's tone took on an edge.
Henrik gave a jeering laugh as he looked this second English interloper up and down contemptuously. "Nice try, fag-boy, but we know who blondie here is. Little Spike's been deballed – he's harmless."
"Oh, hardly." Wesley commented. "Though you're obviously stupid enough to think so." His casual tone meant the insult didn't register for a moment.
Henrik's face twisted into something even more ugly. "He's got a soul."
Wesley raised his head slightly and locked eyes with Henrik as simultaneously his right wrist flexed minutely and there was a barely audible whish-shluck! Wesley drew his arm back, pulling out the spring-loaded collapsible sword strapped to his arm from the Ysak demon's corpse, which slowly toppled over and hit the ground with a thunk.
Wesley's voice was whisper-soft, yet carried clear and sharp as cut glass. "So do I."
Seizing the moment, Spike stepped back, making neither comment nor gesture but his body language managing to convey that it was obedience to Wesley as opposed to any trepidation regarding Henrik that prevented him simply lunging forward and ripping out the big jerk's throat. He allowed his demon-eyes to glow sulphuric yellow for a minute and felt savage satisfaction as Henrik visibly swallowed. Showing no fear at making such a vulnerable action, Wesley smoothly stepped forward and bent down, wiping the Ysak's gore from his blade on the dead demon's own torso before straightening up, turning his back and simply walking away as if completely confident of Spike following.
The blond vampire didn't so much as smirk but just did exactly that, leaving behind them a very shaken and uncertain group. What sweat glands Henrik had were working overtime and his mouth was suddenly very dry. Spike was obviously nowhere near as harmless as he appeared…the casual indifference with which that human English dude had killed Iskka had been chilling. "Let's go!" He barked, mentally deciding that he was overdue to visit his cousin Dagan in the Big Apple, far away from a certain peroxide blond vampire… and his clearly psychopathic human buddy.
In complete silence Spike climbed in the 'Cuda and Wesley drove back to his apartment. Once inside the blond walked straight over to the couch and turned on the TV, his black duster wrapped around him tightly, plonking himself down and staring rigidly at the TV screen.
Going into the kitchen, Wesley put the kettle on, since there were times when only a mug of hot tea would suffice, then sat at the breakfast bar ostensibly with the folded paper in front of him, in actual fact frantically trying to work out what to do.
Spike was watching the television with a silent, manic intensity normally only seen in someone trying to diffuse a bomb, metaphoric DANGER! KEEP OUT! signs all round him. Wesley licked his lips as he stared unseeing at the newsprint. They were at a critical juncture, what was known as a cusp. A line from one of those 1970s Ray Harryhausen Sinbad films popped into his head: " '…unless the actions of mortal man shall tip the scales one way or the other…'"
The next thirty seconds were of world-shattering importance, Spike's future and Wesley's chances of surviving longer than the next ten minutes would wax or wane depending on the ex-Watcher's ability to choose the right words to prevent Spike from going off at the deep end. The Powers were largely responsible for this…Give me a clue here! he roared the words mentally even as his features remained impassive. What could he do?
He blinked and the tiny print in the bottom right hand corner suddenly seemed to enlarge as it sprang into focus: Thought For Today, taken from Hebrews Chapter 11 Verse 1. What..?
'Faith is the assured expectation of things hoped for, the evident demonstration of realities though not beheld.'
As sharp as steel and as clear as polished glass, it was there in front of Wesley, laid out in 24 size font, all annotated and itemized and colour-coded. His worrying exchange with Angel shortly before his cyborg "father" turned up replayed with digital clarity in Wesley's mind:
"Your heart's not in the work. You've lost hope that the work has meaning." Wesley had prodded gently. "It's lost meaning for you. Spike says you no longer believe in the Shanshu Prophecy?"
"Of course not. The prophecy is nonsense, you know that, after everything we've seen…"the father will kill the son"…"
"What are you talking about?" It had taken all Wesley's control to act as if he had no idea what Angel meant, though memories of his flight with the baby Connor and Holtz taking the boy roared through his head.
"We're getting the work done. As long as I keep doing what I do, it doesn't matter if I believe in the Shanshu or any other prophecy." The undertone of bitterness in the dark vampire's tone had been unmistakable.
"I'm sorry Angel, but nothing matters more. Hope – it's the only that will sustain you…and keep you from ending up like Number Five…"
Angel's melancholia went much deeper than uncertainty over running Wolfram & Hart. The dark vampire was undergoing a crisis of faith far more dangerous than the machinations of Eve, Lindsay and the worst that the senior partners could throw at them. When he had left Buffy for LA and learned of the Shanshu prophecy, family life had been an abstract concept for the vampire with a soul, and he hadn't really missed what he'd never had, but Connor had been the embodiment of the family Angel craved, the child he and Buffy were unable to have.
The father will kill the son. Sat at the breakfast bar, Wesley cursed the ambiguity of the Shanshu prophecy and the Sahjahn-corrupted Niiahzian Scrolls. He had no regrets over taking Connor away, despite how badly it had turned out; he had been trying to protect both Connor and Angel. Angel had actually killed Connor in a symbolic way, by giving up his son. Angel had sacrificed the opportunity to build a life with Connor for the boy's sake. Instead of a tormented psychopath, Connor was now a happy, normal teenager completely unaware that his real parents were vampires.
But Angel's grief for his lost child was just as real and valid as if Connor had literally died, and had precipitated a bitter resentment of what Angel perceived to be the whims of the Powers That Be; he felt the loss of Connor far more terribly precisely because the child of two vampires was a miracle beyond comprehension in the first place. Angel was going through the motions, but his heart wasn't in it –
And Spike is in exactly the same place, psychologically speaking. Wesley risked a glance at the stiff posture of the English vampire. His innate knowledge of Angel's thinking and – despite their enmity – knowledge of how often Angel knew what he was talking about, had enabled Spike to put into words Angel's own loss of hope:
"It's a bunch of nonsense, a bedtime story to get vampires to play nice." Spike said smugly as Wesley tried to concentrate on the pictograms that would enable them to battle the heart-stealing demon Aztec.
"Says you." Wesley retorted.
"Says Angel." Spike grinned as Wesley raised his head sharply. "Yeah - tall dark and dreary told me he doesn't believe in the Shanshu prophecy, said it's a suckers game."
Angel was still leading in their attempts to fight the good fight, but he did so because he thought that it was merely right to help innocent people where you could, he no longer believed in any higher purpose to what he was doing, and now neither did Spike. The blond vampire, more than any other of his kind including Angel, responded to the dictates of his heart, and right now Spike was angry, upset and humiliated.
Again into Wesley's head popped the entry in Giles' diary that Andrew had encouraged him to read on the web. At the time he had focussed Spike's self-admission of following 'his blood' rather than what his rational side was advising, but Wesley suddenly realised he could remember what Spike had gone on to say to Buffy after admitting that he had made 'a lot of mistakes':
"A lot of mistakes. A lot of wrong bloody calls. A hundred plus years, only one thing I've ever been sure of. You. I'm not asking you for anything. When I tell you that I love you, it's not because I want you, or 'cause I can't have you – it's got nothing to do with me. I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I've seen your strength, and your kindness, I've seen the best and the worst of you, and I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You are a hell of a woman. You're the one, Buffy."
He had gained a soul for love of the Slayer, and sacrificed his life willingly for that love in order to save the world, yet in full expectation of receiving absolutely no reward –unless you counted just ending up very painfully dead. Yet now Spike was unexpectedly 'alive' - but abandoned.
Their mutual souls, which should have been a common bond between Angel and Spike, instead drove them further apart. Returning after his few days of leave Wesley had walked into Wolfram & Hart and practically been whacked upside the head with the tension emanating from the inner circle of Team Angel. The fading cuts and bruises on Angel and Spike's faces told their tale well, but Wesley realised instantly how much more horrific the injuries the two had inflicted on each other must have been considering the speed with which vampires healed, for them to still be visible several days later.
Cautiously approaching Angel in his office, Wesley had found the dark vampire in a deep, deep depression…
…a place Spike was now heading into at top speed as he sat over on the couch, his eyes averted, radiating thick waves of misery and rage.
Continued in Chapter 3…