Part: 10
Disclaimer: Even AU they don't belong to me
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Summary: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.
Author's Note: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. Italics indicate thought.
June 18, 2005
12: 04 PM
Outside of town hall, Redgrass, Michigan
"Did you know that you can make soap out of human fat?" Spike asked, leaning back in the seat of the SUV.
"I did know that, actually," Angel responded, studying the building in front of him carefully. "I read it in Fight Club."
"Never read the book. I saw the movie though," the blonde man muttered. Angel had forbidden him from lighting a cigarette, citing second-hand smoke and the possibility that anyone outside would see the glowing ash as his reasons. But now Spike had nothing to do with his hands, besides tap the steering wheel and gesture as he talked.
"Did you like it?"
"Oh, hell yeah. Never saw the split-personality thing coming." Spike hummed tunelessly for a moment, and then asked, "Where in the Fight Club book did they talk about making soap out of people? I don't remember it from the movie."
"I don't think it was in the movie, but yeah, Tyler Durden tricked Marla's mother into giving him thigh fat to make soap."
"Ah." Spike paused again and tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel. "That's disgusting."
"Why are you asking about making soap from people in the first place, Spike?" Honestly, Angel didn't really have a problem with it, however strange the topic was. So far, the reconnaissance had been extremely boring. The partners were parked in an alley outside of the building where one Marcus Hamilton was meeting with the head honchos of his different organizations.
The building in question was marked with a big red X, but Angel was okay with that. It wasn't necessary to hear what Hamilton's lieutenants were telling him, because the detective already knew in advance. Wolfram and Hart had spies in every part of Hamilton's set-up, and they were well trained. Hamilton might have known the huge things, the secret things, but Angel knew the details, like what the guards at the docks liked on their sandwiches. And that could be just as important, in the long run.
"What the hell's takin' them so long anyway?" Spike asked, shifting positions again. Angel wondered vaguely if the blonde man had ever considered Ritalin or something similar to help him relax.
"Well, if the reports are done, he'll be in there glad-handing his flunkies," the detective explained, temporarily casting aside thoughts of sneaking tranquilizers into Spike's drinks. "Y'know, telling them to keep up the good work because he'll be on them like ugly on a one-eyed dog if they don't. Oh, and the ones that have screwed up recently will be treated to veiled threats and insults the entire time. It's pretty much hell for everyone but Hamilton, unless anybody did something really great. Then they'll suck up without shame and hope for treats."
Spike was looking at him like he'd sprouted a second head. Angel shrugged and added, "I've sat through plenty of these things with and as Angelus. They're all the same after a while."
"I'll take your word on that," the blonde responded, sinking back into his seat and staring at the door to Hamilton's building. The car they were in was actually about three streets away from town hall, where the meeting was taking place. Night-vision binoculars were required to see the door clearly, which Angel did not mind because, hey, how cool were night-vision binoculars? Also, being farther away from the building drastically reduced the chances of being spotted. Spike and Angel had even covered the headlights, bumpers, and other shiny metallic surfaces with electrical tape, in order to prevent any light from reflecting off the car. Unless someone actually walked down the alley, it would be very hard to tell that a car was there at all, which was exactly how the two mercenaries liked it.
Spike's fingers started to tap on the wheel again after about twelve minutes, and Angel waited for the inevitable talking that had to follow. He was not disappointed. "So why are we here, anyway? We have pictures and files on all the major players in this godforsaken town, not like we're gonna learn anymore sittin' in a filthy alley."
"I need to see Hamilton," Angel explained, keeping his eyes focused on the door. "See him moving around and talking. Then I can understand him."
Spike considered this for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. "That's bloody stupid."
"So are you," Angel responded passively.
His partner was about to hiss out a response when the detective held up a hand to indicate the need for silence. The night-vision goggles were raised as a plethora of people exited town hall and descended the steps. Everyone in the group was male and dressed in sharp looking suits. At the head of the group was a very tall man who had the sort of square-jawed, clean-cut look that businesses loved. This was a powerful man and every inch of him screamed that. It was Marcus Hamilton, and Angel was impressed. It was very strange for the detective to see someone who was just bigger than him. Wesley and Gunn were both slightly taller, but Angel took up the most space, had the most presence. Size was something both the O'Brien twins had used to intimidate others time and time again, and it was a fair bet that Hamilton used this tactic as well.
"That's the boss man himself," Spike said unnecessarily. "See that bloke next to him? That's the mayor, Richard Wilkins. Talkin' to him, you'd never guess he was a ruthless, scary bastard; seems more like a Boy Scout leader. 'Course, Hamilton owns him." Apparently, the blonde had decided to give his partner a full rundown of everyone on the steps of town hall. "The guy right behind Wilkins is his assistant, Trick. Does most of Wilkins' dirty work."
"Who's the bald rodent man?" Angel asked, momentarily taking his eyes from Hamilton to observe the people around the criminal.
"That's Snyder. Runs the elementary school-slash-brothel. Reminds me of my former headmaster, come to think of it."
Angel lowered the goggles for a moment. "So wait. That man is a pimp?"
"Frightening thought, innit?"
"We have to rescue the innocent prostitutes."
"Maybe they'll even reward us." Both men were lost in happy contemplation of such a reward, before focusing once again on their observations.
"The smug-looking fellow right behind Hamilton is Ethan Rayne, head of his drug-trafficking agency. Born sadist. According to some of our people, the girls at the brothel are terrified of getting sent to escort Rayne anywhere." Angel could understand that. Even from a distance, Rayne had a sharpness about him that was disconcerting.
"Who's the kid?" the detective asked, focusing on a nerdy-looking boy who was lagging slightly behind the group.
"That's Warren. Total ponce, but a mechanical wizard. He set up a surveillance system that would make Big Brother jealous."
Hamilton was exchanging some parting words with his lackeys before sending them on their way. Cars with chauffeurs waited at the foot of stairs, and Angel would have bet his left arm that each and every one of the vehicles had tracking devices in them.
"Hey," the detective muttered, focusing on a handsome man with light brown hair, "he wasn't in the files. He's the vapid-looking male model to the left of Rayne."
Spike raised the goggles and squinted into them before chuckling. "Ah, yeah, he's new. Runs the hospital. Name's Ben Glorificus. We found out about him when some of our people had to be drug tested. He's completely dotty."
"He's crazy?"
"He has a split-personality. His other identity is an uber-bitch that calls herself Glory. Makes Benny boy wander around in dresses. The other workers at the hospital love it."
"They're never just criminals anymore," Angel complained. "Now they have to have split-personalities."
Hamilton was finally done speaking with his employees and most of them entered the waiting cars, which sped off through the nearly empty streets. This left Hamilton, Wilkins, and Trick standing at the steps. Hamilton said something without turning around to look at his flunkies, and they scrambled up the stairs quickly.
This left Hamilton standing at the bottom of town hall, in his town, looking around into the darkness of the night. The night-vision goggles lent him a sickly greenish glow, and he looked almost demonic as he stared at the town he owned.
"Can he see us?" Spike asked, and Angel was not surprised to hear a worried tone in the blonde's voice. The way Hamilton was staring out into the darkness reminded the detective of a wolf who'd just caught the scent of prey.
"No, but…" Angel trailed off. Hamilton was smirking now, a mean, sneaky smirk that did nothing to settle the detective's nerves. "I think he knows we're out here. Angelus would do it sometimes. Just know when something was about to go down."
Spike lowered the goggles. "Hunter always knows when he's being hunted."
Standing there in a smart suit, smug and powerful, Hamilton looked unbeatable. He looked like there was nothing in the world that could topple him. Angel knew that was a lie. Image may have seemed like everything, but it was just that. An image. What was inside really was all that counted. As Angel stared at Hamilton, he saw a weakness. A chink in the armor. Hamilton saw this town and everything in it as his, and that made him arrogant.
Angel smiled, lowered his goggles, and waited for Hamilton to go back inside. He thinks he's safe. He thinks he can take on anything. The detective's smile would not have looked out of place on his brother's face. Angel was about to prove Hamilton very wrong.
When Hamilton finally turned and walked back into the town hall, Angel opened his car door and started removing the electrical tape. Spike got out and began wordlessly helping too. It was only when they were both back in the car and driving down the road that Spike asked, "So, are we finished with the stupid observation, then?"
After a moment of quiet contemplation, Angel said, "Yes. I know who I'm fighting now."
Spike rolled his eyes. "How deep. You got any other pearls of wisdom?"
"No," Angel muttered, thinking hard. He had Hamilton figured out, unless the criminal had some deep, dark secret that fueled him. Hamilton was the easy one, the enemy. So it was time for Angel to turn his attention to different people. "But I do have a question."
"Fire away."
"What's up with Wesley?"
Someone who wasn't familiar with Spike would have thought the blonde was completely indifferent to the question. But Angel had been around the smaller man for years and years, making Spike an open book for the detective to interpret. Slight tightening of lips, hands clenching on the wheel ever so slightly, a tiny break in the rhythm of his tapping foot, these were all signs that Spike had been rattled, just a little. "As far as I can tell, he has no life outside his books," the Englishman said, cracking jokes to try and change the topic. Angel wasn't so easily distracted.
"I'm not blind, or stupid. For the past four days, Wesley's practically been my shadow. I wake up, he's lurking in the bathroom. I go downstairs, he's there at his little desk and I can feel him watching me. If I'm watching TV, he'll hang around the doorway and make excuses to stay there. It's becoming annoying, Spike, and if he doesn't stop it, I'll have to talk to him myself," Angel shrugged calmly. "And you know I don't have the best bedside manner."
Tightening his jaw, the blonde muttered, "S'not polite to gossip."
"Like you care about polite."
Spike smacked the steering wheel angrily. "Bloody hell, I told the little blighter to leave it alone! Almost begged him to just use his head and do his job, but no, he wouldn't listen to me!"
Angel smiled a little. "Spike, if everyone listened to you, then Britain would be a global empire and The Sex Pistols would be played at every wedding."
"Yeah, speakin' of which, if you every get remarried, would you-"
"No."
"C'mon, weddings are boring, they need some good music!"
"Focus, Spike. Wesley. Why is he following me around?"
It was always a mystery to Angel how Spike could do anything but drive and still stay on the road. For example, the blonde had closed his eyes as he contemplated what to tell his partner. But the car didn't even swerve, which both amazed and appalled Angel. Finally, sighing to show how put out he was by Angel's question, Spike began to talk.
"Mind you, he hasn't told me anything for sure, but I know his background and have my suspicions. I figure the git wants out."
"Out of Wolfram and Hart or out of the entire criminal business?"
"Out as in he'd be perfectly content to sit in a library for the rest of his days and never even see a gun again, let alone fire it. But he's in to deep to just hang up his hat and call it a day."
"Why?" Angel thought for a moment. "What does Angelus have on him?"
"About a decade ago, Wussley was a big name in the Watcher's Council. Now, you remember how big a pain in the arse the Council was back in the day?"
Angel did indeed. There had been a point where the people who performed shady dealings cursed the Watcher's Council with the same vehemence that they felt towards the FBI or DEA. The detective himself could remember a few close calls with Council operatives, and none of them had been fun. One of those encounters had ended with the other man being dead, which had necessitated Angel's leaving the country for a while until the fuss died down. "But I thought the Watcher's Council got taken apart once the government found out that they were corrupt."
"Oh, they did. But c'mon, Peaches, think hard. Who was running the Council right before it got shut down?"
The name emerged from Angel's memory bank and carried with it a flash of understanding. "Roger Wyndham-Pryce. Was he Wesley's…"
"Father. Father-son crime fighting duo. Very impressive, right? Except for the part where good ol' Roger was raking in the cash by ignoring some less than legal dealings."
"Wesley found out." It wasn't a question. There was something in the dark-haired British man's eyes that spoke quietly of pain and betrayal.
"Right. And little Wesley was not all right with the state of things. So he blew the whistle on his dear old dad, and ended up exposing that the Council was rotten through and through."
"I bet that didn't sit well with the crooks who had been coasting along with the help of the Council."
"Too right. Plus, his family wasn't all that pleased about him getting his dad tossed in jail. So Wes ended up alone, with an arseload of mercenaries gunnin' for him."
"Why didn't go to the Witness Protection Program?"
Spike chuckled. "He had understandably lost faith in The Man by that point. And the ponce did all right for a couple of years. But he couldn't run forever, and eventually he was pretty much buggered. No more cash, hitmen closing in, nowhere left to go."
"Enter Angelus." Angel knew the rest of this story. He'd seen it played out again and again among dozens of desperate, scared people. "He offers Wesley protection and a steady source of money if only he'll work for Wolfram and Hart."
"Exactly. Far as I can tell, this took place right after he became CEO. Percy knew something about every criminal organization in North America and had tips one some of the major players through the world." Spike shrugged. "He was exactly what His Ponciness needed."
"But that doesn't explain why he's playing at being my stalker," Angel said, glancing at the roads. They were get close to the edge of town, and traffic was starting to pick up.
"Like I said, he wants out. Wussley isn't stupid, Peaches. He knows if he's gonna leave Wolfram and Hart, he's gotta go straight for Angelus. Thinks if he can understand the boss man, he'll be able to outsmart him."
"And he thinks I can help him understand my brother," Angel finished, shaking his head. "He is aware that there have never been two siblings more different than Angelus and I, right?"
" 'Parently not." Spike glanced at Angel suspiciously. "You aren't gonna tell him I told you this, are ya?"
The brunette rolled his eyes. He'd have thought his partner would understand by now. They were in this together, and backstabbing wouldn't help anyone. "Of course I'm not."
Spike was still staring at him suspiciously. "Swear it."
"What?" What fresh stupidity was this.
"Look, Peaches, no offense, but you've been out of the game for a while and that rattles my trust in you just a little. For all I know, you could be on some suicide mission." As Angel opened his mouth to protest, the blonde cut him off. "An' don't try and deny it either. Back in the day, you'd have mood swings worse than a bird. Hell, you still do. And there were times when I'd wonder if maybe you weren't ready to just step off the edge of a building or 'accidentally' set a bomb off before we were out the building. So I want you to swear you won't tell Percy what I told you, 'cause he has the makings to be a crazy bastard an' I don't wanna be first on his list."
Angel scowled at Spike, pissed off and not a little hurt. He'd thought they trusted each other. "I swear it Spike," he sneered, "on my mother's grave." That'll shut the asshole up.
Spike looked as if he'd been slapped for a moment, and then stared straight ahead at the road, refusing to look at Angel. For his part, the brunette was fuming silently. It was only when they reached the parking lot of the Cold Front, Lorne's new place of employment, that the smaller man finally spoke.
"'M sorry. I did hear about your mum. I wanted to come to the funeral, but I didn't think your father would want me around."
Angel had to laugh at that. No, Nathan O'Brien had definitely not liked Spike when they had first met. Equilibrium returned, Angel felt peaceful enough to murmur, "How are you doing, by the way? I mean, I know I'm a couple of years too late, but when you got back from your mom's funeral, you didn't want to talk about it at all."
The blonde man bowed his head for a moment. "Yeah. I'm all right. My old man had the nerve to come to her funeral though. Wanted to knock his teeth out."
"Did you?"
"No. She wouldn't have wanted it that way."
The moment that Spike had received word of his mother's death was still vivid in Angel's mind. It had been about a year before Connor's birth, and they had been in the middle of a job. Spike had picked up his cell phone, and by the time he hung up, the blonde had looked like little kid who had been told the Santa Claus was dead and that Jesus hated him. Never before and never again would Angel see Spike look so devastated, so crushed. So lost. The brunette hadn't hesitated to tell Spike to forget about the mission and go back to England.
Feeling comfortable with each other again, if a little sad, Spike and Angel glanced at the Cold Front. "This would be a lousy place to party," Spike muttered. The Clod Front was a squat brick building that looked like it was made to huddle against the cold Michigan winters. The sign in front of it that spelled out the name was rusty, and the door blocked any light from spilling out into the night and making the place seem more inviting.
"Okay, Lorne really does have a reason to hate this place," Angel observed.
"Yeah, but let's hope he's hasn't spooked the workers so much that they aren't talking to him," Spike responded. "Get you kit on, we're going in."
The partners were aware that they would not exactly fit in amongst a crowd of Great Lakes region dockworkers and drug dealers, so they had planned ahead. Spike had traded his beloved duster for a heavy jean jacket and blue jeans. After pulling a Yankees baseball cap over his radioactive hair, Spike would probably blend in well enough. Angel, on the other hand, was at a significant disadvantage due to the fact that his brother was well-known. They couldn't take the risk that someone would see Angel and think that Angelus was in town. Word would get back to Hamilton and then all hell would break lose. So the detective had reached into his bag of tricks and come up with a disguise.
A wig with short blonde hair covered his own, with a Notre Dame cap covering the wig. He'd put in colored green contacts, and hadn't shaved since he'd arrived in Redgrass, giving him a five o'clock shadow that would hopefully make him look less like himself. Like Spike, Angel had also dressed in clothes that would hopefully arouse no suspicion as to their identity.
"Okay," Angel said, after giving both himself and Spike a once over. "Let's go talk to Lorne."
June 18, 2005
10: 18 AM
1212 Whedon Street
Wesley POV
It had been a productive night. Lorne had managed to point out various people in the Cold Front who bore watching to Spike and Angel, Fred had learned a new weapons deal that Hamilton's people were considering making, and Gunn had found another hole in security at the docks. Productive nights made Wesley very tired, however, and he'd fallen into bed as soon as the sun rose, along with everyone else in the warehouse.
That was why it was so curious that Wesley would wake up at a little after ten o'clock. Normally he didn't rouse himself until at least two. Sitting up on his elbows, the Englishman glanced around the room. It was completely quiet in the warehouse, as it always was in the middle of the day. Wesley could find nothing amiss until he happened to glance at the foot of his bed, which made him give a small yelp of alarm. Someone was sitting there.
Wesley lunged for his lamp, which sat on the desk next to his bed. As he grabbed the lamp with one hand, he snatched the .45 caliber that rested in the drawer. The light clicked on and the gun came up, and it was to Wesley's great surprise that he found Angel sitting at the foot of his bed, looking perfectly calm.
"Hello Wesley," the tall man greeted, as if there was nothing strange at all about what was happening.
"What are you doing here?" Wesley asked, pushing himself into a sitting position while never taking the gun off of Angel.
"Now that was a little rude," commented Angel, staring at his nails as if bored. "I thought that the English were supposed to be the epitome of polite."
"Not when we find strange people in our rooms. I repeat, what are you doing here?" Wesley cocked the gun. He really, really did not want to shoot Angel. The younger twin seemed like a decent person. Plus, he was very possibly Wesley's ticket out of service to Wolfram and Hart. But there was a possibility that Angel was crazy, or working for Hamilton, or something else entirely, and Wesley did not want to be the one who found out about it the hard way.
Angel stretched, and in a motion so fast that Wesley barely saw it, grabbed a gun from his own waistband. The two brunettes were now facing each other over the barrels of their weapons. "Wes, I'd rather this not end in violence. I really did just come up here to talk."
"You came to talk with weapons?" Wesley asked skeptically.
"Well, you seemed a little trigger-happy," Angel admitted. "I figured it was best to be prepared."
"Sadly, you were prepared for nothing, because I'm certainly not going to talk to you right now." Wesley waved the gun a little for emphasis. "You should leave, and come back later. I need my beauty sleep."
Angel smiled slightly. "Trust me, this won't take long." He looked at his gun for a moment. "I'll put mine down if you'll put yours down."
"I'd rather keep mine up, if it's all the same to you."
"Fine." The detective lowered his gun all the same. "You've been following me."
This was not what Wesley had expected to hear and he had a brief moment of panic. But he quickly regained his composure, not wanting to show any weakness in front of Angelus' brother. "I don't know what you're talking about, I spend all of my time in the warehouse."
The big man smiled again, and it struck Wesley that the smile was certainly not genuine. It was another version of Angelus' smile. "I'm a better stalker than you, Wes, we should get that clear right away. I know when you're there. Also, I'm more than a little annoyed that you've been going in my room."
"How could you know that?" Wesley was startled. He'd gone into Angel's room when he had been all alone in the warehouse and was sure he had put everything back where it belonged.
"It didn't, but you just told me."
Dammit. He should have seen that one coming. "So what. It's my business to know things." It occurred to Wesley that he must look ridiculous. Hair ruffled by sleep, bare-chested, holding a gun.
"But this isn't about business, Wes. You and I both know that. So I'm going to say this once, and then hopefully we won't ever have to talk about it again." Angel leaned close. "You cannot get to my brother through me. I am just another employee to him. I have no idea how we ended up being so different, but we are. So you can stop taking notes, because you aren't going to find anything out. And if you still persist in following me, I'll scream this at you in front of everyone in the warehouse."
"But you got out," Wesley protested quietly. "So you must know a way."
Angel laughed. It sounded hollow. "I didn't get out. I walked away, not caring whether I lived or died. And it just so happened that I lived." The detective stood up and walked for the door. "If you want to leave Wolfram and Hart, it's as easy as not caring. But try not to let this suicide revelation hit you until we're done with the mission." He smiled again, Angelus' smile, and walked out the door, leaving Wesley feeling as if he'd just lost a very important battle that he hadn't even realized he was fighting.