Part: 12

Disclaimer: Even AU they don't belong to me

Feedback: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

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.

Spike POV

7:13 AM

June 22, 2005

1212 Whedon Street

Tradition dictated that Spike be drunk when Angel went over the plan. They were both in Spike's room, which was even smaller than Angel's. Not that Spike cared; he spent most of his time downstairs, being social. Angel was the one who needed to lock himself in his room six hours a day to ponder the meaning of life and wallow in his misery.

"Are you paying attention?" Angel's annoyed voice broke through Spike's musings.

The blonde, who was just about at passing out point, rolled his head towards his partner and answered, "Not really."

Angry sigh. Furrowed brow. "Is there a reason you need to be plastered? Gimme that, you're about to throw up." Angel snatched the beer out of Spike's hand.

"Oi!" Spike tried to grab the beer back, but lacked the necessary hand-eye coordination to make the move effective. Instead, he slumped and would have fallen out of the bed had Angel not grabbed him and propped him up.

"Stop it. Just shut up and listen and then tell me if you think the plan will work." Satisfied that Spike wasn't going to lunge off the bed again, Angel sat back in his chair and chugged the remainder of Spike's beer.

"Ponce," Spike muttered. He hoped he wasn't slurring so much that his beer-stealing bastard of a partner couldn't understand him. "'Sides, you know I have to be drunk. 'S a good luck ritual." He's obsessive-compulsive, he should know all about rituals.

-"It's called Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder." Angel lookedvery smallin that moment. He looked as if he was trying to shrink down into the cushions of the couch and disappear completely. "OCD for short, or just OC."

"I've heard of it." Spike wasn't sure what to think. He had never had to deal with something like this before. The closest he'd ever come to dealing with someone who had mental problems was when he'd talked his manic depressive cousin down from a water tower. Now he might have to deal with a certifiable-sack-of-hammers neat freak who would panic every time he got some dirt on him? Spike had a sinking feeling.

Something in Spike's face must have alerted Angel to his thoughts, because the brunette drew himself up and looked offended. "I'm not crazy or handicapped," he said, his voice hard. "I can do my job just fine. I might wash my hands a lot and have weird little rituals, but I'm not a freak."

"No offense mate, but 'm not sure you're gonna be able to hold your own in a fight if you're scared of gettin' a little blood on you." Spike wasn't trying to be cruel, but he refused to be given some dead weight partner that he had to babysit, no matter what Angelus said.

Angel could have pointed out that he'd been in plenty of fights and come out smiling. He could have reminded Spike of how he'd been a mercenary for a longer time. What Angel actually did was deck the blonde Englishman hard, in the nose.

"Argh! You cocksucking son of a whore!" Spike howled, holding his now throbbing nose. Blood was leaking out from between his fingertips.

Smiling smugly, Angel crouched down to where Spike had fallen. He held out his right hand, and the Englishman could see his own blood smeared across it.

"This," he gestured to the blood, "does not scare me at all." Using his left index finger, Angel dipped into the blood and drew a macabre little smiley face on Spike's white T-shirt.

The entire display drove home two points to Spike. One, that Angel was obviously a bit loony, but not because of the OCD. And two, the crazy git would probably make a decent partner.-

Bloody hell. Spike often reminisced when he was drunk and it was mostly uncontrollable. But being as the Brooding One was still yammering on about his plan, taking a trip down memory lane seemed like a good way of escaping. Still, it was best to at least partially listen to what Angel was saying or else the git would throw a hissy fit and probably get violent. He had that in common with his brother, damn them both.

-"Are you listening to me?" Angelus asked, his voice holding that razor edge of irritation that promised pain.

"No." Spike didn't know Angelus well enough to be afraid of him. It was only his second job for the up-and-coming lawyer, but Spike was no newbie to the mercenary trade. He'd killed people before, and that had robbed the Englishman of a certain sense of fear. He was a killer. There was nothing left to be afraid of.

Angelus had been going on and on about how important it was that Spike take out the target sooner rather than later. Something having to do with looming court dates and witnesses for the prosecution. But now the man had gone eerily silent. It occurred to Spike for the first time just how big Angelus O'Brien actually was underneath the well-polished shoes and expensive suit.

"You think you're clever don't you?" the lawyer asked, smiling a thoroughly unpleasant smile. Angelus was fingering a large, heavy looking paperweight that was sitting on his desk. It was made of some dark sort of metal, and was formed in the shape of an eagle or a hawk. It reminded Spike of the bird in The Maltese Falcon.

"More than you," Spike snapped, realizing he'd been too busy staring at the damn paperweight to respond. He hated the way this man was making him feel. It reminded him of when he'd been a tyke in primary school. He'd been small even then, and quiet, and the bullies had honed in on him like he had a target painted on his forehead. But I'm grown up now, Spike reminded himself. No one can take me.

Angelus smiled even wider. Faster than Spike could see, the lawyer picked up the paperweight and heaved it at Spike. It hit him square in the ribs, he heard something crack, and a wave of agony rolled up and down Spike's body. He fell out of his chair, clutching his right side and wondering what in all the levels of hell was going on. Since when did lawyers start brawls?

Before he could get himself together and kick the aforementioned lawyer's wide, spotty arse, he felt himself being picked up and thrown over the edge of the desk and pinned there. Angelus was practically laying on him, and the pressure on Spike's damaged ribs was torture.

"Now, I don't know what you're trying to prove with your I-just escaped-from-a-mosh-pit look and your bad ass attitude, but I've dealt with enough self-important punks in my time to be less than impressed." Angelus was speaking very casually, all the while pressing down on Spike's ribs.

"Get the soddin' hell off of me!" Spike could have come up with something meaner or at least more insulting, but he was frankly too confused and indignant to be thinking quickly. And despite his struggles, Angelus outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. The Englishman was well and truly stuck.

"No," accompanied with another quick hit against the ribs, which made Spike cry out.

Angelus was out of range for a headbutt, so Spike settled down to listen. If there was one thing he'd picked up on in his short time with the obviously batshit lawyer, it was that he liked to talk. A lot. That could give Spike a chance to wiggle out of this situation.

"Now, Spike," extra sneer on the name, "normally I would just assume you were another trigger happy idiot and let you go cheerfully through your pathetic life until one day you got shot, or, stabbed, or OD'd or whatever. But I think you, my short friend, have potential."

"Fuck you," Spike responded, renewing his struggles again

"Perhaps later," Angelus responded cheerfully.

Spike paused for a moment, trying to decide if Angelus was bluffing. The whole meeting had gone to hell very quickly, rape or not. Don't let him get to you. Git's just trying to scare you God, he hoped it was true. "What do you care if I have 'potential'?" Spike asked, trying to sound as if he was completely unafraid. Loony Lawyer could probably smell fear.

"I have plans, Spike, and I think you could be extremely helpful. I've pulled your file, read up on what you've done. Pretty amateur, but like I said, you show potential." Spike bristled, but said nothing. "You'd work for me, just for me, and it would earn you more money than you could possibly imagine." Angelus wasn't holding him as tightly as before. Spike could have started struggling again and maybe even gotten away. But he was suddenly intrigued, despite himself.

"Yeah? How's that?"

Crazy as it sounded, Spike could feel Angelus smile smugly. He had the unpleasant feeling that he was a fish who'd just bitten into the hook. "I'm moving up the ranks in this company. The higher I get, the more I get. That means more for you. If you help me."

"Maybe I don't want to help you." But Spike did. More money than he could possibly imagine? That was damn tempting. Enough to keep his mum as comfortable as possible, enough to give him anything he wanted? How could he not want that?

"Oh, trust me, kiddo, you really do. You're playing for pocket change right now." Angelus suddenly released him and stepped back. Spike turned to face him warily. The lawyer didn't have a hair out of place, his suit was miraculously neat, and the expression on his face was predatory. Some memory floated up, about the devil being the most beautiful of all the angels. "I can move you to the big leagues."

Spike needed space, he needed air, he needed to get far away from this man before something terrible happened. "'M gonna need some time to think about this." It was not a request.

"Fine." Angelus was all smiles. "In the meantime, you still have the current job to do for me. I trust you'll accomplish that quickly and report back to me at the arranged time?"

Spike nodded, already backing towards the door. When his hand reached the knob, he finally turned his back to the psychotic lawyer and was nearly out the door, he heard Angelus call out, "Oh, Spike?"

Warily, the Englishman turned to face Angelus again. The brunette had picked up his errant paperweight. He tossed it in the air and caught it in his hand, never breaking eye contact with Spike. "Don't be late."-

Spike had said yes. Of course he'd said yes. Angelus had been as good as his word. If the Englishman had wanted to, he could have retired now and had enough money to support himself comfortably for the rest of his life. But he didn't want to retire and die some crusty old man. He wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, and until that day came, Spike would do what Angelus told him.

"My God, Spike, how much did you drink?" Angel asked from far away, beyond the land of drunken stupor that Spike had settled into.

"Don' know," he slurred. The bed was nice and comfy and Spike felt himself drifting to sleep.

"Hey! Don't fall asleep!" Angel sounded very offended. "Wake up!"

-"Wake up! Dammit, wake up!" Angel was screaming it at him, pushing against his chest.

Spike was in a strange place, not conscious but not completely gone either. He was so cold. His clothes, his body, everything was soaked with icy water. The Bay of Kola was not a good place to take a swim.

He couldn't breathe. But that was okay, he started to feel warmer, everything was okay-

"Breath, you stupid little shit, breathe!" Angel's mouth closed over his own, pushing air down his throat. Those ham-sized fists were pounding against his chest, trying to make him cough up the water that he'd inhaled when their boat had capsized, thanks to the Russian mafia.

Spike didn't want to breathe, he wanted to sleep. Angel kept screaming at him, and hitting him, and it was making it hard to drift away. His lungs hurt, everything hurt, but Spike only noticed this from far away. As if he was anesthetized. Everything was wrapped in cotton and the blonde man was just fine with that.

Another hard puff of air down his throat, smelling like Angel, and more hitting, and all Spike wanted was to go away, he was tired and he was leaving and it didn't matter that he couldn't feel anything, couldn't feel his heartbeat. He was warm. Wrapped in cotton.

"WAKE UP!" Angel screamed, as he hit, his voice breaking at the end. Air rushed down Spike's throat again as Angel breathed for him. The fist slammed down, bruising Spike's sternum and making his heart shudder back to life at last.

Spasms shook Spike's body as he vomited water all over Angel and the frozen beach they were sprawled upon. As Spike recovered from his near-death experience, sensation came rushing back to him so hard that it hurt. He was freezing, could barely feel his feet or hands, soaked to the bone, and his body felt like it had been pulverized. But he was alive.

When he was finally able to breathe without gagging, he turned to Angel, who was staring at him with a bizarre mixture of hope and terror. "Thanks, mate," Spike managed to gasp.

"Don't mention it," Angel responded, sagging with relief.-

"Fine, pass out," Angel sighed. "When you wake up hungover, don't come crying to me for aspirin."

"Don' cry," Spike tried to say, but the world was spinning and he was starting to slip into dark, alcohol-soaked oblivion.

Angel rolled his eyes and got up, grumbling. Spike managed to catch something about how now Angel was going top have to go over the whole plan again, with Wesley listening, and God knew the Watcher would ask a ton of questions, and why couldn't Spike just listen like a normal human being? Honestly.

If he hadn't been half-asleep, Spike would have pointed out that he did listen, when things were important. Angel was the one who never got his head out of his arse to pay attention.

-"She's pregnant," Angel said, looking like he'd just found the Holy Grail sitting atop the Golden Fleece. "I can't believe she's pregnant."

"You've said that about four times now, mate," Spike pointed out.

"I just said it again."

Spike rolled his eyes. The big poof was practically floating. Who'd have thought one little baby could make such a difference to someone? It was bizarre. Then again, Angel was also bizarre, so maybe it made sense.

"Right, well, congratulations, Peaches," Spike toasted his longneck in Angel's general direction and took a swig. After he swallowed, he added, "You get to be a daddy. Try not to screw up the kid too much."

Angel shot him a dirty look, but didn't seem offended otherwise. They were sitting at the bar in Caritas, one of Angel's frequent haunts. Spike also came here occasionally, but it was just because that odd Lorne bloke with the orange hair and the huge nose gave him free booze and only hit on him a little. Lorne had heard Angel's good news and offered drinks on the house tonight. That, plus the fact that some merciful force had decided to turnoffthe karaoke machine, made things at Caritas pretty damn nice.

"Yeah. To you, Darla, and the baby." The man sitting on Angel's left also toasted and took a long drink. He finished his beer and smiled. "One big, happy family." Was it Spike's imagination, or was Lindsey's whiskey-roughened a little rougher tonight?

Lindsey and Spike did not get along on principle. The only reason they were both in the same room most of the time was because of Angel, and tonight was no exception. The two of them were similar creatures, both fueled by anger and the sense that some higher power had really shafted them. They were, in fact, too similar to be around each other without bickering. What's that saying? 'If you ever met someone exactly like you, you'd hate them on the spot'. Well, Lindsey the Lawyer wasn't exactly like Spike, but it was a close enough match. Close enough that Spike knew something was wrong with Mr. Urban Cowboy.

Spike had had his suspicions about Lindsey for a long time. He'd seen the guilt and the furtive stares and the pathetic obviousness of it all. It wasn't hard to connect the dots. Lindsey was in love with his best friend's wife.

As in most love triangles, at least one part was totally oblivious. Angel had no idea why Lindsey went out of his way to avoid Darla, but Spike did and it almost made him respect the Texan. He was trying to remove the temptation. Still, love wasn't the sort of thing that conveniently went away.

Spike had vowed to keep his mouth shut and not mention Lindsey's little crush to Angel for one reason only. He could tell that Darla had not been unfaithful. That sad little look the lawyer wore sometimes spoke of love unrequited. But he had promised himself that the minute itseemed like Lindsey was getting some and Darla mysteriously disappeared for hours at a time, the whole bloody mess was going to be shoved out in the open. The Englishman figured that was the only decent thing he could do. Either way though, Angel was getting the short end of the stick.

Tonight, though, Lindsey was making a game attempt at not looking like his heart was breaking. He was joking around with Angel and laughing and trying to act like the good ol' boy he was at heart. Wasn't doing too bad a job either. But Spike could still tell. Lindsey knew that tonight, any chance he might have had with Darla, however unlikely or unfair, had just gone down the toilet. Angel and Darla would have the perfect family that everyone would envy, while Lindsey could only watch and smile and try not to be bitter.

Spike snorted. It was a shame, but the cowboy was just going to have to suck it up. Grin and bear it. What else could he do? When Angel leaned over to grab something from behind the bar, two pairs of blue eyes met over his back. Spike made sure his expression said something along the lines of 'Sorry mate, but you're out of luck.' Lindsey just glared.-

But of course, none of the trio had known about Angelus, and wouldn't for quite some time. Crazy story, Spike thought to himself, hiccupping once. Angel had let himself out the door and the blonde man could hear him stomping through the halls with his yeti-sized feet. Craziest bloody story I ever heard. But it wasa true story,and Spike was still living in it. Try as he might, he just could not escape the pull of these people. With that uncomfortable thought, he drifted to sleep.

Angel POV

10: 30 AM

June 23, 2005

382 Deschenel Avenue, Redgrass, Michigan

"So…first one to find the money stashes get to keep them," Spike challenged as he, Angel, and Wesley stared up at Mayor Wilkins' house with something akin to glee.

"Deal. Personally, I'm going for the watches," Angel popped a piece of gum into his mouth and relished the minty taste. "I've seen the wrists of this guy, and it's like Rolex City." He had long since learned not to be bitter about Spike's lack of a hangover. His partner was the sort of person who either came off a bender with nothing wrong whatsoever, or so suffering from the worst hangover in the world. The latter happened enough to appease Angel's sense of fairness.

"You two seem very calm for people who are taking great personal risks simply to make statement," Wesley piped up from the backseat. Both Spike and Angel turned to give him offended glances.

"Wes, this is not a risk," Angel laughed. "This is cake."

"Might as well have put out the Welcome mat for us," Spike added, fiddling with his gloves for a moment. All three men were dressed in white T-shirts, blue jeans, and had bandanas and sunglasses to help obscure their features. In addition, each of them was wearing gardening gloves to deal with fingerprints or broken glass, and wore standard, Target brand work boots. They were ready for some good, clean breaking-and-entering.

"In what way?" Wesley asked skeptically.

Angel was, very frankly, insulted. "He has two professional thieves in the car with him, and he asks how breaking into a house is easy." The detective shook his head. "So sad."

"No respect," Spike agreed mournfully.

"Well, if it's so easy, get to it then," Wesley snapped. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, which made Angel remember that once upon a time, Wesley's job had been to stop crime and some of the White-Hat-or-Death instincts were probably still around. "I still fail to see why Lorne couldn't have been your lookout."

"You've never seen Lorne try to commit crime. It's not pretty," Angel responded. "Trust me Wesley, this is better. He'll babysit the warehouse and you get to be a criminal."

"Broaden your horizons and the like," Spike added. "Aren't you book nerds supposed to get a kick out of that?" Wesley did not respond, but neither did he ask againwhy he was needed, so the detective took that as agreement.

"Okay," Angel gathered up his supplies, "once this goes off, that's your cue. Park in the driveway and then join me around back. I'll have the door open by then."

"This ain't me first time, Peaches," Spike interrupted, rolling his eyes.

"This is for Wesley's benefit," Angel snapped. "Wesley, standing watch is very easy. Just look out the front windows and if you see anyone, and I mean anyone, giving the house a funny look, yell for us."

Wesley nodded curtly, looking unhappy. "Hey, cheer up, Book Man," Spike grinned. "If you bollocks this up, your screams as they shoot you will alert Captain Forehead 'n me to the danger and give us time to get away."

"That's very comforting, Spike," the former Watcher said, now looking slightly nauseous.

Angel sighed, told Spike to stop tormenting Wesley, and took one more cursory glance up and down the street. He wasn't truly worried about anyone seeing him. Richard Wilkins' house was located in what would, under normal circumstances, be considered the rich neighborhood. The houses were spacious and far apart, the lawns were immaculately manicured, and there was a pool in every yard. Without looking back, the detective exited the car and darted up the mayor's lawn, towards his backyard.

Normally, Angel would be worried about maids or poolboys or any of the other multitudes of people that populated the houses of the rich during the day, but Redgrass was a blessing in that respect. In a town full of criminals, having normal people around was a dangerous thing that led to security breaches and FBI investigations. Therefore, the detective was positive that there was no one inside Mayor Wilkins' house.

Hedges, bushes, and tall trees could be the bane of a professional burglar's existence, or a blessing in disguise. It all depended on the position. Wilkins' hedges, for example, were about six feet tall and completely blocked all view of the backyard. "Rich people," Angel muttered with a chuckle as he slipped through a gap between the house and the bushes, using the crowbar he carried to beat some of the plants out of his way. Most people assumed that tall bushes could keep a thief out, but oftentimes the plants only served to block the house from view.

Yep, pool, the detective thought. The swimming pool was large, well maintained, and kidney-shaped. It was very pretty. Angel felt the need to mess it up. He pushed several of the potted plants that lined the sides of the pool into the water, spreading dirt and leaves into the formerly pristine pool. That done, the detective moved to the fuse box.

A bomb is, in reality, a frightfully easy thing to make, and Angel had a thing for explosives. Sure, he could have fooled around with complicated wires and timers, but sometimes a low-tech solution provided the same result for half the trouble. Besides, this particular explosion was supposed to look simple.

From his backpack, Angel pulled three two-liter bottles filled with gasoline and taped together with duct tape. Two of them were filled right up to their caps, while another one was about half full. Gasoline was not actually what caused an explosion; it was the fumes that did the trick. The half-full bottle would be his detonator.

Angel used the crowbar he carried to rip open the cover of the fuse box. Damn, there was no room to stick the bottles. He was going to have to put the bomb on top of the box and hope the explosion was powerful enough to fry the fuses. After positioning the bottles close enough to the circuits to toast them, Angel unscrewed the top of his half-full bottle and dangled a wick inside. He frayed the end a bit and used some of his gum to stick the frayed parts to bottle. He let the long wick dangle to the ground and pulled out his Zippo lighter.

"Okay," he took a deep breath, "Dear God, don't let me blow up." It was the same prayer Angel said before he lit every explosive. He flipped his lighter on, stared at the flame for a moment, and then crouched down to light the tip of the wick. Then it became a matter of running for cover.

Spike's POV

The Watcher was annoying the hell out of him. Anybody would've though that Spike and Angel had just pulled Wesley off the street and told him to commit crime.

"Dammit, Percy, you're a Watcher, you fought criminals," Spike hissed as Wesley once again asked what would happen if they got caught. "You should not be as spineless as you are."

"Just because I once followed my moral code and still cling to some parts of it, it does not make me spineless," the brunette Englishman snapped.

Spike would not admit that Wesley's comment actually stung a little. Is that what he seemed like to others? Like a hardcore crook that had never tried to do good, who had never even been good? Shaking it off as a moment of weakness, Spike returned to watching Wilkins' backyard for the explosion that would signal Angel blowing the fuse box, thus taking care of the Mayor's security system.

"What if Wilkins has a dog?" Wesley asked, completely out of nowhere.

Spike groaned, slamming his head against the seat and tightening his fingers on the wheel to keep from punching his countrymen until he couldn't ask anymore questions. "He does not have a dog," the blonde responded through clenched teeth. Damn you Angel, what is taking so long?

"How do you know?"

"Because Wilkins is allergic to dogs." Spike fidgeted, scratching at his right wrist. The lining of the gloves was itchy. He wished he had his leather motorcycle gloves, but they were at his apartment in Las Vegas.

"How do you know?" Wesley repeated.

I must not thump him. Angel will nag me like an old woman if I thump him. "Because we have an insider who says he is. Makes it bloody unlikely that the mayor would own a mutt."

"Ah yes, his assistant, Alan." Wesley paused contemplatively. "Why do we have to break in at all?"

Spike tightened his hands on the wheels and ground his teeth together. "We've already explained this."

"No, you didn't. You actually refused to tell me the reason we are going to rob and vandalize the mayor's house, because if I knew the true reason, I'd 'get nervous'." The brunette sounded irritated at being treated like a child, which was what Spike had been going for.

"And I was right. We'll tell you afterwards," Spike said soothingly.

"You-"

The former Watcher's statement was thankfully interrupted by a small explosion. Spike howled in glee and floored the accelerator, tearing up the driveway. Wesley cursed as he was thrown backwards in the seat. The SUV approached the house rapidly, fishtailing at the last moment so that the front of the car faced the street and the back faced the house. Spike grinned a giant, shiteating grin a Wes. "Time to earn your stripes, Percy."

TBC