Trick For Your Treats: A Maypole Dance Around Spike

October 31st, 1997

Part 12: Momentous

24

Drusilla:Weeeee!

Angel drove the DeSoto to a woodland park on the college side of town, a stretch of land between the river and the ocean that served as a wildlife refuge. He knew for a fact that the slayer never patrolled it, and demons mostly leave it alone aside from the occasional werewolf or feral BooBoo.

"Higher!" Drusilla urged, as the wind whipped her ebony hair, and the swing flew skyward. The night flirts with her joyous laughter.

Angel takes a swig of the Oban while the old-fashioned tree swing is out, and passes the bottle to Spike in time to catch Dru on her way in. He applies a gentle push in spite of her urging, because she is already flying so high that there is danger of hitting the tree's branches. She is so fragile, like blown glass, and could be reduced to dust with a powerful blow.

"Careful," Spike muttered, shifting uneasily, and thinking the same thing. The younger vampire accepted the bottle, now three quarters empty, and took his turn sucking down a draught of scotch.

The liquor has Angel in the grip of a powerful buzz, and he is feeling his stones. Alcohol sheds his inhibitions and blunts his legacy of guilt. It puts him in sync with his demon… A dangerous gambit, but a game that he has played for decades: drink just enough to dull the pain, but not so much that he loses control.

He has reached a decision.

"Tell me about the cure you found for Dru," Angel said, once again launching Drusilla toward heaven, hand extended to take the bottle.

He turned just in time to see Spike's eyes widen, lips parting, surprise and then understanding forming in his blue gaze. Spike forgets to hand Angel the bottle, staring at his grand-sire hard as the thoughts tumble through his mind. Of course, he wrestles with the same morale dilemma that has plagued Angel: can they in good conscience restore the health of a cold-blooded killer?

"It almost killed you last time," Spike warns, instead of pontificating on morality or asking how they will control Drusilla once she is healthy. Thankfully, he has the sense to realize that Angel has already considered all of these things, and more. It is a rare day when Angel is about to do something clearly wrong, and Spike fails to rub his nose in it.

"But it didn't, did it?" Angel knows just enough about Spike's future alterna-world to think that they might be able to make this work. He just needs to persuade Spike to give up some of the secrets, to which he so desperately clings.

Spike shook his head no, lips pursed, considering. "That was mostly cause Buffy was there to save you. But yeah, if we end the spell fast enough then you live and Dru still gets better…"

Spike is on the verge of a momentous decision, so Angel deliberately remained silent, pushing Drusilla and giving the blonde his space. Angel wishes for the Oban back, but Spike seems to have forgotten about the scotch. So intent is the younger vampire, frozen statue still, staring at the stars as if they might whisper the answers to him the same as they do to Dru.

"We're gonna need to recover the Cross of Du Lac n' to wait till the moon is right, but it should be doable," Spike says, nodding. Apparently, he found his answer.

"Without the Order of Taraka dogging her steps, Buffy might be a problem if she gets wind of it," Spike continued thoughtfully.

Angel scowled. "The Order of Taraka?" he demanded. Just the mention of the powerful assassins guild is enough to send chills down his spine. Abruptly, he is battling the urge to grab Spike and shake him. "What have you done?"

Spike's baby blues widen comically, and he dons that aura of faux innocence. "Calm down, Hair Do. It's what I did; not what I've done. Alright?" He shrugs, one shoulder lifting and falling. Spike is doing his damnedest to appear casual even though residual guilt edges his expression.

"So I hired the Order to take out Buffy," Spike admitted in response to Angel's hard and flinty glare. "We were enemies. It'd be years before I got chipped, let alone a soul."

Angel nods sharply, trying hard to overcome his anger. He can't really be pissed with Spike for something that happened in another time, a different reality. But still… The Order of Taraka.

"You must've been desperate."

Spike returns Angel's look, and for once the blonde's expression is unguarded and honest. "Yeah, was."

Spike takes another swig of the Oban, and offers Angel the bottle. "Sun's coming up soon. Let's head back n' I'll fill you in on the details."

Angel took the bottle, and as it passes between them, their fingers brush. It's not the first time that they've touched in casual passing, and probably won't be the last. Only this time feels significant to Angel as if they're in harmony, having reached an accord.

It's these rare moments when the two of them are working together toward the same goals that Angel feels his anxiety fade. Spike isn't leaving. It was the blonde who sought Angel out, and who also craves this comfortable companionship and the security of family.

Drusilla squeals in delight as Angel catches the rope swing and pulls it to a halt. He tosses the Oban to Spike, and gathers Drusilla into his arms. Yes, it feels so right.

"Daddy," Drusilla whispers into his ear. She twines serpentine arms about his neck: his daughter's deadly embrace. Spike walks with them back to the car: his son and brother at his side.

Angel is content.

End Part 12.