Red-Handed (1/1)
Title: Red-Handed
Summary: The left hand re-attached to Spike's arm in the Angel episode Damage turns out to be cursed.
Rating: NC - 17
Warnings: Extreme graphic violence, attempted rape, torture, multiple character deaths, suicide
Word Count: 3,173
Beta Reader: xtanitx. Any mistakes are mine.
A/N: Please don't kill me. :)
You stand red-handed
You want to wash yourself
in earth, in rocks, and grass
What are you supposed to do
with all this loss?
(Down by Margaret Atwood)
The hand trembled with rage, fiery rage boiling in his blood. It was a part of him now and there was nothing he could do to stop it from swallowing him whole. The fire burning inside slowly consumed him, and soon, it would turn him into cold ashes. Ashes that kill, kill, kill.
His small, dingy apartment was lit only by the light from the hallway seeping beneath the paint-chipped door. He huddled in the corner near his bed covered by a worn, gray blanket. Tears grazed his eyelashes.
The erratic sea of ghostly voices fluttering in his head kept whispering to kill them, kill them all. He careened back and forth and hugged his knees tighter to his chest as he fearfully scanned the room, his eyes finally resting on his solace: a blade, lying an inch before his bare feet.
He knew what he had to do.
He loosened his arms around his knees, swallowing the bile in his throat, and reached over his tottered legs. He picked up the knife and held it like a warrior, clutching his sword courageously, knowing there was a malevolent storm ahead and he was the only one who could stop it.
He pressed the tip of the knife on his left wrist and, clenching his teeth, he forced the blade deeper into his skin. He exhaled sharply from the piercing pain. He endured the pain knowing it wouldn't compare to the pain he'd feel if he'd do what the hand wanted him to do. He laughed maniacally as gore spewed out of his sliced artery. Soon, he'd completely sever the wretched hand.
But the knife stopped midway through his flesh. The voices scratched more loudly around him. He roared in protest, in anguish, as the voices whisked away his consciousness. He fell on his side to the floor, his face marred by salty tears.
His body twitched as the darkness engulfed him. He stared blankly through his glassy eyes, seeing nothing.
*****
Spike quietly made his way into the laboratory of Wolfram and Hart, wearing an aura of controlled excitement, his coat slightly swaying. The slender brunette sat on a silver spinning stool, huddled over her notes and files. He stalked her with his hooded eyes, studiously watched as her brows furrowed in concentration. “You're working late.”
Fred jumped at the sound of Spike's gruff voice and whirled around, still sitting on the chair. She breathed heavily in relief, placing a hand on her chest. “Spike, you scared me,” she said and giggled in the most adorable way.
“Did I?” He continued to move slowly towards her, the callused fingers dragging over the counter on his right. His eyes were still trained greedily on the beauty before him. She was wearing dark denim pants and a white long-sleeved blouse beneath her white lab coat.
“It's okay. I'm just finishing up some things here. We've had quite a long day,” she said with that crooked smile of hers which he'd always found endearing.
Spike lowered his eyes, a smirk on his face, tapping his fingers on the table. “Yeah.” His voice flat, but edged with excitement.
Noticing his unusual behavior, Fred scowled. She could feel him raking her body over with his eyes and it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. No matter how fond of her Spike was, he'd never looked at her as if she were prey. “Are you okay? You seem sort of... different.” There was a faint quaver in her voice.
He raised his head. “Different?”
Fred let out a deep sigh, clicking her pen to ease her nervousness. “I know you've been through a lot today. You should get some rest.” She turned back to her files, gathered the bundle of papers in her hands and stood up. “I should probably get some rest too.”
Then, in a heartbeat, Spike was standing against her back and Fred gasped at his proximity. He ran his hands from her shoulders down her arms and she felt the lust and greed in them.
“What are you doing?” Her voice broke and her heart thumped louder, faster, in fear. Confused and disturbed, she squirmed in her place and looked at him over her shoulder.
Spike's cock grew hard at her movement and he couldn't wait to ravish her. “Don't play coy. I see the way you look at me,” he said, sounding slightly winded.
Fred tried to move away but Spike held her in place. He gripped the sides of her waist, shoving her against the desk and shifting her position such that his erection sat between her butt cheeks. Tears stung Fred's eyes. “Spike, this isn't funny.”
He leaned to her ear. “Don't see me laughing, do you?”
Fred held the pen in her shaking right hand, her knuckles as white as her pallid face. As Spike slid his left hand beneath the sheer fabric of her top, she closed her eyes and whispered, “I'm sorry.” It hurt her that she had to hurt Spike, someone she considered one of her dearest friends. But as far as she was concerned, this wasn't Spike at all. Before his needy fingers slipped beneath her lace bra, she stabbed his leg with the pen and he stumbled backwards, falling to the floor on his ass.
“Bitch!” he shouted, pulling the pen out of his leg and applying pressure to the stab wound.
Fred started to run. Wesley would still be in his office and if she ran fast enough...
Spike threw the spinning stool at Fred and it hit the back of her head. She crashed to the ground, face-first and unconscious. There was no escaping now. No screaming for help. Spike cursed under his breath. He wanted to hear her scream as he pounded into her mercilessly. It wouldn't be much fun without her screams fueling his arousal. He might as well move on to his next victim.
A wicked grin pulled at Spike's lips. Without the pleas, he reveled in her tear-stained cheeks, the beauty in the blood pooling beneath her cute noggin. He bent over her, feeling her faint breath on his face, and sucked at her parted lips.
Still in his human face, Spike thrust the pen into her chest repeatedly, her body twitching with each successive strike.
*****
Deathlike silence pervaded the lighted hallways.
It invigorated Spike how easily he'd killed his first victim. His memories of the young Texan were mostly sweet smiles and affection and that only made the kill more pleasurable. But he craved for more.
He tucked his tongue behind his front teeth and turned the knob of the door to his next conquest. It opened with a dull squeak. He stepped inside and saw the peace-loving empath demon on his bed, sleeping soundly. The glow of the full moon through the window silhouetted Lorne.
Spike stealthily moved forward and, when Lorne stirred, he stilled.
Lorne roused and saw a figure within the shadows. He propped himself on his elbows and asked groggily, “Spikester?” Spike stepped forward, out into the moonlight. Lorne's eyes grew wide when he saw blood on Spike's hands. He scrambled to get out of bed as Spike sprang forward and elbowed him in the back.
Lorne elbowed him in the face and when Spike fell back to the floor, he got out of the bed.
Spike stood up and lunged at Lorne across the bed, tackling the demon against the wall. Spike jabbed him in the face twice until the demon was staring at him dazedly with his blood-red eyes.
Lorne barely had time to see the smirk twist over Spike's face before the vampire stuffed his mouth with his white blanket.
When Spike punched him across his face once more, blood stained the cloth. Laughing, Spike slammed his fist in Lorne's stomach, nearly choking him with his own blood and staining the purity of the cloth even more.
“You know what I've always wanted to try?” Spike said, his head cocked. “This.” He tore off one of Lorne's crimson horns without hesitation, a gleam of unmistakable exhilaration and mischief in his eyes.
The agony swept through Lorne's entire body. The blanket gagging his mouth muffled the scream he couldn't stifle. He fought for consciousness, which was already hanging by a thread, until Spike tore off his other horn.
The world around Lorne began to fade. It was a good thing, he decided. He didn't want to feel Spike's betrayal any more than he already did.
Spike removed the white blanket he'd used as a gag from Lorne's mouth. He was bored now. He wrapped the fabric around Lorne's neck once and pulled both ends of it, squeezing the demon's neck until he heard a crisp snap. The slow, rhythmic war beat of Lorne's heart ceased.
White turned deep scarlet.
*****
Three to go. Three who would pose the most challenge. They were trained warriors and would put up a longer, bloodier fight. He'd surely get more than just the feeble bruise on his chin the empath had given him.
Feeling his imminent triumph, Spike marched up to Wesley's office with a swagger.
Wesley would stay up until the wee hours of the morning burying himself in books instead of shagging that cute little Fred he’d had his eyes on since Spike popped out of the amulet.
Spike burst through the doors of Wesley's office and just as he'd expected, Wesley was at his desk, books splayed out before him. “Well, aren't you hard-working?”
Wesley's head shot up from the ancient texts atop his desk to Spike who was holding the doors open in a crucified pose. “What are you-”
Spike approached the former watcher, a beguiling smirk on his face. “Let's get straight to the point, shall we?”
Without warning, Spike reached over the desk. He pulled Wesley up by his polo shirt and, giving no time for the former watcher to fight back, smashed his glasses into his eyes with the palm of his hands.
Shards of broken glass entered Wesley's eyes and cut his face. He fell back on his chair, his hands covering his eyes as he screamed in excruciating pain. He then felt around his desk blindly and Spike realized he was reaching for a weapon.
“This should be fun,” Spike drawled, moving to the side of the desk, while Wesley pulled out an automatic pistol from one of his desk drawers. Wesley aimed blindly and shot at the vampire, the explosion of the gun smothered by the silencer.
Spike laughed when the first shot went wide. When Wesley’s second shot managed to hit him in the leg, he grinned in delight.
Now that was more like it.
Using his left foot, Spike kicked the gun out of Wesley's hand before connecting with a roundhouse kick to his face. With Wesley barely awake, Spike pulled him up once more, turned to his demon, and drained the life out of him. He shoved him back to the chair and, wiping the blood on the corner of his lips with his thumb and sucking it, he walked away.
He picked up the automatic pistol on the floor. “Thanks for the gun, mate. It'll make my next venture poetic,” he said over his shoulder to Wesley's limp body.
*****
Spike was getting bored and impatient. None of them had fought up to par, even when Wesley had shot him. A measly bruise and gunshot wound weren't enough.
He limped through the hallways once more for a quick visit to dear Charlie boy. Grinding his teeth through the pain, he removed the gun's silencer. The one he really wanted to fight with was Angel, his grandsire, and surely, with his vampire hearing, he'd hear that warning shot.
Just as he came to the corner, the doors to Gunn's office opened.
Gunn stopped, startled, and was now standing face to face with Spike. “Hey, man. I was just heading--”
Spike raised the gun, pointing it at the street-fighter-turned-hot-shot-lawyer, and fired.
A bang echoed through the building, ripping through the silence. Gunn fell to the floor, blood oozing out of the hole in the middle of his forehead.
*****
Angel had barely fallen asleep when a loud gunshot jolted him awake. Still sitting on his bed, he looked around the room and wondered where the noise had come from. Steeling himself for a fight, he got out of his bed, put his slippers on and went to the elevator, still in his white wife-beater and black sweat pants.
Spike was sitting on one of the big black chairs, his feet up on Angel's desk when the elevator doors opened with a ding. He gripped a sword's black handle and carefully ran the thumb and forefinger of his left hand over the blade's sides.
Angel stepped out of the elevator and into his office, immediately noticing Spike in the dark room. “Spike. What the hell are you doing in my office?”
“Keep cutting till you see dust.”
“What?” Angel asked, flatly, uninterestedly. “And put my sword down.”
“Always the possessive one, you are,” Spike said and stood up. He walked around the chair and waved the sword aloft.
“I see you've got your motor skills back,” Angel said in an unexcited tone.
“Got more than I bargained for, actually,” Spike said, more to himself, still swinging the sword around without force.
Angel sat at the front edge of his desk and folded his arms over his chest. “What are you doing here again?”
“Couldn't sleep.”
Remembering why he was awake in the first place, Angel asked Spike, “Did you happen to hear a gunshot?”
His back was turned to the brunet, Spike smirked. “I did.” He spun around and quickly swung the sword, grazing Angel's cheek.
Angel put a hand to his wound, and glared at the blond who had a triumphant look on his face. He pushed himself off the desk, while Spike pulled the sword back to his side and stood before him. He was taunting Angel with his eyes, wanting him to make his move.
Angel jumped behind his desk and grabbed the other sword that hung on the wall. He slipped it out of its casing and Spike howled in savage excitement.
Sword in hand, Spike launched himself across the desk, ready to strike Angel. But the other vampire parried his action with his sword, the two metals meeting with a loud clink.
The battle of the two vampires began. Both of them pushed forward. Neither backed down. Rhythmic clanging echoed in the room as the sun began to rise and illuminated the darkness.
Blood on the floor. Blood everywhere. Blood from both vampires as the sword of the other would strike flesh.
The fight seemed to take forever.
With one hard thrust of the sword through Angel's abdomen, Spike knew he had won. Angel fell to his knees as soon as Spike withdrew his blade.
With the violent blood of battle still seething in his veins, Spike loomed before his grandsire, staring wickedly into his dazed eyes. He drew in all his strength into one final swing of the sword, severing Angel's head from his shoulders.
Spike's eyes fixated on the floor. From dust to dust.
Armed security officers surrounded him and the last thing he saw before the tranquilizer darts knocked him unconscious was the pile of dust on the ground.
*****
Spike slowly opened his eyes. His blurry vision started to clear and he saw he was in hospital bed. He lifted his hands, palms up, and stared at them. The hand no longer trembled in rage. Was it all just a bad dream?
“We had to cut it off again.” Eve stood near the door, arms crossed over her chest. Spike's gaze shifted to her. She had a victorious look on her face, which made the muscle in Spike's jaw tick. Tears streamed down his cheeks, tears he didn't want to hold back. “One of the hands we re-attached was cursed.” She paused. “But then, you already knew that.” A deceiving smile pulled at her features. “It's sort of like a parasite,” she said, still smiling smugly. “It takes over its host, and then murders the people closest to it.” She paused and chuckled. “Well, more like torture. Just for kicks.”
Spike clenched his hands into fists, his nails digging into the palms of the hands hard enough that it drew blood.
“And then, usually, it kills its host. But the senior partners didn't want that so we had to step in.”
“And why is that?” he asked sullenly, furiously.
Eve shrugged. “I guess the senior partners have some use for you. I don't really know what,” she chuckled mockingly. She stood there in silence for a moment, turned from him and started to walk away. A few steps after, she faced him again and said, “By the way, the senior partners say thanks,” before leaving Spike alone in his desolation.
What are you supposed to do
with all this loss?
Images of the look on his friends' faces as he killed them swam before his eyes and he sobbed loudly. He didn't know how he would live with all this guilt in his heart. He didn't know how he could go on knowing how he killed an innocent girl as Fred with his bare hands. He didn't know if he could take seeing Lorne's disbelieving face, both horns torn off, every night in his nightmares. He didn't know how he'd be able to forgive himself for killing Gunn and Wes in cold blood.
Angel... They may have had their differences, but he never wanted this for him.
And Buffy. His love, Buffy. If she found out what he'd done... He ran a hand through his tousled hair. The world felt surreal. It was spinning. Salty tears blurred it, drowned it.
Raising his head, Spike eyed the wooden chair across the room. He got out of his bed, falling to the floor when his rickety legs couldn't hold him up. He crawled his way to the chair and broke off one of its legs. A makeshift stake to end his torment.
His lips and hands trembling in fear, in guilt, in sorrow, he gripped the wood. He closed his eyes and steeled himself.
As thoughts of the friends he'd lost, friends he'd killed, plagued his mind, he drove the wood through his poisoned heart.
You want to wash yourself
in earth, in rocks, and grass
End
Summary: The left hand re-attached to Spike's arm in the Angel episode Damage turns out to be cursed.
Rating: NC - 17
Warnings: Extreme graphic violence, attempted rape, torture, multiple character deaths, suicide
Word Count: 3,173
Beta Reader: xtanitx. Any mistakes are mine.
A/N: Please don't kill me. :)
You stand red-handed
You want to wash yourself
in earth, in rocks, and grass
What are you supposed to do
with all this loss?
(Down by Margaret Atwood)
The hand trembled with rage, fiery rage boiling in his blood. It was a part of him now and there was nothing he could do to stop it from swallowing him whole. The fire burning inside slowly consumed him, and soon, it would turn him into cold ashes. Ashes that kill, kill, kill.
His small, dingy apartment was lit only by the light from the hallway seeping beneath the paint-chipped door. He huddled in the corner near his bed covered by a worn, gray blanket. Tears grazed his eyelashes.
The erratic sea of ghostly voices fluttering in his head kept whispering to kill them, kill them all. He careened back and forth and hugged his knees tighter to his chest as he fearfully scanned the room, his eyes finally resting on his solace: a blade, lying an inch before his bare feet.
He knew what he had to do.
He loosened his arms around his knees, swallowing the bile in his throat, and reached over his tottered legs. He picked up the knife and held it like a warrior, clutching his sword courageously, knowing there was a malevolent storm ahead and he was the only one who could stop it.
He pressed the tip of the knife on his left wrist and, clenching his teeth, he forced the blade deeper into his skin. He exhaled sharply from the piercing pain. He endured the pain knowing it wouldn't compare to the pain he'd feel if he'd do what the hand wanted him to do. He laughed maniacally as gore spewed out of his sliced artery. Soon, he'd completely sever the wretched hand.
But the knife stopped midway through his flesh. The voices scratched more loudly around him. He roared in protest, in anguish, as the voices whisked away his consciousness. He fell on his side to the floor, his face marred by salty tears.
His body twitched as the darkness engulfed him. He stared blankly through his glassy eyes, seeing nothing.
*****
Spike quietly made his way into the laboratory of Wolfram and Hart, wearing an aura of controlled excitement, his coat slightly swaying. The slender brunette sat on a silver spinning stool, huddled over her notes and files. He stalked her with his hooded eyes, studiously watched as her brows furrowed in concentration. “You're working late.”
Fred jumped at the sound of Spike's gruff voice and whirled around, still sitting on the chair. She breathed heavily in relief, placing a hand on her chest. “Spike, you scared me,” she said and giggled in the most adorable way.
“Did I?” He continued to move slowly towards her, the callused fingers dragging over the counter on his right. His eyes were still trained greedily on the beauty before him. She was wearing dark denim pants and a white long-sleeved blouse beneath her white lab coat.
“It's okay. I'm just finishing up some things here. We've had quite a long day,” she said with that crooked smile of hers which he'd always found endearing.
Spike lowered his eyes, a smirk on his face, tapping his fingers on the table. “Yeah.” His voice flat, but edged with excitement.
Noticing his unusual behavior, Fred scowled. She could feel him raking her body over with his eyes and it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. No matter how fond of her Spike was, he'd never looked at her as if she were prey. “Are you okay? You seem sort of... different.” There was a faint quaver in her voice.
He raised his head. “Different?”
Fred let out a deep sigh, clicking her pen to ease her nervousness. “I know you've been through a lot today. You should get some rest.” She turned back to her files, gathered the bundle of papers in her hands and stood up. “I should probably get some rest too.”
Then, in a heartbeat, Spike was standing against her back and Fred gasped at his proximity. He ran his hands from her shoulders down her arms and she felt the lust and greed in them.
“What are you doing?” Her voice broke and her heart thumped louder, faster, in fear. Confused and disturbed, she squirmed in her place and looked at him over her shoulder.
Spike's cock grew hard at her movement and he couldn't wait to ravish her. “Don't play coy. I see the way you look at me,” he said, sounding slightly winded.
Fred tried to move away but Spike held her in place. He gripped the sides of her waist, shoving her against the desk and shifting her position such that his erection sat between her butt cheeks. Tears stung Fred's eyes. “Spike, this isn't funny.”
He leaned to her ear. “Don't see me laughing, do you?”
Fred held the pen in her shaking right hand, her knuckles as white as her pallid face. As Spike slid his left hand beneath the sheer fabric of her top, she closed her eyes and whispered, “I'm sorry.” It hurt her that she had to hurt Spike, someone she considered one of her dearest friends. But as far as she was concerned, this wasn't Spike at all. Before his needy fingers slipped beneath her lace bra, she stabbed his leg with the pen and he stumbled backwards, falling to the floor on his ass.
“Bitch!” he shouted, pulling the pen out of his leg and applying pressure to the stab wound.
Fred started to run. Wesley would still be in his office and if she ran fast enough...
Spike threw the spinning stool at Fred and it hit the back of her head. She crashed to the ground, face-first and unconscious. There was no escaping now. No screaming for help. Spike cursed under his breath. He wanted to hear her scream as he pounded into her mercilessly. It wouldn't be much fun without her screams fueling his arousal. He might as well move on to his next victim.
A wicked grin pulled at Spike's lips. Without the pleas, he reveled in her tear-stained cheeks, the beauty in the blood pooling beneath her cute noggin. He bent over her, feeling her faint breath on his face, and sucked at her parted lips.
Still in his human face, Spike thrust the pen into her chest repeatedly, her body twitching with each successive strike.
*****
Deathlike silence pervaded the lighted hallways.
It invigorated Spike how easily he'd killed his first victim. His memories of the young Texan were mostly sweet smiles and affection and that only made the kill more pleasurable. But he craved for more.
He tucked his tongue behind his front teeth and turned the knob of the door to his next conquest. It opened with a dull squeak. He stepped inside and saw the peace-loving empath demon on his bed, sleeping soundly. The glow of the full moon through the window silhouetted Lorne.
Spike stealthily moved forward and, when Lorne stirred, he stilled.
Lorne roused and saw a figure within the shadows. He propped himself on his elbows and asked groggily, “Spikester?” Spike stepped forward, out into the moonlight. Lorne's eyes grew wide when he saw blood on Spike's hands. He scrambled to get out of bed as Spike sprang forward and elbowed him in the back.
Lorne elbowed him in the face and when Spike fell back to the floor, he got out of the bed.
Spike stood up and lunged at Lorne across the bed, tackling the demon against the wall. Spike jabbed him in the face twice until the demon was staring at him dazedly with his blood-red eyes.
Lorne barely had time to see the smirk twist over Spike's face before the vampire stuffed his mouth with his white blanket.
When Spike punched him across his face once more, blood stained the cloth. Laughing, Spike slammed his fist in Lorne's stomach, nearly choking him with his own blood and staining the purity of the cloth even more.
“You know what I've always wanted to try?” Spike said, his head cocked. “This.” He tore off one of Lorne's crimson horns without hesitation, a gleam of unmistakable exhilaration and mischief in his eyes.
The agony swept through Lorne's entire body. The blanket gagging his mouth muffled the scream he couldn't stifle. He fought for consciousness, which was already hanging by a thread, until Spike tore off his other horn.
The world around Lorne began to fade. It was a good thing, he decided. He didn't want to feel Spike's betrayal any more than he already did.
Spike removed the white blanket he'd used as a gag from Lorne's mouth. He was bored now. He wrapped the fabric around Lorne's neck once and pulled both ends of it, squeezing the demon's neck until he heard a crisp snap. The slow, rhythmic war beat of Lorne's heart ceased.
White turned deep scarlet.
*****
Three to go. Three who would pose the most challenge. They were trained warriors and would put up a longer, bloodier fight. He'd surely get more than just the feeble bruise on his chin the empath had given him.
Feeling his imminent triumph, Spike marched up to Wesley's office with a swagger.
Wesley would stay up until the wee hours of the morning burying himself in books instead of shagging that cute little Fred he’d had his eyes on since Spike popped out of the amulet.
Spike burst through the doors of Wesley's office and just as he'd expected, Wesley was at his desk, books splayed out before him. “Well, aren't you hard-working?”
Wesley's head shot up from the ancient texts atop his desk to Spike who was holding the doors open in a crucified pose. “What are you-”
Spike approached the former watcher, a beguiling smirk on his face. “Let's get straight to the point, shall we?”
Without warning, Spike reached over the desk. He pulled Wesley up by his polo shirt and, giving no time for the former watcher to fight back, smashed his glasses into his eyes with the palm of his hands.
Shards of broken glass entered Wesley's eyes and cut his face. He fell back on his chair, his hands covering his eyes as he screamed in excruciating pain. He then felt around his desk blindly and Spike realized he was reaching for a weapon.
“This should be fun,” Spike drawled, moving to the side of the desk, while Wesley pulled out an automatic pistol from one of his desk drawers. Wesley aimed blindly and shot at the vampire, the explosion of the gun smothered by the silencer.
Spike laughed when the first shot went wide. When Wesley’s second shot managed to hit him in the leg, he grinned in delight.
Now that was more like it.
Using his left foot, Spike kicked the gun out of Wesley's hand before connecting with a roundhouse kick to his face. With Wesley barely awake, Spike pulled him up once more, turned to his demon, and drained the life out of him. He shoved him back to the chair and, wiping the blood on the corner of his lips with his thumb and sucking it, he walked away.
He picked up the automatic pistol on the floor. “Thanks for the gun, mate. It'll make my next venture poetic,” he said over his shoulder to Wesley's limp body.
*****
Spike was getting bored and impatient. None of them had fought up to par, even when Wesley had shot him. A measly bruise and gunshot wound weren't enough.
He limped through the hallways once more for a quick visit to dear Charlie boy. Grinding his teeth through the pain, he removed the gun's silencer. The one he really wanted to fight with was Angel, his grandsire, and surely, with his vampire hearing, he'd hear that warning shot.
Just as he came to the corner, the doors to Gunn's office opened.
Gunn stopped, startled, and was now standing face to face with Spike. “Hey, man. I was just heading--”
Spike raised the gun, pointing it at the street-fighter-turned-hot-shot-lawyer, and fired.
A bang echoed through the building, ripping through the silence. Gunn fell to the floor, blood oozing out of the hole in the middle of his forehead.
*****
Angel had barely fallen asleep when a loud gunshot jolted him awake. Still sitting on his bed, he looked around the room and wondered where the noise had come from. Steeling himself for a fight, he got out of his bed, put his slippers on and went to the elevator, still in his white wife-beater and black sweat pants.
Spike was sitting on one of the big black chairs, his feet up on Angel's desk when the elevator doors opened with a ding. He gripped a sword's black handle and carefully ran the thumb and forefinger of his left hand over the blade's sides.
Angel stepped out of the elevator and into his office, immediately noticing Spike in the dark room. “Spike. What the hell are you doing in my office?”
“Keep cutting till you see dust.”
“What?” Angel asked, flatly, uninterestedly. “And put my sword down.”
“Always the possessive one, you are,” Spike said and stood up. He walked around the chair and waved the sword aloft.
“I see you've got your motor skills back,” Angel said in an unexcited tone.
“Got more than I bargained for, actually,” Spike said, more to himself, still swinging the sword around without force.
Angel sat at the front edge of his desk and folded his arms over his chest. “What are you doing here again?”
“Couldn't sleep.”
Remembering why he was awake in the first place, Angel asked Spike, “Did you happen to hear a gunshot?”
His back was turned to the brunet, Spike smirked. “I did.” He spun around and quickly swung the sword, grazing Angel's cheek.
Angel put a hand to his wound, and glared at the blond who had a triumphant look on his face. He pushed himself off the desk, while Spike pulled the sword back to his side and stood before him. He was taunting Angel with his eyes, wanting him to make his move.
Angel jumped behind his desk and grabbed the other sword that hung on the wall. He slipped it out of its casing and Spike howled in savage excitement.
Sword in hand, Spike launched himself across the desk, ready to strike Angel. But the other vampire parried his action with his sword, the two metals meeting with a loud clink.
The battle of the two vampires began. Both of them pushed forward. Neither backed down. Rhythmic clanging echoed in the room as the sun began to rise and illuminated the darkness.
Blood on the floor. Blood everywhere. Blood from both vampires as the sword of the other would strike flesh.
The fight seemed to take forever.
With one hard thrust of the sword through Angel's abdomen, Spike knew he had won. Angel fell to his knees as soon as Spike withdrew his blade.
With the violent blood of battle still seething in his veins, Spike loomed before his grandsire, staring wickedly into his dazed eyes. He drew in all his strength into one final swing of the sword, severing Angel's head from his shoulders.
Spike's eyes fixated on the floor. From dust to dust.
Armed security officers surrounded him and the last thing he saw before the tranquilizer darts knocked him unconscious was the pile of dust on the ground.
*****
Spike slowly opened his eyes. His blurry vision started to clear and he saw he was in hospital bed. He lifted his hands, palms up, and stared at them. The hand no longer trembled in rage. Was it all just a bad dream?
“We had to cut it off again.” Eve stood near the door, arms crossed over her chest. Spike's gaze shifted to her. She had a victorious look on her face, which made the muscle in Spike's jaw tick. Tears streamed down his cheeks, tears he didn't want to hold back. “One of the hands we re-attached was cursed.” She paused. “But then, you already knew that.” A deceiving smile pulled at her features. “It's sort of like a parasite,” she said, still smiling smugly. “It takes over its host, and then murders the people closest to it.” She paused and chuckled. “Well, more like torture. Just for kicks.”
Spike clenched his hands into fists, his nails digging into the palms of the hands hard enough that it drew blood.
“And then, usually, it kills its host. But the senior partners didn't want that so we had to step in.”
“And why is that?” he asked sullenly, furiously.
Eve shrugged. “I guess the senior partners have some use for you. I don't really know what,” she chuckled mockingly. She stood there in silence for a moment, turned from him and started to walk away. A few steps after, she faced him again and said, “By the way, the senior partners say thanks,” before leaving Spike alone in his desolation.
What are you supposed to do
with all this loss?
Images of the look on his friends' faces as he killed them swam before his eyes and he sobbed loudly. He didn't know how he would live with all this guilt in his heart. He didn't know how he could go on knowing how he killed an innocent girl as Fred with his bare hands. He didn't know if he could take seeing Lorne's disbelieving face, both horns torn off, every night in his nightmares. He didn't know how he'd be able to forgive himself for killing Gunn and Wes in cold blood.
Angel... They may have had their differences, but he never wanted this for him.
And Buffy. His love, Buffy. If she found out what he'd done... He ran a hand through his tousled hair. The world felt surreal. It was spinning. Salty tears blurred it, drowned it.
Raising his head, Spike eyed the wooden chair across the room. He got out of his bed, falling to the floor when his rickety legs couldn't hold him up. He crawled his way to the chair and broke off one of its legs. A makeshift stake to end his torment.
His lips and hands trembling in fear, in guilt, in sorrow, he gripped the wood. He closed his eyes and steeled himself.
As thoughts of the friends he'd lost, friends he'd killed, plagued his mind, he drove the wood through his poisoned heart.
You want to wash yourself
in earth, in rocks, and grass
End