Mod challenge for Sue: Delusional
So, I had lots of ideas kicking around in my head to answer sueworld2003's challenge to write some Spike-hurt, but then she posted this picture of Spike in a straight jacket, so I threw out all my ideas and wrote this instead.
Post-NFA. Giles is a bad man. Perhaps he read what they did to him in the comics and has decided being a good guy is not worth the compensation.
Delusional
Spike was only mildly concerned when he woke up in a locked cell. The place smelled of sickness and disinfectant, not torture and demons, so he assumed he’d been found passed out and whoever’d found him was taking precautions. It wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before, so he laid back and asked himself the usual questions.
Am I hung over? Moving his head hurt, so - slightly.
Anything broken? He tried to raise his arms to check them and couldn’t. It said a lot about his life that he took so long to notice the straight jacket.
Bugger. He wriggled around, not feeling anything broken, but a few sore places. The straight jacket was worrying. He sawed his shoulder-blades back and forth, trying to feel the connections in the way the fabric dragged on the hard mattress beneath him. It was no second-rate garment and barely budged against vampire-strength struggles. Well, hung-over-vampire-strength.
What was I doing last? His leaden brain struggled to come up with that.
Last known plan/mission/apocalypse? He’d finally given up on Angel. Well, not quite. It wasn’t that he didn’t still love the sad old bastard, but Angel was so destroyed, lately, after the mess that went down in LA, and Spike couldn’t deal with destroyed Angel. He’d tried, and all his attempts to keep him grounded or on task just failed. Spike hadn’t been helping at all. They just didn’t do that ‘comforting each other’ thing, him and Angel. A few bad words were said, a fight was had, Spike had decided space was the best thing for them both and had hit up Lorne for a ticket to London.
He remembered arriving, because the blasted sun was out and he had to jump out of his seat to avoid a sunbeam before the plane had come to a complete stop and he’d gotten in trouble with the stewardesses. The older brunette one had been a regular firecracker - almost flambéed him. Then he’d skulked around the underground for the rest of the day, enjoying the unwashed-humanity and axle grease smell of it, disapproving of the changes in décor. He’d gotten a little maudlin about it, truth be told, but fortunately he’d caught the scent of some Cocher Demons before he could start missing the days when the underground was new, the smell of digging and chaos. That had led to a fun dust-up on the Piccadilly Line.
Was that yesterday or the day before?
He poked around his sore memory, getting nothing but fuzz the closer he got to the present. There’d been a pub, he was certain, and some plonker telling him he was out-of-date and his accent was mixed. That had ended predictably. If he squinted hard, he could feel the spot where his head had hit the concrete when the bouncer threw him out.
Spike shifted uncomfortably. Heavy canvas straps wrapped over his crotch, digging in so hard it felt like they were against bare flesh. Sitting up made them dig in more. He gaped down at his naked legs.
Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure this was going to be a harmless run in with the mundane authorities that he could escape merely by playing dead. If he had been naked, wouldn’t they have put some scrubs or something on him before trussing him up?
A rusty hinge squealed, somewhere just behind the door. He saw a play of light on the tiny, safety-glass window, and then heard a ponderous lock turning.
Chaffing bollocks or not, he scrambled to standing, nearly overbalancing before the door swung open and revealed a thick-necked orderly who was just bursting out of his white uniform. The orderly gave him a look that eloquently expressed his desire to pound the living shit out of Spike should he cause the slightest inconvenience, and then stepped aside for a man in a brown tweed suit who entered behind him.
“Giles,” Spike nearly fainted with relief. He sagged against the cinderblock wall. “Thank the gods of tea and brandy. Get me out of this thing.” He raised his arms as much as he could.
Giles approached, peering at him. He took off his glasses and studied Spike carefully, as though something were written on his face. “You think you know me.”
Spike scowled. “Think? Mate, has all the tweed finally gone to your head?”
Giles took a step back, raising an eyebrow. “And who am I?”
Spike looked at no-neck the orderly, and saw no hint in his impassive face that this was a practical joke. “Come on, Rupert, what is this? A joke? You’re not mad I didn’t call and let you know I was still kicking, are you?”
Giles put his glasses back on. “Do you know where you are?”
“London?” Spike instantly regretted that it came out like a question. Giles and no-neck were both looking at him like he was raving. He licked his dry lips. “I got drunk last night, yeah? Maybe I said or did some wacky stuff, but I’m all better now. Demon drink, that’s all it was. I’ve, uh, learned my lesson.” He straightened and tried to look contrite.
“You said you were a vampire,” Giles said. “Repeatedly. You also mentioned demons, I believe.”
Spike looked back and forth between them. “And there’s no such thing as vampires,” he said, trying not to make it sound like a question.
“I rather expected you to say I was the wolf man.” Giles smiled tightly.
It was definitely Giles. No one else had that off-center fleck in his eye, that faded scar, that mocking smile. Alternate world? Spike cleared his throat. “Think, uh, think I have you confused with a bloke I used to work with. Rupert Giles. He’s a librarian. And you’re obviously some sort of doctor.”
The smile got a touch nasty. “And you’re not a vampire?”
“Can’t be something that’s not real, can I?”
“I don’t believe you.”
Spike stepped forward. “Well how the hell does this bloody work? I’m not crazy.”
“Yes, and we let people go when they tell us they’re not crazy.”
Spike felt his teeth grind. He stopped, sighed, and said, “All right. Look - I don’t mean any harm to anyone. I’m a vampire, yeah, but I’m a good guy vampire. And if you don’t believe me, take my pulse. Or just look at me.” He shifted into game-face. “There. See?”
Giles didn’t bat an eyelash. “Making faces at me isn’t going to make me believe you’re a vampire. Now stop that.”
The ridges and fangs faded away with Spike’s shock. “Didn’t you see that? I have fangs!”
Giles gave him a pitying look. “I’ll come back when you’re ready to be honest with me.”
“Wait!” Spike started after him, but met a fist in his gut.
No-neck shrugged nonchalantly and delivered another blow. Spike shoved his shoulder at the man, but it did nothing to him.
I’m weak. No-neck shoved Spike sideways and he sprawled, unable to stop his fall or shield his head from hitting the wall.
Without a word, the orderly followed Giles out. Spike’s head spun as he struggled back onto the cot. He heard the heavy bolt slide home in the door.
***
The council had long operated a ‘convalescent home’ for its employees who, for the magical nature of their illnesses, could not be treated in a normal hospital. It was remote and secluded and secret and had thus survived the assault of the First Evil. The staff kept to themselves, there were few current patients, and the government had no knowledge of its existence, so there was no concern over legalities in a field where laws so seldom applied. It was, in short, the perfect place to stash a vampire who came back from the dead once more than was strictly polite.
In the administrator’s office, Giles sipped the hot spiced tea the administrator preferred, watching Spike on the security monitor. He was thrashing about, trying to get the magically-enhanced straight jacket off. Giles supposed there was an outside chance the vampire could actually do it, given his determination, if he hadn’t been weakened with the same serum they gave slayers at their Cruciatum.
“What is it you actually plan to do with him, Mr. Giles?” The administrator asked, a soft Indian lilt warming her speech like the cinnamon in her tea.
Giles smiled. “It should be obvious. I want to drive him mad.”
Post-NFA. Giles is a bad man. Perhaps he read what they did to him in the comics and has decided being a good guy is not worth the compensation.
Delusional
Spike was only mildly concerned when he woke up in a locked cell. The place smelled of sickness and disinfectant, not torture and demons, so he assumed he’d been found passed out and whoever’d found him was taking precautions. It wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before, so he laid back and asked himself the usual questions.
Am I hung over? Moving his head hurt, so - slightly.
Anything broken? He tried to raise his arms to check them and couldn’t. It said a lot about his life that he took so long to notice the straight jacket.
Bugger. He wriggled around, not feeling anything broken, but a few sore places. The straight jacket was worrying. He sawed his shoulder-blades back and forth, trying to feel the connections in the way the fabric dragged on the hard mattress beneath him. It was no second-rate garment and barely budged against vampire-strength struggles. Well, hung-over-vampire-strength.
What was I doing last? His leaden brain struggled to come up with that.
Last known plan/mission/apocalypse? He’d finally given up on Angel. Well, not quite. It wasn’t that he didn’t still love the sad old bastard, but Angel was so destroyed, lately, after the mess that went down in LA, and Spike couldn’t deal with destroyed Angel. He’d tried, and all his attempts to keep him grounded or on task just failed. Spike hadn’t been helping at all. They just didn’t do that ‘comforting each other’ thing, him and Angel. A few bad words were said, a fight was had, Spike had decided space was the best thing for them both and had hit up Lorne for a ticket to London.
He remembered arriving, because the blasted sun was out and he had to jump out of his seat to avoid a sunbeam before the plane had come to a complete stop and he’d gotten in trouble with the stewardesses. The older brunette one had been a regular firecracker - almost flambéed him. Then he’d skulked around the underground for the rest of the day, enjoying the unwashed-humanity and axle grease smell of it, disapproving of the changes in décor. He’d gotten a little maudlin about it, truth be told, but fortunately he’d caught the scent of some Cocher Demons before he could start missing the days when the underground was new, the smell of digging and chaos. That had led to a fun dust-up on the Piccadilly Line.
Was that yesterday or the day before?
He poked around his sore memory, getting nothing but fuzz the closer he got to the present. There’d been a pub, he was certain, and some plonker telling him he was out-of-date and his accent was mixed. That had ended predictably. If he squinted hard, he could feel the spot where his head had hit the concrete when the bouncer threw him out.
Spike shifted uncomfortably. Heavy canvas straps wrapped over his crotch, digging in so hard it felt like they were against bare flesh. Sitting up made them dig in more. He gaped down at his naked legs.
Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure this was going to be a harmless run in with the mundane authorities that he could escape merely by playing dead. If he had been naked, wouldn’t they have put some scrubs or something on him before trussing him up?
A rusty hinge squealed, somewhere just behind the door. He saw a play of light on the tiny, safety-glass window, and then heard a ponderous lock turning.
Chaffing bollocks or not, he scrambled to standing, nearly overbalancing before the door swung open and revealed a thick-necked orderly who was just bursting out of his white uniform. The orderly gave him a look that eloquently expressed his desire to pound the living shit out of Spike should he cause the slightest inconvenience, and then stepped aside for a man in a brown tweed suit who entered behind him.
“Giles,” Spike nearly fainted with relief. He sagged against the cinderblock wall. “Thank the gods of tea and brandy. Get me out of this thing.” He raised his arms as much as he could.
Giles approached, peering at him. He took off his glasses and studied Spike carefully, as though something were written on his face. “You think you know me.”
Spike scowled. “Think? Mate, has all the tweed finally gone to your head?”
Giles took a step back, raising an eyebrow. “And who am I?”
Spike looked at no-neck the orderly, and saw no hint in his impassive face that this was a practical joke. “Come on, Rupert, what is this? A joke? You’re not mad I didn’t call and let you know I was still kicking, are you?”
Giles put his glasses back on. “Do you know where you are?”
“London?” Spike instantly regretted that it came out like a question. Giles and no-neck were both looking at him like he was raving. He licked his dry lips. “I got drunk last night, yeah? Maybe I said or did some wacky stuff, but I’m all better now. Demon drink, that’s all it was. I’ve, uh, learned my lesson.” He straightened and tried to look contrite.
“You said you were a vampire,” Giles said. “Repeatedly. You also mentioned demons, I believe.”
Spike looked back and forth between them. “And there’s no such thing as vampires,” he said, trying not to make it sound like a question.
“I rather expected you to say I was the wolf man.” Giles smiled tightly.
It was definitely Giles. No one else had that off-center fleck in his eye, that faded scar, that mocking smile. Alternate world? Spike cleared his throat. “Think, uh, think I have you confused with a bloke I used to work with. Rupert Giles. He’s a librarian. And you’re obviously some sort of doctor.”
The smile got a touch nasty. “And you’re not a vampire?”
“Can’t be something that’s not real, can I?”
“I don’t believe you.”
Spike stepped forward. “Well how the hell does this bloody work? I’m not crazy.”
“Yes, and we let people go when they tell us they’re not crazy.”
Spike felt his teeth grind. He stopped, sighed, and said, “All right. Look - I don’t mean any harm to anyone. I’m a vampire, yeah, but I’m a good guy vampire. And if you don’t believe me, take my pulse. Or just look at me.” He shifted into game-face. “There. See?”
Giles didn’t bat an eyelash. “Making faces at me isn’t going to make me believe you’re a vampire. Now stop that.”
The ridges and fangs faded away with Spike’s shock. “Didn’t you see that? I have fangs!”
Giles gave him a pitying look. “I’ll come back when you’re ready to be honest with me.”
“Wait!” Spike started after him, but met a fist in his gut.
No-neck shrugged nonchalantly and delivered another blow. Spike shoved his shoulder at the man, but it did nothing to him.
I’m weak. No-neck shoved Spike sideways and he sprawled, unable to stop his fall or shield his head from hitting the wall.
Without a word, the orderly followed Giles out. Spike’s head spun as he struggled back onto the cot. He heard the heavy bolt slide home in the door.
***
The council had long operated a ‘convalescent home’ for its employees who, for the magical nature of their illnesses, could not be treated in a normal hospital. It was remote and secluded and secret and had thus survived the assault of the First Evil. The staff kept to themselves, there were few current patients, and the government had no knowledge of its existence, so there was no concern over legalities in a field where laws so seldom applied. It was, in short, the perfect place to stash a vampire who came back from the dead once more than was strictly polite.
In the administrator’s office, Giles sipped the hot spiced tea the administrator preferred, watching Spike on the security monitor. He was thrashing about, trying to get the magically-enhanced straight jacket off. Giles supposed there was an outside chance the vampire could actually do it, given his determination, if he hadn’t been weakened with the same serum they gave slayers at their Cruciatum.
“What is it you actually plan to do with him, Mr. Giles?” The administrator asked, a soft Indian lilt warming her speech like the cinnamon in her tea.
Giles smiled. “It should be obvious. I want to drive him mad.”