Hammurabi Part 1: response to werewindle's 3 little words challenge
“I need Angelus.”
Angel stopped in mid-stride as Spike’s voice, tearful and raspy with desperation, floated down the hall. Not half-cynically, he wondered, What the Hell has my Childe been doing? He stopped to listen.
The next speaker was Wesley.
“Spike, do you really think you’re welcome here?”
Cordelia followed swiftly on his heels, closing ranks.
“Besides, can’t you tell the difference between Angel and Angelus, Clorox? Honestly. All that bleach is getting to that undead thing you call a brain.”
Angel started walking toward the lobby again. His long stride sped to a jog at the sound of Spike’s pleading rejoinder.
“I…please. I just need to see my Sire…I…” He stopped as Angel burst into the Hyperion’s lobby.
“Spike,” Angel started, then broke off in shock as he took in the sight of his Childe. Gone was the cocky posture, the smug grin. He stood in the center of the large room, flanked by Wesley and Cordelia, hunched over in his large leather duster. His eyes were dark red from weeping. The entire effect, Angel was disturbed to note, was terribly diminishing.
“What the Hell’s happened to you, Will, Childe?” he whispered, stunned.
“Angel. Sire.” Spike sighed in relief, sagging slightly where he stood. “Sire. I-oh, fucking Hell.” He rubbed a hand across tired eyes. “I don’t know how to say this, exactly-”
“I heard,” Angel interrupted. He crossed the distance between them to place a bracing arm around his Childe’s slumped, bony shoulders. “Let’s go talk in the kitchen about this.”
Spike stiffened, and he shook his head furiously. “No! I can’t! I need you-him-whichever Angelus is-now. Can’t wait. Can’t eat. I-” He clenched his jaw tightly. His upper lip trembled.
Oh, God. Angel looked down at the pathetic shadow huddled into the protective embrace of his arm, and unease settled heavily in his stomach. No, no, no. No no no nonono fucking Hell Will you can’t ask me for this.
“Please, Sire,” Spike whispered hoarsely. A single tear dripped from the corner of an enflamed eye. “It-it’s bad.”
* * *
In Sunnydale, a figure was sprawled across the floor of a bedroom, slowly leaking blood from its left arm. Its bare right foot lay twisted at an odd angle. A livid bruise, covered by a thick head of hair, extended just past the hairline.
To any casual observer, Xander Harris was dead.
Something in the subterranean apartment stirred.
…
A bug?
A groan broke the silence of the fetid basement air.
* * *
“Basement, then?” Angel asked, resigned. He waved a dismissive hand at Wesley and Cordelia as he steered a guilt-ridden Spike along with him. “You’ll tell me everything, and I mean everything, if you want what I think you do.”
Spike caught his trembling upper lip between his teeth and gnawed it nervously. “I do want it.” He looked up at his Sire with bloodshot eyes, seeking reassurance. “I-it’s the only way to set things right, innit? Eye for an eye and all that?”
The unease that had taken up residence in the pit of Angel’s stomach congealed and froze over, sending icy fingers up into his silent heart. I knew it. Against his better judgment, he let long-forgotten memories bubble up to the surface to guide him.
“Well now, we’ll see after you talk t’ me, Will,” he said softly. He was unnerved to hear how easily he fell back into Angelus’ lilting Irish cadences. Had his demon truly been that close to the surface?
The tension flowed out of Spike’s limbs at the light accent, and he scrutinized his Sire’s face for signs of either soul or demon.
“Sire? Who are you right now?” he asked hesitantly.
Angel barked a humorless laugh and answered with brutal honesty.
“Right now, Childe, I have no fucking idea, myself. You want Angelus for this, then, for now, we’ll say I’m Angelus.”
“Yes.” Spike smiled tremulously. “Sire. Angelus. Thank you.”
“Don’t be thanking me just yet, Will,” Angel advised. He stopped in front of a door next to a supply closet and pulled it open to reveal a set of narrow, poorly lit steps fading off into the dark. “Make your choice, lad. You may be leaving now, if you wish.”
Spike worried his lip some more before answering. He shook his head slowly, set on his course. “It wouldn’t be right to run now. I-I owe it to him.”
Angel shrugged, unhappy. The last truly Angel-like thought that he permitted himself to have, as he led the way into the large hotel basement, was, May Will forgive me when this is over, for I never shall.
* * *
Time in the basement held its damp breath at the sound of Xander’s pained groan. Dust motes froze in place in the air, full of nervous tension, peering at him anxiously for further signs of life. When it seemed it had been a fluke, and the room was about to heave a silent sigh of disappointment, he groaned again, and wrinkled his forehead in a pained grimace.
With a great effort, he hauled his right hand up to his face and covered his eyes. Then, screwing up his face, he uttered a single syllable.
“Owww…”
* * *
Spike stared down at his hands as he began to speak. Angel leaned against an unused table, ignoring the dust, and watched the emotions play across his Childe’s wan face.
“When I got away from the Initiative-”
Angel made a disgusted noise deep in the back of his throat.
“Right. Well, I went to the Slayer and her mates, for help. You know that. But, Sire, you don’t know how they treated me-how long they kept me chained up in that bloody bathtub. And they knew I couldn’t hurt them,” he cried. “They were getting their jollies off making me suffer.” His hands clenched unconsciously into fists atop his knees.
“So I got angry,” he continued, face dark from the memory. “And I decided to get whatever revenge I could. Then they sent me home with Xander bloody Harris. And that’s where I made my mistake. I got my revenge every day, and now-” his upper lip began trembling violently, and tears dripped down his cheeks. “I found him, Sire. He killed himself.”
Angel swayed back, shocked, against the dusty table. Xander Harris, dead? Impossible. He let out a slow, uneven breath, a holdover from another lifetime, and focused on his task.
“He’ll be missed, certainly,” he said mildly. “But answer me these questions, Childe. Why do you mourn the lad? You hated him, last I heard. And this revenge of yours, what did you do?”
“He tied me to that manky old chair of his when we got there.” Spike stared into the distance as he got lost in the past. “Thought it could keep me held, the stupid wanker. When he fell asleep, I broke the ropes.”
“Go on,” Angel prompted.
A slight smirk passed across Spike’s face, so quickly Angel almost thought he’d imagined it.
“I woke him up by pinning him to his bed. Didn’t hurt him, so it didn’t hurt me, see? Scared him, though. He couldn’t move an inch.” He raised a hand and scrubbed at his hair. Little flakes of gel flew up into the air. “I leaned over his ear and whispered nasty things, cruel, dirty things I’d do to him if he told the Slayer and his friends.”
In his mind’s eye, Angel saw a young, cocksure Childe pinned flat to the floor by his large, angry Sire, filthy threats crooned into his charge’s ear in a soft Irish accent.
“And doesn’t that sound familiar,” he murmured.
Spike met his eyes and grinned briefly before looking down at his hands again. “Learned from the best, didn’t I?”
Angel crossed his arms. “So you played at being your Sire and scared the lad. You didn’t hurt him, did you? If he’s dead, it’s regrettable, for sure, but not your fault. Why do you think you deserve the particular kind of justice I’d be meting out?”
“God.” Spike rocked forward slightly, covering his face with both hands. Angel waited, and after a minute his Childe calmed enough to speak. “I told you once, Angelus, that you were my Sire. Not Dru. That I worshipped you.” His voice was barely a whisper in the stillness of the basement. “I meant it more than you could possibly know.”
* * *
Xander blinked into the palm of his hand and tried not to whimper. What happened? He lifted his hand away cautiously and chanced a peek at the floor around him.
Stakes. Fucking Spike fucking leaving stakes for me to trip over. He groaned again, a sound of self-reproach rather than pain. That’s it. No more. I was dealing with the other thing just fine, but this? He could have killed me. I’m calling Giles and making Fangless move out as soon as he shows up again. He smirked weakly. Would serve him right if I kicked it, though.
A throbbing in his left arm made him grunt in pain and drag the offending limb into his line of vision for inspection. Well, shit. There goes the holy water. A long, shallow gash cut a jagged path across his inner forearm. The splintered remains of the glass bottle lay in a glinting mess on the floor.
He took a deep breath, blinking slowly. I don’t think I have a concussion. He lay still for another moment, then struggled unsteadily to his feet, limping to the bathroom and the medicine cabinet within. Guess I should clean myself up.
* * *
Spike stood slowly, not meeting Angel’s probing gaze. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands-first putting them in his duster pockets, then crossing his arms, repeating the movements every so often.
“Easy, Will,” Angel finally said. “Tell your Sire what it is you’ve done.”
Spike stilled his movements. “A few nights after that, I went out to kill some fledges, just to prove I still could.” He shook his head ruefully. “I-shite, the cemetery was empty by the time I was done. I’d been feeling so fucking impotent. I had to go kill something, you know? I-I’m the Big Bad,” he said, almost despondently. “I was going out of my head.”
“And what did you do, Will, after you’d killed?” Angel asked quietly. The icy fingers tightened their grip on his motionless heart.
Spike’s hands flew up from his sides to grip fistfuls of his light hair. For just a moment, Angel saw the tormented human he’d been over a century ago, and his throat tightened in sympathy.
“I-” he started, and faltered, anguished. He collapsed back into his chair. “I went back to his basement and I-I forced myself on him.”
The soul inside Angel’s body screamed for control, repulsed by the words of the younger vampire shaking in the seat before him. He shoved his protesting humanity into a dark corner and listened to his demon’s instincts. He was determined to see this play out to the bitter end, for justice and for Spike’s peace of mind.
He pushed away from the table, staring down at his Childe. “How did you do it without hurting him? It sounds to me as if you had this planned, William.”
Spike flinched. “I’d thought about it-having him, not-not r-rape,” he stuttered. “I’d left whiskey in the room that night-he was drunk when I got back. And…and I used something slick….”
Angel snorted. “Well, no one can ever say you don’t look after yourself first,” he said. He strove to stay impassive.
“He tried to fight back,” Spike said, tears creeping down his cheeks again. “I laughed-I laughed.”
Icy fingers dug their tips into the still lump of muscle in Angel’s chest. Yes. He remembered a similar night, long, long ago. You certainly did learn from the best, didn’t you?
“He never stopped fighting. I-I think he cried. I fell asleep on top of him.” Spike’s voice caught, and his upper lip found its way back between his teeth.
“Finish your confession, Childe,” Angel ordered in his soft voice.
Spike nodded and swiped at his cheeks roughly with the back of his hand. “When I woke up, he was in the shower, just…just sitting there. He saw me watching him and tried to pretend he’d lost the lid to the shampoo bottle.” He sank further into the seat, trying to disappear. “We-we decided to pretend it didn’t happen. But I was there every day. How do you ignore something that fucking big? I’d-I’d give him these…looks,” he said, leering briefly at nothing in particular before grimacing in self-disgust. “When nobody was watching, right? He never said a word, but-he started acting like he was-dead, almost, after a while. His stupid friends never noticed. Never notice anything, that lot. Probably thought he was sulking ‘cos I’ve been living there longer than they planned on.” He sneered.
“And then you went to the lad’s basement and found him dead,” Angel said. He stood and regarded the miserable specimen his Childe made.
“Yes,” Spike whispered. “Yes, Sire. He killed himself, and it’s my fault.”
“Childe,” Angel said, “I grant you your request for my justice.”
* * *
The sudden flare of light in the bathroom had Xander flinching into the darkest corner instinctively. He blinked furiously against the spots in his vision. Spike, I’m going to kill you. Them I’m going to kick you out, and kill you again. He approached the mirror cautiously, afraid of what he might find.
And I get all of your onion rings for a month, you slob, he thought grumpily at the sight of the bruise at his hairline. However, he was relieved to see that things weren’t nearly as bad as he’d thought. His pupils were equally small and unhappy about the bright overhead light being inflicted upon them, and the gash on his arm looked like it had stopped bleeding.
He heaved a long-suffering sigh and flipped the mirror to the side, examining the sparsely populated shelves for butterfly bandages and the Ace wrap. If you can change your spots, Spike, you have a lot of sucking up to do when you show up again.
Supplies in hand, he limped over to the toilet to have a seat and tend to his injured body.
* * *
Spike closed his bloodshot eyes and nodded his silent gratitude.
“Tell me, William,” Angel asked, “How did the body look?”
Spike shuddered at the words.
“You asked for this, Childe. What were the injuries?”
“He-it-” Spike gulped. “The body was sort of…flung out, like, on the floor.” He gestured with a hand vaguely to the room at large. “One of his wrists had been bleeding-his left, I think. And an ankle was twisted oddly.” He looked up absently, trying to recall the scene. “I don’t remember which. And his head-there was a big bruise.” He thought for a bit longer and shook his head. “That’s-that’s it-that’s what happened.”
“Do you think it might be safe to assume he slit his wrist, wandered out into the bedroom, and collapsed from blood loss?” Angel asked. The fingers of ice dug in a little deeper at his callous words, but he pressed on. I agreed to this, damn it. Who knows whom he’d go to if his own Sire refused him?
The tears started again, great fat salty marbles welling up in Spike’s eyes and spilling over in shiny trails down his face.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely.
“And you…had your way with the lad, truth?”
“Truth.” The reply was nearly inaudible.
“William. Childe. You have done a great wrong to someone dear to our friends and family.” He cupped his Childe’s chin in his palm firmly and tilted his face up. Spike met his gaze with watery, steadfast eyes. “You asked for atonement under our old laws, and I shall give it to you.”
Spike nodded slightly, the downward motion impeded by his Sire’s large hand.
“Sit and think on what you’ve done,” Angel said. He freed Spike’s chin and walked tiredly toward the stairs. “I’ll soon be back.”
Silence was his only answer as he made his way up the steps, feeling more keenly than ever the frozen grip the situation had on his soul.
Wesley and Cordelia hurried up to him as soon as he stepped into the corridor. He held up both hands in front of his chest to ward them off.
“Now is not the time for your questions,” he said. A growl rose in his throat; he forced it back, refusing to give in to his demon more than he had to. “I’m holding on to my sanity by a fucking thread, and don’t tell me that’s debatable. I know that for a fact.”
They came to a sudden, stumbling stop, staring at him wide-eyed.
“Who-” Wesley started.
“I don’t know ‘who,’ Wesley!” he snapped. “Leave it, will you? Ask me when I’m done condemning myself to a deeper level of Hell.”
The two humans exchanged wary glances, then seemed to come to a decision.
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Cordelia offered.
Angel sighed gustily and leaned against the basement door. “Now, I can’t say much, mind, but yes. You could both be of help. Thank you.” He nodded at Cordelia. “Will you call someone in Sunnydale and find out what happened to Harris that could get my Childe in such a panic?”
“Spike? Upset about Xander?” Cordelia looked dubious, but she shrugged and walked off to find a telephone. Angel slumped against the door. One down, one to go. Can’t give Wesley busy work, though.
“What’s happened, Angel?” Wesley asked. The Englishman looked him over with concern in his eyes.
“Leave it, Wesley,” Angel repeated. “It’s nothing you’ll want to know about.” He thought again, and added, “Will has invoked the old laws, do you understand that? What I’ll be doing to him? And if I should turn him aside, who should he go to?” He shrugged helplessly. “Don’t either of you come near this door when I go back down. There’s no disturbing such a thing.”
Wesley was silent for a long moment. “Is Xander Harris dead?”
“Would that he weren’t.”
“What do you need me to get?” Wesley asked simply.
“You know where things may be found,” Angel said wearily. “I need you to fetch me a thick leather strap, a clean one, mind you, strong handcuffs, and a good sharp knife.” He hesitated before adding, “And-and one of the railroad spikes from my room. Please.”
Wesley merely nodded. “You’re a good man, Angel, even if you don’t believe it.”
Angel waited until the hallway was empty before daring to reply.
“Thank you, Wesley.”
* * *
Xander limped out into his bedroom, still grumbling. Spike owes me chauffeured rides everywhere for a month, at least. His stomach growled, and he bent down to open the minifridge Spike had insisted they needed.
What stuff of his can I eat today? he thought. Perversely, he felt better than he had in months. The lack of Spike-ness is refreshing. I am so kicking him out. He ignored the little voice in the back of his head-the one that sounded like Angel or William Shatner, depending on the day-that hissed “liar liar liar” into his ears.
A package was prominently displayed, front and center, on the middle shelf of the fridge, bearing a little note that read ‘Xander Harris.’ Hmmm. He pulled the package from the fridge and flipped open the note.
‘Xander Harris:
They gave me a double order by accident. Be a good chap and eat the rest so they don’t go bad.
-Spike’
Xander peeked inside the bag and shook his head in confusion. There, crisp and heavily battered just the way Spike liked them, was exactly one order of freshly cooked onion rings.
The shrill noise of the telephone interrupted his confused train of thought. He reached for it absently.
“Yeah?”
“Xander!”
He winced away from the receiver as Cordelia’s loud, worried voice rattled through his aching head.
“Hush, you. I have a headache,” he said irritably. “What’s wrong? You don’t sound too great. Deadboy’s chronic brooding isn’t contagious, is it?”
“Angel told me to call and find out what happened to you,” she said.
Xander looked sideways at the telephone. Cordelia was letting a jab like that slide? Something must be up. “I’m fine,” he said. “I tripped and fell a little while ago, but I’m okay. Really. I’m like the Energizer Bunny. Or the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man. Whichever works in this case.”
“Xander!” she interrupted. “Listen. I don’t care. I’m glad you’re fine, but seriously? Things aren’t fine here. Spike showed up looking like his best friend had died, which was weird enough, but now Angel’s going around talking like Angelus-still Angel, though. And I heard him say something to Wesley about old laws, whatever those are.”
“Oh crap,” Xander gasped. “He didn’t. That stupid, stupid bleached idiot.” He jumped to his feet, stumbled, and limped determinedly to the dresser. “Cordy, dear, dear friend. What’s the traffic like? I have to get to Spike. Like now. Before he does something stupid.”
* * *
The railroad spike came to a rest against the dusty table with a low clunk, gleaming dully next to the rest of Angel’s chosen instruments.
Spike’s eyes flicked toward it and away, back and forth, afraid to fully look at his namesake.
Angel stepped around the table. Steady. Can’t hesitate now. “Do you see something that bothers you, Will?” he asked, face blank and mild.
His Childe hesitated a brief moment before nodding and pointing to the railroad spike.
The older vampire affected surprise. “The spike? Ah, Will, you thought you could call on an old law and only pay for half your sin? No, Will. Spike violated young Xander Harris, and a spike shall violate you, in turn.”
He watched Spike’s face for any sign that he was being pushed too far, but his Childe just hunched his shoulders and nodded.
The frigid hand that was wrapped around his heart squeezed down painfully. Why does he have to look so damn young?
“See that hook?” he said, pointing to something glinting in the ceiling.
Spike twisted around in his seat to look.
“I found a punching bag hanging there when we moved in. I replaced it with a new hook sometime back, a good strong one. It ought to hold a grown man’s weight, now.” He picked up the handcuffs and beckoned to Spike. “Come here to me, Childe. It’s time.”
Spike stood, wide-eyed, wavering slightly on his long legs. He reached instinctively for the table to brace himself, but caught sight of the railroad spike again and snatched his hand back.
Angel took pity on him and wrapped a hand loosely around his upper arm, leading him across the dim room. “Tell me again,” he insisted. “Tell me you want this, or I’ll not lay a hand on you.”
His Childe found his voice. “I need this, Sire, please. I-I want it.”
Angel shook his head and snapped the cuffs onto Spike’s wrists. “There’s not much I’d not do for you if you truly needed it, Will,” he said gently. He smoothed tendrils of sweat-damp hair from Spike’s face, and, bestowing a paternal kiss to his forehead, lifted him by the armpits to hang the handcuff chain from the hook.
Spike looked down at him with an odd mix of fear and gratitude in his eyes. “I know, Sire,” he said, voice quiet. “I know. Thank you.”
Angel nodded and walked back to the table. “I have rules for you, Childe,” he called across the open space. “Firstly, you harmed a human. Therefore, you’ll take your punishment in your human face. I don’t want to see it slip, even when the pain overwhelms you.” He folded the leather strap and stuck it in the back pocket of his pants. “Secondly, you must let me know if you feel you need to scream, as the door isn’t soundproofed. The strap’s for you to bite on.” He tucked the knife and spike into his belt and walked back over slowly. “And thirdly…thirdly, I have a question for you that you’ll answer if you expect an end to this.”
“Yes,” Spike grunted. “Agreed.” He rolled his neck from side to side uncomfortably.
Angel knelt on the cold cement floor and began unlacing his Childe’s boots. They were big, he observed, and heavy, more for show than practicality. They had a bright yellow tag sewn into the back, but the boots were so kicked about and scruffy that the label was unreadable.
“Admirin’ my boots, are you?” a quiet voice above him asked.
“Trying not to ruin them, you daft Childe. Now shut up, will you?” He pulled off the first boot and gave Spike’s sock a hard tug to remove it. “I’m having enough of a time with this as it is.”
Spike, in his own inexplicable way, had perked up as soon as Angel had started. “Sorry, Sire. That’s right thoughtful of you, though-ahnghh!”
Angel grasped Spike’s bare, pale foot between his big hands and, after taking a moment to brace himself, wrenched it sharply to the side. A sickening crack echoed off the basement walls.
“A foot for a foot,” he said grimly. He stood and pulled the knife from his belt. “An arm, next. The left, you said?”
Spike clenched his jaw and nodded, not daring to make a sound.
Angel gripped Spike by the elbow and held him fast, tracing the knife’s tip along the underside of his forearm. “What d’ you think he did, Will? D’ you think he just cut across quickly and hoped for the end?”
Spike screwed his eyes shut as, once again, he was trapped and motionless, and his Sire whispered painful, cruel things into his ears.
The elder vampire was relentless. “Or perhaps he dug the tip in, here-” He pushed the tip of the knife through the thick layers of skin.
Spike caught his lower lip between his teeth and bit down hard. Angel suspected he’d have asked for the strap right then, if he weren’t trying not to scream.
“And dragged it down his arm, slowly-” He pulled the knife down Spike’s outstretched arm toward his elbow, feeling skin and fatty tissue snag and part against the blade.
His Childe shuddered as hot, borrowed blood bubbled up in the wake of the cut and trickled down his arm, pooling in the bony hollows of his elbow and bent shoulder, turning his shirt into a sodden mess.
“-Before going out to die,” Angel finished. He withdrew the knife and wiped it clean on Spike’s sock.
Harsh, panting sounds ripped themselves free from Spike’s throat. “Think he…did that,” he gasped. “Thank you.”
“An arm for an arm,” Angel said in reply. “You spoke of a blow to the head?”
“Near the top of his skull,” Spike said. He closed his eyes as Angel turned the knife around, handle-out in his fist. “Could barely see it. Came down his forehead a bit, though.”
“I think I have the measure of it.” Angel hefted the knife experimentally, and, before drawing his arm up and back, warned, “Relax your jaw.”
He cringed inwardly at the loud, hollow clunk that sounded as the handle connected with the top of his Childe’s head. Will, Will, the things I do to you. Behind closed eyelids, Spike’s eyes rolled up into their sockets.
He waited patiently for Spike to rouse. As soon as his eyes fluttered open, he laid the knife on the floor and addressed him gently.
“A head for a head.” He waited. “You know what it is that’s next, Childe.”
Spike grinned weakly, flashing teeth and lips bloody from suppressed screams. "Oh, sure. Fun part's over, innit, Sire?"