Blood Wings, 8/10
Title: Blood Wings 8/10
Fandom: Buffyverse
Author: frk_werewolf
Pairing: Spander
Rating: R
Summary: AU. When FBI Agent Alexander Harris is put on the case of the latest serial killer, known to the law as Angelus, he finds himself turning to an old enemy for help.
Warnings: GRAPHIC blood and gore. Its rated R for this reason, specifically.
Credit: This story is inspired and very, very loosely based off of the Hannibal Lector stories by Thomas Harris.
Chapter Summary: Xander receives news and Spike takes a stroll.
previous chapters
Chapter Eight
“Xander?” The voice caught him off guard as he made his way past Faith’s desk. Faith’s tone was strained, as though she had just received a large shock.
“What is it?” Xander asked. Faith was gripping a pen tightly, the plastic fighting to not shatter under the pressure.
“I just got off the phone with Giles.” Faith informed him. “Xander… It’s Bradshaw. Something… Something’s happened.”
A cold chill fell down Xander’s spine. Something was wrong with Spike? That could be a number of things. The list was so long, Xander didn’t even want to think about. Yet, he couldn’t help but imagine what Spike might have done. Did he kill one of his guards? Xander hoped he didn’t hurt his psychiatrist. Dr. Rosenburg seemed like a sweet lady, after all.
“What?” Xander managed to say. Faith’s eyes were wide. Xander couldn’t tell if it was from fear or not, though prospects didn’t look good.
“He’s escaped.” Faith whispered. Xander stopped himself from saying anything ridiculous, like asking what the hell she meant. It was obvious; William ‘The Bloody’ Bradshaw was no longer in prison. That meant he could be anywhere by now. Spike could have gotten to the Canadian border by now, if he had the mindset to.
“How?” Xander asked.
“There aren’t any details right now. It appears no one has died, though two guards and Dr. Willow Rosenburg were rushed to the medical ward.” Faith admitted. “Giles wanted me to warn you.”
“Warn-“ Xander cut himself off, rubbing at a temple. “Of course.”
“He might after you, sir, I don’t know why you’re so shocked.” Faith said, giving a slight shrug. Her demeanor, which was oddly calm, did nothing to show the vague sense of hysteria that threatened to appear within her gaze. Xander had to appreciate how well Faith was able to keep control of her emotions. Xander, himself, had never been good at that particular practice.
“I need to go.” Xander stated, taking a step away from her desk. “I’ll… I’ll check in regularly, okay?”
“Good.” Faith nodded. “I’ll be sure to keep the lines open for you.”
Xander sent her a nod, holding his breath as he made he way out of the building. It was frightening, and yet somewhat thrilling, to know that Spike was out in the city at that exact moment. Briefly, Xander wondered what he was doing.
Spike narrowed his eyes as he stepped into the small, brightly lit gas station. The cashier watched him from behind a window of glass, giving the illusion that he would be protected from a rain of bullets. Spike sneered. He doubted the glass was actually bulletproof. Bullets would penetrate such material, shattering the glass and letting it rain down like a tidal wave. A dead body cut up and littered with bullets would be what greeted the police.
Spike wished he had a gun, just to test his theory.
There were only four rows of shelves in the gas station. One held candy, a midnight snack for fat rolls of lard. Spike imagined them making their way inside, waddling over to get more chips before returning home to their computers, Internet chat rooms, and a cat that hated them. Spike grinned, causing the cashier to take a step back.
Spike pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels from the shelf, before setting it down on the counter. He asked for a pack of cigarettes.
“What kind?” The young, pimply kid asked. Spike shrugged. It didn’t matter. The smooth taste of nicotine, tarnished by all sorts of chemicals, burning it’s way down to his lungs… No, Spike didn’t much care what brand, for it all was a way to die in the end.
Behind him the doorway open, jingling softly. A man Spike’s height stepped inside, ankle length leather duster catching Spike’s eyes. Spike left his items on the counter, ignoring the cashier’s request for money.
Money? Did it look like Spike had money? He was wearing the uniform he had been issued the day he was placed in his cell, an outfit he had come to hate. Though, now it was ripped and had bloodstains on one leg. The blood didn’t matter. He had managed not to kill anyone since his breakout, though the urge was there. He was proud and he hoped, somewhere in his blood soaked mind, that Xander would appreciate his sacrifice.
The unknown man went down swiftly. He didn’t even make a noise, though the cashier was yelling enough for both of them. Spike growled under his throat, swiftly jerking the coat off of the man’s back. A trickle of blood ran down the man’s temple and Spike fought down the urge to lick it clean.
He didn’t have time for it. He had clothing, alcohol, and cigarettes. Now he needed Xander.
Xander folded the piece of paper with shaky hands, the address written in black ink disappearing from view, as the yellow tinted legal paper was made smaller and smaller. He was parked on the curb of a long strip of stores. By turning his head to the left he could see the doorway of yet another art gallery. Xander didn’t want to go inside.
Xander had seen many things in his life. A person didn’t watch as members of his crew pried a man off of the floor, the blood and railroad spikes making the task difficult, without learning a thing or two about the human mind. Yet, to see artwork-a thing that Xander had always associated with self-expression and Monet-that displayed crimes far worse than William Bradshaw could create was… Xander couldn’t explain it. He didn’t want to go into another one of these places, but he had a gut feeling about this line of investigation. He knew it would pay off; he just had to keep working.
Taking in a deep breath, Xander pushed himself out of his car. His hand reached for the badge in his coat pocket. The last thing he needed was to discover his badge was in the car when he was in need of it. The art gallery stood between a Laundromat and coffee house. Xander wasn’t big of places of coffee worship. They seemed too cliché. He could almost swear that he was hearing the sound of bongos through the dank doorway as he walked past.
Xander pushed open the dark tinted door that led into The Bleeding Heart art gallery. It was nearly empty, except for a slender young man with sandy blonde hair and one of those tiny square goatees that had recently become popular. Xander avoided meeting the man’s gaze and immediately turned toward the left. A large painting, extending to about forty inches in width, stretched out before him against a gray colored wall.
Xander was momentarily caught up in the bright clash of crimson red against pale flesh. A woman, stretched out upon a stone altar, had the blade of a sword rammed into her chest. That wasn’t what caught Xander’s attention however. Instead he saw the droplets of blood running across bare skin, the woman’s dress ripped down the front, and a large serpentine dragon slowly wrapping itself up the altar’s base. It looked as though the dragon was coming from out of the ground.
Xander jerked his head away, forcing his eyes to rest on a singular spot of gray on the plain wall next to the painting. Most of the artwork he had seen for the past hour resembled the morbid painting in front of him. Xander wasn’t the type to enjoy death, or blood, and the sight of it all around him was finally starting to get to him. He needed to get this mission over and done with, preferably yesterday.
Xander stalked along the wall, ignoring the art gallery’s worker, who peered around the corner to watch him. Flashes of gruesome scenes flashed past him, but he didn’t linger. He was there for one thing: the signature that would essentially be Angelus’ downfall.
A flash of white caught his attention. Blinking, Xander turned toward one of the paintings. Within it’s frame a regal looking man with soft white wings sat on a throne. On the floor, at the angel’s feet, was another angel. They looked identical, except the second angel had black wings and was bleeding to death. Xander could almost see the blood making it’s way across the floor and half expected it to pill out of the frame and into reality.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A soft voice asked from behind. Xander managed to not jump and glanced at the blonde worker. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“It is… Nice.” Xander managed to say.
“I’m Penn.” The man greeted. “Welcome to my gallery.”
“Nice to meet you.” Xander shook the man’s hand, feeling a jolt of shock when Penn’s thumb lingered on his, rubbing the back of Xander’s hand lightly. Xander frowned and turned back to the painting, searching for the signature.
“The artist really does know how to use his colors well.” Penn continued. Xander stiffened when Penn took a step closer to him, but was too busy fighting a grin when he found the signature. Two L’s, joined at their corners in a semi-cross formation, stared back at him. “The shading in the wings is suburb. You can almost feel the feathers.”
“Uh, yes, I’m sure it is.” Xander turned toward Penn, noting that the gallery owner was standing disturbingly close. Xander found it hard to believe the man was flirting with him, though the thought did linger. “My name is Agent Harris, from the Los Angeles FBI.”
“…Oh.” Penn stared at the badge Xander produced, looking disappointed as well as annoyed. Penn narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”
“I need all of your information the guy who painted this.” Xander replied, gesturing at Liam O’Connor’s painting. “Most of all, I need an address.”
Penn stared at him, as though assessing the situation, before turning on his heal and striding back toward the front desk. Xander followed, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead. Now that he had gotten what he came for he felt no need to see more macabre artwork. Penn stepped up behind the desk, watching as Xander stepped around in order to face him. Then, he pulled a large black notebook from underneath and set it in front of them.
Xander remained quiet as Penn shifted through the pages. His mind automatically absorbed the information around him, an ability that was required of a criminal investigator. Penn had a tattoo around his left wrist, a snake that seemed to slither upward and disappear underneath his sleeve.
“I don’t normally give out information.” Penn admitted. He looked up as a hand reached out to grab a post-it and pen. “But I suppose I could make an exception for you.”
Xander was once again given the impression that Penn was flirting with him. The idea was ludicrous and Xander immediately pushed it away.
“Here.” Penn slid the paper across the desk’s marble surface. “This was his last contact.”
“Thank you.” Xander allowed a smile. “I appreciate this.”
“No problem.” Penn said, smoothly.
Xander stepped out of the gallery, door swinging closed behind him. The sun beat down on the sidewalk, a traditional California day. Xander’s fingers tightened around the bright yellow paper as his other hand dug into his pocket for his cell phone.
Fandom: Buffyverse
Author: frk_werewolf
Pairing: Spander
Rating: R
Summary: AU. When FBI Agent Alexander Harris is put on the case of the latest serial killer, known to the law as Angelus, he finds himself turning to an old enemy for help.
Warnings: GRAPHIC blood and gore. Its rated R for this reason, specifically.
Credit: This story is inspired and very, very loosely based off of the Hannibal Lector stories by Thomas Harris.
Chapter Summary: Xander receives news and Spike takes a stroll.
previous chapters
Chapter Eight
“Xander?” The voice caught him off guard as he made his way past Faith’s desk. Faith’s tone was strained, as though she had just received a large shock.
“What is it?” Xander asked. Faith was gripping a pen tightly, the plastic fighting to not shatter under the pressure.
“I just got off the phone with Giles.” Faith informed him. “Xander… It’s Bradshaw. Something… Something’s happened.”
A cold chill fell down Xander’s spine. Something was wrong with Spike? That could be a number of things. The list was so long, Xander didn’t even want to think about. Yet, he couldn’t help but imagine what Spike might have done. Did he kill one of his guards? Xander hoped he didn’t hurt his psychiatrist. Dr. Rosenburg seemed like a sweet lady, after all.
“What?” Xander managed to say. Faith’s eyes were wide. Xander couldn’t tell if it was from fear or not, though prospects didn’t look good.
“He’s escaped.” Faith whispered. Xander stopped himself from saying anything ridiculous, like asking what the hell she meant. It was obvious; William ‘The Bloody’ Bradshaw was no longer in prison. That meant he could be anywhere by now. Spike could have gotten to the Canadian border by now, if he had the mindset to.
“How?” Xander asked.
“There aren’t any details right now. It appears no one has died, though two guards and Dr. Willow Rosenburg were rushed to the medical ward.” Faith admitted. “Giles wanted me to warn you.”
“Warn-“ Xander cut himself off, rubbing at a temple. “Of course.”
“He might after you, sir, I don’t know why you’re so shocked.” Faith said, giving a slight shrug. Her demeanor, which was oddly calm, did nothing to show the vague sense of hysteria that threatened to appear within her gaze. Xander had to appreciate how well Faith was able to keep control of her emotions. Xander, himself, had never been good at that particular practice.
“I need to go.” Xander stated, taking a step away from her desk. “I’ll… I’ll check in regularly, okay?”
“Good.” Faith nodded. “I’ll be sure to keep the lines open for you.”
Xander sent her a nod, holding his breath as he made he way out of the building. It was frightening, and yet somewhat thrilling, to know that Spike was out in the city at that exact moment. Briefly, Xander wondered what he was doing.
Spike narrowed his eyes as he stepped into the small, brightly lit gas station. The cashier watched him from behind a window of glass, giving the illusion that he would be protected from a rain of bullets. Spike sneered. He doubted the glass was actually bulletproof. Bullets would penetrate such material, shattering the glass and letting it rain down like a tidal wave. A dead body cut up and littered with bullets would be what greeted the police.
Spike wished he had a gun, just to test his theory.
There were only four rows of shelves in the gas station. One held candy, a midnight snack for fat rolls of lard. Spike imagined them making their way inside, waddling over to get more chips before returning home to their computers, Internet chat rooms, and a cat that hated them. Spike grinned, causing the cashier to take a step back.
Spike pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels from the shelf, before setting it down on the counter. He asked for a pack of cigarettes.
“What kind?” The young, pimply kid asked. Spike shrugged. It didn’t matter. The smooth taste of nicotine, tarnished by all sorts of chemicals, burning it’s way down to his lungs… No, Spike didn’t much care what brand, for it all was a way to die in the end.
Behind him the doorway open, jingling softly. A man Spike’s height stepped inside, ankle length leather duster catching Spike’s eyes. Spike left his items on the counter, ignoring the cashier’s request for money.
Money? Did it look like Spike had money? He was wearing the uniform he had been issued the day he was placed in his cell, an outfit he had come to hate. Though, now it was ripped and had bloodstains on one leg. The blood didn’t matter. He had managed not to kill anyone since his breakout, though the urge was there. He was proud and he hoped, somewhere in his blood soaked mind, that Xander would appreciate his sacrifice.
The unknown man went down swiftly. He didn’t even make a noise, though the cashier was yelling enough for both of them. Spike growled under his throat, swiftly jerking the coat off of the man’s back. A trickle of blood ran down the man’s temple and Spike fought down the urge to lick it clean.
He didn’t have time for it. He had clothing, alcohol, and cigarettes. Now he needed Xander.
Xander folded the piece of paper with shaky hands, the address written in black ink disappearing from view, as the yellow tinted legal paper was made smaller and smaller. He was parked on the curb of a long strip of stores. By turning his head to the left he could see the doorway of yet another art gallery. Xander didn’t want to go inside.
Xander had seen many things in his life. A person didn’t watch as members of his crew pried a man off of the floor, the blood and railroad spikes making the task difficult, without learning a thing or two about the human mind. Yet, to see artwork-a thing that Xander had always associated with self-expression and Monet-that displayed crimes far worse than William Bradshaw could create was… Xander couldn’t explain it. He didn’t want to go into another one of these places, but he had a gut feeling about this line of investigation. He knew it would pay off; he just had to keep working.
Taking in a deep breath, Xander pushed himself out of his car. His hand reached for the badge in his coat pocket. The last thing he needed was to discover his badge was in the car when he was in need of it. The art gallery stood between a Laundromat and coffee house. Xander wasn’t big of places of coffee worship. They seemed too cliché. He could almost swear that he was hearing the sound of bongos through the dank doorway as he walked past.
Xander pushed open the dark tinted door that led into The Bleeding Heart art gallery. It was nearly empty, except for a slender young man with sandy blonde hair and one of those tiny square goatees that had recently become popular. Xander avoided meeting the man’s gaze and immediately turned toward the left. A large painting, extending to about forty inches in width, stretched out before him against a gray colored wall.
Xander was momentarily caught up in the bright clash of crimson red against pale flesh. A woman, stretched out upon a stone altar, had the blade of a sword rammed into her chest. That wasn’t what caught Xander’s attention however. Instead he saw the droplets of blood running across bare skin, the woman’s dress ripped down the front, and a large serpentine dragon slowly wrapping itself up the altar’s base. It looked as though the dragon was coming from out of the ground.
Xander jerked his head away, forcing his eyes to rest on a singular spot of gray on the plain wall next to the painting. Most of the artwork he had seen for the past hour resembled the morbid painting in front of him. Xander wasn’t the type to enjoy death, or blood, and the sight of it all around him was finally starting to get to him. He needed to get this mission over and done with, preferably yesterday.
Xander stalked along the wall, ignoring the art gallery’s worker, who peered around the corner to watch him. Flashes of gruesome scenes flashed past him, but he didn’t linger. He was there for one thing: the signature that would essentially be Angelus’ downfall.
A flash of white caught his attention. Blinking, Xander turned toward one of the paintings. Within it’s frame a regal looking man with soft white wings sat on a throne. On the floor, at the angel’s feet, was another angel. They looked identical, except the second angel had black wings and was bleeding to death. Xander could almost see the blood making it’s way across the floor and half expected it to pill out of the frame and into reality.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A soft voice asked from behind. Xander managed to not jump and glanced at the blonde worker. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“It is… Nice.” Xander managed to say.
“I’m Penn.” The man greeted. “Welcome to my gallery.”
“Nice to meet you.” Xander shook the man’s hand, feeling a jolt of shock when Penn’s thumb lingered on his, rubbing the back of Xander’s hand lightly. Xander frowned and turned back to the painting, searching for the signature.
“The artist really does know how to use his colors well.” Penn continued. Xander stiffened when Penn took a step closer to him, but was too busy fighting a grin when he found the signature. Two L’s, joined at their corners in a semi-cross formation, stared back at him. “The shading in the wings is suburb. You can almost feel the feathers.”
“Uh, yes, I’m sure it is.” Xander turned toward Penn, noting that the gallery owner was standing disturbingly close. Xander found it hard to believe the man was flirting with him, though the thought did linger. “My name is Agent Harris, from the Los Angeles FBI.”
“…Oh.” Penn stared at the badge Xander produced, looking disappointed as well as annoyed. Penn narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”
“I need all of your information the guy who painted this.” Xander replied, gesturing at Liam O’Connor’s painting. “Most of all, I need an address.”
Penn stared at him, as though assessing the situation, before turning on his heal and striding back toward the front desk. Xander followed, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead. Now that he had gotten what he came for he felt no need to see more macabre artwork. Penn stepped up behind the desk, watching as Xander stepped around in order to face him. Then, he pulled a large black notebook from underneath and set it in front of them.
Xander remained quiet as Penn shifted through the pages. His mind automatically absorbed the information around him, an ability that was required of a criminal investigator. Penn had a tattoo around his left wrist, a snake that seemed to slither upward and disappear underneath his sleeve.
“I don’t normally give out information.” Penn admitted. He looked up as a hand reached out to grab a post-it and pen. “But I suppose I could make an exception for you.”
Xander was once again given the impression that Penn was flirting with him. The idea was ludicrous and Xander immediately pushed it away.
“Here.” Penn slid the paper across the desk’s marble surface. “This was his last contact.”
“Thank you.” Xander allowed a smile. “I appreciate this.”
“No problem.” Penn said, smoothly.
Xander stepped out of the gallery, door swinging closed behind him. The sun beat down on the sidewalk, a traditional California day. Xander’s fingers tightened around the bright yellow paper as his other hand dug into his pocket for his cell phone.