Parallax (1/8)
Title: Parallax
Author: whichclothes
Chapter: 1/8
Fandom: BtVS/AtS
Characters: Spike, Angel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss
Warnings: Dub-con, angst
Summary: After the battle with Wolfram & Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.
A/N: Thank you to silk_labyrinth for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to sentine for another awesome banner! I'll post chapter 2 Friday morning California time and the remainder of the chapters when I return to town on Monday.
Parallax
Parallax: (ˈpa-rə-laks) The apparent displacement or the difference in apparent direction of an object as seen from two different points. Middle French parallaxe, from Greek parallaxis, from parallassein to change, from para- + allassein to change, from allos other (Merriam-Webster Online).ˌ
One
It wasn’t a proper river, not really. More a muddy trickle that ran through concrete fetters. The sight of it made him long for the Thames of his youth, the reeking gray waters that moved back and forth with the tides, that snaked through his city the way his cold blood twisted through his body. Although he’d never admit it aloud, he’d rowed that river when he was at Oxford. He’d traversed its bridges numberless times, smelled it often as he walked down the Strand. And he’d never seen it himself, but he remembered his grandfather speaking of times when he was a boy, and the river had frozen completely over, and they would set up frost fairs in the middle where one could see shows and purchase trinkets. His grandfather even claimed he’d seen an elephant led across the ice under Blackfriars Bridge.
Even when it contained water, the LA River would never freeze.
“Stop gaping and move your ass!”
Spike was torn from his reverie by Angel’s angry voice. He shook himself slightly and joined the others as they slid and skittered down the steep banks. Two dozen M’raghi demons were waiting for them. Nothing much compared to the battle they’d won against Wolfram & Hart three years earlier, but still not exactly an ice cream social. And now, they had no demon god on their side. Only a handful of assorted human beings: the motley strays that seemed to be attracted to his grandsire and his stupid crusades like moths to a flame.
Spike threw himself at a M’raghi before he could admit that he was essentially one of those strays as well.
It was a long fight, and a bloody one. By the time it was over, most of the demons were dead and the rest had fled. Spike was beaten and sore and tired, but those were familiar complaints, and he knew they’d go away with a few pints of blood and a nice, long kip. None of his injuries bothered him as much as the look of impatient contempt Angel gave him as they got back in the Viper.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Spike? We have demons to kill, and you just stand there like a kid watching a parade go by. Or maybe you were chicken. Were you scared of the big, bad demons, Spike?” He threw the car into gear and gunned the gas, screeching away from the curb with unnecessary speed.
“Was just thinking,” Spike said wearily.
“Yeah, well, there’s your first mistake. Leave the thinking to those who are any good at it.”
Like you? Spike nearly sneered; but he said nothing, because they’d had this same argument-or ones nearly like it-a thousand times and he was suddenly sick of the script. So he just closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the headrest. He felt the road's every bump and jostle in the deep wounds of his chest; and in his shoulder, which had been dislocated and which he’d had to jam back into place against an overpass support pillar; and in his head, which was still bleeding sluggishly from a taloned blow. Angel would be angry later, when he saw the mess Spike had made of his upholstery.
It was a short ride through nearly empty streets back to the Hyperion. Angel and Spike didn’t speak to one another when they arrived. They slammed the car doors and went inside and then limped their separate ways: Angel to his suite on the third floor, Spike to his smaller room on the fourth.
If a person were to enter Spike’s room-although none ever did-he would assume Spike hadn’t been staying there for long. Aside from the empty whiskey bottles that were scattered about, and the overflowing ashtrays, it had little more individual character than the hotel room it had once been. Spike had scrounged up a small telly when he’d first moved in, and then he’d added a mini-fridge and microwave, so he could cool and heat his servings of blood. The chest of drawers held two pairs of black jeans identical to those he wore now and four black t-shirts. Hanging in the cupboard were a red shirt and a black one, and the six dusters that remained of the ten he’d been given after their holiday in Italy. A novel was splayed open on the bedside table: Bangkok 8. The loo contained packets of hair bleach and a tube of gel and the poncy shampoo that Spike pretended was his secret vice-acai berry and guava, which made him smell like a bloody tropical fruit salad but made his hair soft and silky as well-and a comb and a pair of scissors and two towels.
Spike had never been much interested in accumulating possessions. Too difficult to drag about with a vampire’s nomadic life. But he’d always kept a few things: some jewelry and books and a few other odds and ends. He’d stopped, though, after everything he’d owned was destroyed in Sunnydale; and then for a time he’d had no place of his own to keep things anyhow. Now, well, there was nothing much he was interested in owning.
When he got inside his room, he slammed the door shut, shrugged out of his duster and, giving it a quick inspection, was pleased to find it undamaged. He kicked off his boots, then more gingerly peeled off his jeans and shirt, which were sticking to his mending wounds. He grabbed a plastic container of blood from the fridge and didn’t bother to heat it before he guzzled it down. Pig’s blood. Tasted like shite no matter what you did with it.
The water from the shower hurt a bit as it hit his injuries, but the heat of it was brilliant and it felt lovely to get the caked filth off. He stayed under the spray a long time. Eventually he emerged into the steamy little room and toweled off. It was a nice towel, thick and soft. Angel bought all the linens, and the pouf always did have good taste in things like that.
When he was dry, Spike dropped the towel on the floor and combed his hair. After all these years, he still stood in front of the mirror to do so, even though he knew he’d see only the white wall behind him. Then he went back into the main room and pulled on fresh clothing. After standing uncertainly for a moment, he yanked the door open and headed slowly downstairs. He still hurt.
He could hear them long before he saw them. As usual, the crew had gathered in a room off the lobby that Spike reckoned had once been a dining room. Over time, the humans had dragged in odd bits of mismatched furniture. Christ knew where it all came from, but it was comfortable: several sofas and some armchairs; two big, scarred tables on which were usually stacked maps and books and pads of paper; a desk with a computer and printer on it. There was a telly in one corner as well, much bigger than his own and with a DVD player hooked up. The room smelled of coffee and soft drinks and salty snack foods.
They were all here. Angel in one of the chairs, a glass of blood in his hand. Derek and Jamie stuffed together in another chair, bodies entwined, making googly eyes at one another as always. Yuri at the computer, furiously typing away. And the others-Blake and Lilia and that new one, what was his name...Rudy-sprawled across the sofas. Nobody looked at Spike as he entered the room, and although he’d have preferred to sit and rest his abused body, he leaned up against the wall just next to the doorway.
They were discussing that night’s fight, all talking over one another, laughing and teasing and joking. “Did you see that big one?” Lilia asked.
“They were all big, dude,” Jamie responded.
“No, I mean the really big one, the one with the sorta twisty horn and the Harley shirt?”
Jamie laughed. “Oh, yeah. That big one.”
Lilia nodded. “So he made this lunge for me, and I thought that was it, you know? But his foot slipped and he fell-Boom!-and then I was right on top of that sucker. Got him right in the eyes.” She made a stabbing motion with her fist.
“Well, obviously those freaks need footwear with better traction,” Jamie said.
“Maybe I should get myself in business. Demon Boots Inc.”
Someone started singing that Nancy Sinatra song, and even Angel smiled and joined the others in humming along.
When things had quieted a bit, Rudy asked, “So is that the end of that problem?” He’d only been with them a few weeks. He was in his late 20s and he’d been a cop, until he saw his partner get eaten by something supernatural and then Rudy had gone a bit mental for a while. He’d quit the LAPD and eventually somehow found his way to their door, insisting he wanted to help. He was a good shot, which was helpful, and kept his head in emergencies. He also had EMT training, which came in handy.
Angel shook his head. “No. There are plenty more of them. And the next batch will be more careful, too. They’re not rocket scientists, but they’re smart enough to learn from their mistakes. Which is more than I can say for some.” And he shot Spike a look that made the others chuckle.
Spike scowled and wrapped his arms around himself. He wished he had a fag on him, but they were upstairs in his duster pocket.
“So what do we do next?” Rudy asked.
Angel started in on a long and boring explanation; Spike stopped listening about five words in. Instead he watched the way Blake hung on the big vampire’s every utterance and the way Angel’s gaze kept finding its way to Lilia. She was his type exactly: small and blonde and bossy. The pouf had strayed to the other side of the fence now and then over the centuries, but with Lilia about, poor, handsome, slightly dim Blake didn’t stand a chance.
Spike settled himself slightly more comfortably against the wall, and winced when he jostled his shoulder.
“Am I boring you, Spike?”
“I’ve heard it all before, Peaches. ‘Let’s fly to the rescue, blah-de-blah, fate of the world hangs in the balance, yadda yadda, don’t have a bloody clue about how to organize anything so I’ll just keep on talking out my arse.’”
Angel didn’t frown. It would have been better if he had. “And I suppose you have one of your usual genius plans?” he said, teeth bared in a smile.
Spike shrugged. “We find ‘em, we kill ‘em. That’s a good enough scheme.”
“Yeah?” Still smiling. “And I suppose you know where they’re hiding. And how to get to them before they do more damage to the city water supply. And then how to wipe them out without getting us wiped out first.”
Spike opened his mouth to reply, but Angel jumped in first. “Look at us, Spike! One night’s skirmish, shoulda been easy. But Lilia’s got a badly sprained ankle and Derek almost ended up with a concussion, and you just stood there stargazing!”
“I fought too! I got….” He snarled into silence. Wouldn’t do any good to pull up his shirt; the wounds had already closed on his skin, although he could still feel the ache deep inside.
Angel just rolled his eyes and angled his body back toward Lilia and the others. “So what I was thinking,” he began, but Spike didn’t stay to listen.
***
Despite the name, Vesuvius was a fairly quiet bar and, as far as demon bars went, relatively classy. It had once been a strip club and the stage still remained, but now was used only on Tuesdays for karaoke night. Mercifully, today was Thursday.
Spike’s usual table in the back of the room was free. He waved a bit at the waitress, a pretty Bhanrse half-breed. Her long pink tail was sticking out from beneath her skirt as always and, as always, he found himself wondering what that tail would feel like during a nice shag. But he’d never know-Sallee had an eye only for other girls.
“Hey, Spike,” she said when she made her way over. “Usual?”
“Just bring the bottle tonight, love.”
She frowned a bit, then nodded. He always tipped well.
As she went to fetch his drink, he looked about the place. It was close to half full, mostly the usual crowd. Some demons, some half-breeds, a few humans who were curious or had a kink for scales or fur. The two vamps sitting at the bar gave him a nervous look, but he knew them and they’d been noshing only on the willing as far as he knew. He certainly wasn’t in the mood to dust anyone. Part of the reason why Vesuvius was quiet was that he came often, and the nastiest of the locals knew to stay away-for which Dot was grateful. Spike could have drunk here for free, but Angel gave him a sodding allowance and Spike had very little he cared to spend it on. It wasn’t as if he was going to put it into a retirement account.
Sallee returned with a glass and a three-quarters-full bottle of Jack. “Anything else? Dot has some O-Neg, I think.”
Spike occasionally drank human when he came here. It was hospital rejects, or so Dot said. But he wasn’t really hungry now and just wanted the fire of booze in his belly. “No thanks, love.” He pulled a fifty from his pocket and handed it to her. “This do it for now?”
“Sure. Just holler if you get dry.” She took the bill and made her way to a nearby table of Brachen.
The level of amber liquid in the bottle gradually decreased, but Spike’s level of unhappiness stayed the same. The worst of it, really, was that he was angry with himself. He’d known what a tosser his grandsire was since the nineteenth century-known nearly since the night Spike had risen. Shoving the bloody soul into Angelus had made him slightly less sadistic and malicious, but that was more than made up for by the marked increase in brooding and self-righteousness. Spike had never expected Angelus to acknowledge Spike’s strengths in the old days, not even when Spike had killed his first Slayer. And later, he’d never bothered to hope that one day Angel would congratulate him on having fought for his soul-not a bloody curse, but a hard-won prize-and on helping save the world soon after. Certainly there had been that bit when he was barmy, but at least he hadn’t spent a hundred years feeding off vermin and feeling sorry for himself. Now he knew he’d never hear Angel thank him for being the first to stand at his side when Angel declared his suicidal scheme at Wolfram & Hart, for getting torn nearly to bits in that battle and then coming back for more, and then more.
So why had he stayed?
Perhaps he was a masochist.
Or perhaps he was afraid. Because where else did he have to go? Angel barely tolerated him, but at least he knew Spike.
For a brief time after they’d defeated the lawyers, Spike considered finding Buffy. But deep inside, he’d known that would never work. He’d known from the moment his soul was stuffed inside him. And wasn’t that an irony? He won his soul so he could be the man she deserved, yet the soul made him realize he could never be that man.
Never be any kind of man at all.
He could have gone off on his own, of course. He was hardly a bleeding fledge; he’d manage somehow. But he’d always been shite at being alone. And there was that voice deep inside, the really nasty one, and it whispered to him that nobody would ever want him, nobody could ever want him, and the best he could hope for was Angel’s contempt.
“Mind if I join you? Or is this a solo mope?”
Spike wanted to growl at the bloke. But the truth was, he didn’t really mind having that depressing train of thought derailed, and the man was grinning at him sort of goofily and it was hard to take offense.
Spike thought for a moment, then gestured at the empty chair across from him. “Hope you have your own drink, mate, ‘cause I’m not sharing.”
The man’s smile never faltered. He plopped himself down into the seat a little clumsily and lifted the brown bottle he held in his hand. “Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Nectar of the gods, my friend.” He took a long swig.
Spike took some time to examine his new companion. He looked human, but he had an odd scent to him, something Spike couldn’t quite place. He looked to be in his early thirties, a bit above average height, and quite fit. He had slightly messy dark hair and clear, greenish eyes and a bit of stubble on his square chin. He was attractive but not overly so, amidst the glut of actor-wannabes and ubiquitous plastic surgery. He looked…pleasant. Hardly the type to be in a demon bar, even an upscale one. His clothes were as unoffensive and unremarkable as the rest of him-khaki trousers, white collarless shirt, brown sport coat.
He withstood Spike’s scrutiny with patience and good grace. When Spike finally leaned back a bit in his chair and had another burning swallow of Jack, the man smiled widely. “Name’s Trevor Batt,” he said.
“Spike,” was the curt reply.
“Yeah, I know. I mean, everybody does. You’re kind of famous.”
Spike narrowed his eyes. “If you’re here because something’s haunting you or you’ve an apocalypse needs averting, you’re wasting your time. Go take it up with Angel.”
Trevor laughed. “No hauntings and not a single impending apocalypse. At least that I know of. Look, I’m not all that fond of drinking alone, and I saw you and thought to myself, “Man, I bet he’s interesting to talk to.’ That’s all.”
Spike relaxed a bit. “’M not interesting,” he mumbled.
“Oh, I doubt that! I’ve heard some stories about you, and if they’re even half true, well, I’m impressed.”
“You know what I am?”
Trevor’s smile didn’t dim. “Vampire.”
“You make a habit of chatting up vampires?”
“If I did, I sure wouldn’t last long! Nope, you’re my first vamp.”
“And what are you?”
Trevor shrugged. “Just a guy. Made a few bucks in the dot-com game a few years back and managed not to lose it. Now I’m kind of retired, but I dabble in this and that.”
“You dabble. In demon bars.”
Trevor had very white, even teeth. “It’s kind of a hobby. Some guys golf or play fantasy football.”
The man was a puzzle. But a puzzle was good right now, a diversion from Spike’s usual gloomy thoughts. Spike decided to play along, at least for now. “So…are you from the City of Angels?”
Trevor slumped back in his chair, clearly sensing that he’d been accepted, at least tentatively. “Nope. Is anyone from here? I grew up in the world’s most boring suburb, outside of Chicago. Lived in San Jose for a while. But I like the warm beaches and the sun, and- Oh. Sorry. Is that an insensitive thing to say to a vampire?”
Spike couldn’t help but snort. “People don’t generally worry about being insensitive to vampires, mate.”
“Well, maybe they should. You have feelings, right? Don’t worry, I won’t get all hysterically PC on you or anything, but…geez. I don’t wanna offend you.”
As Trevor spoke, there was an earnest gleam in his eyes. And something else as well, perhaps.
“I’m not a nancy,” Spike announced. “I know there’s loads of rubbish out there about vampires, about how we’re all sexually insatiable and not very picky about what we shag, but it’s just rubbish. Yeah, I know vamps who are poufs, or who play for both teams, but I expect they were like that before they were turned. Maybe didn’t admit it to themselves, but they were.”
Trevor looked more amused than affronted. “I wasn’t coming on to you, don’t worry. I promise, nothing more than a little bromance.”
Spike lifted an eyebrow. “Bromance?”
“It’s when two guys- Ah, hell, it’s a stupid term. Really, I just wanted to talk, that’s all.”
Spike tried to think of the last time anyone had wanted to talk with him. Nothing came to mind. He smiled and poured himself a bit more whiskey. “All right, then. Let’s talk.”
Author: whichclothes
Chapter: 1/8
Fandom: BtVS/AtS
Characters: Spike, Angel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss
Warnings: Dub-con, angst
Summary: After the battle with Wolfram & Hart, Spike and Angel return to the Hyperion. But Spike is feeling unwanted and unappreciated until he meets a new friend...and then that friendship takes an unexpected turn.
A/N: Thank you to silk_labyrinth for the excellent beta job and for suggesting such a great title. And thank you to sentine for another awesome banner! I'll post chapter 2 Friday morning California time and the remainder of the chapters when I return to town on Monday.
Parallax
Parallax: (ˈpa-rə-laks) The apparent displacement or the difference in apparent direction of an object as seen from two different points. Middle French parallaxe, from Greek parallaxis, from parallassein to change, from para- + allassein to change, from allos other (Merriam-Webster Online).ˌ
One
It wasn’t a proper river, not really. More a muddy trickle that ran through concrete fetters. The sight of it made him long for the Thames of his youth, the reeking gray waters that moved back and forth with the tides, that snaked through his city the way his cold blood twisted through his body. Although he’d never admit it aloud, he’d rowed that river when he was at Oxford. He’d traversed its bridges numberless times, smelled it often as he walked down the Strand. And he’d never seen it himself, but he remembered his grandfather speaking of times when he was a boy, and the river had frozen completely over, and they would set up frost fairs in the middle where one could see shows and purchase trinkets. His grandfather even claimed he’d seen an elephant led across the ice under Blackfriars Bridge.
Even when it contained water, the LA River would never freeze.
“Stop gaping and move your ass!”
Spike was torn from his reverie by Angel’s angry voice. He shook himself slightly and joined the others as they slid and skittered down the steep banks. Two dozen M’raghi demons were waiting for them. Nothing much compared to the battle they’d won against Wolfram & Hart three years earlier, but still not exactly an ice cream social. And now, they had no demon god on their side. Only a handful of assorted human beings: the motley strays that seemed to be attracted to his grandsire and his stupid crusades like moths to a flame.
Spike threw himself at a M’raghi before he could admit that he was essentially one of those strays as well.
It was a long fight, and a bloody one. By the time it was over, most of the demons were dead and the rest had fled. Spike was beaten and sore and tired, but those were familiar complaints, and he knew they’d go away with a few pints of blood and a nice, long kip. None of his injuries bothered him as much as the look of impatient contempt Angel gave him as they got back in the Viper.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Spike? We have demons to kill, and you just stand there like a kid watching a parade go by. Or maybe you were chicken. Were you scared of the big, bad demons, Spike?” He threw the car into gear and gunned the gas, screeching away from the curb with unnecessary speed.
“Was just thinking,” Spike said wearily.
“Yeah, well, there’s your first mistake. Leave the thinking to those who are any good at it.”
Like you? Spike nearly sneered; but he said nothing, because they’d had this same argument-or ones nearly like it-a thousand times and he was suddenly sick of the script. So he just closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the headrest. He felt the road's every bump and jostle in the deep wounds of his chest; and in his shoulder, which had been dislocated and which he’d had to jam back into place against an overpass support pillar; and in his head, which was still bleeding sluggishly from a taloned blow. Angel would be angry later, when he saw the mess Spike had made of his upholstery.
It was a short ride through nearly empty streets back to the Hyperion. Angel and Spike didn’t speak to one another when they arrived. They slammed the car doors and went inside and then limped their separate ways: Angel to his suite on the third floor, Spike to his smaller room on the fourth.
If a person were to enter Spike’s room-although none ever did-he would assume Spike hadn’t been staying there for long. Aside from the empty whiskey bottles that were scattered about, and the overflowing ashtrays, it had little more individual character than the hotel room it had once been. Spike had scrounged up a small telly when he’d first moved in, and then he’d added a mini-fridge and microwave, so he could cool and heat his servings of blood. The chest of drawers held two pairs of black jeans identical to those he wore now and four black t-shirts. Hanging in the cupboard were a red shirt and a black one, and the six dusters that remained of the ten he’d been given after their holiday in Italy. A novel was splayed open on the bedside table: Bangkok 8. The loo contained packets of hair bleach and a tube of gel and the poncy shampoo that Spike pretended was his secret vice-acai berry and guava, which made him smell like a bloody tropical fruit salad but made his hair soft and silky as well-and a comb and a pair of scissors and two towels.
Spike had never been much interested in accumulating possessions. Too difficult to drag about with a vampire’s nomadic life. But he’d always kept a few things: some jewelry and books and a few other odds and ends. He’d stopped, though, after everything he’d owned was destroyed in Sunnydale; and then for a time he’d had no place of his own to keep things anyhow. Now, well, there was nothing much he was interested in owning.
When he got inside his room, he slammed the door shut, shrugged out of his duster and, giving it a quick inspection, was pleased to find it undamaged. He kicked off his boots, then more gingerly peeled off his jeans and shirt, which were sticking to his mending wounds. He grabbed a plastic container of blood from the fridge and didn’t bother to heat it before he guzzled it down. Pig’s blood. Tasted like shite no matter what you did with it.
The water from the shower hurt a bit as it hit his injuries, but the heat of it was brilliant and it felt lovely to get the caked filth off. He stayed under the spray a long time. Eventually he emerged into the steamy little room and toweled off. It was a nice towel, thick and soft. Angel bought all the linens, and the pouf always did have good taste in things like that.
When he was dry, Spike dropped the towel on the floor and combed his hair. After all these years, he still stood in front of the mirror to do so, even though he knew he’d see only the white wall behind him. Then he went back into the main room and pulled on fresh clothing. After standing uncertainly for a moment, he yanked the door open and headed slowly downstairs. He still hurt.
He could hear them long before he saw them. As usual, the crew had gathered in a room off the lobby that Spike reckoned had once been a dining room. Over time, the humans had dragged in odd bits of mismatched furniture. Christ knew where it all came from, but it was comfortable: several sofas and some armchairs; two big, scarred tables on which were usually stacked maps and books and pads of paper; a desk with a computer and printer on it. There was a telly in one corner as well, much bigger than his own and with a DVD player hooked up. The room smelled of coffee and soft drinks and salty snack foods.
They were all here. Angel in one of the chairs, a glass of blood in his hand. Derek and Jamie stuffed together in another chair, bodies entwined, making googly eyes at one another as always. Yuri at the computer, furiously typing away. And the others-Blake and Lilia and that new one, what was his name...Rudy-sprawled across the sofas. Nobody looked at Spike as he entered the room, and although he’d have preferred to sit and rest his abused body, he leaned up against the wall just next to the doorway.
They were discussing that night’s fight, all talking over one another, laughing and teasing and joking. “Did you see that big one?” Lilia asked.
“They were all big, dude,” Jamie responded.
“No, I mean the really big one, the one with the sorta twisty horn and the Harley shirt?”
Jamie laughed. “Oh, yeah. That big one.”
Lilia nodded. “So he made this lunge for me, and I thought that was it, you know? But his foot slipped and he fell-Boom!-and then I was right on top of that sucker. Got him right in the eyes.” She made a stabbing motion with her fist.
“Well, obviously those freaks need footwear with better traction,” Jamie said.
“Maybe I should get myself in business. Demon Boots Inc.”
Someone started singing that Nancy Sinatra song, and even Angel smiled and joined the others in humming along.
When things had quieted a bit, Rudy asked, “So is that the end of that problem?” He’d only been with them a few weeks. He was in his late 20s and he’d been a cop, until he saw his partner get eaten by something supernatural and then Rudy had gone a bit mental for a while. He’d quit the LAPD and eventually somehow found his way to their door, insisting he wanted to help. He was a good shot, which was helpful, and kept his head in emergencies. He also had EMT training, which came in handy.
Angel shook his head. “No. There are plenty more of them. And the next batch will be more careful, too. They’re not rocket scientists, but they’re smart enough to learn from their mistakes. Which is more than I can say for some.” And he shot Spike a look that made the others chuckle.
Spike scowled and wrapped his arms around himself. He wished he had a fag on him, but they were upstairs in his duster pocket.
“So what do we do next?” Rudy asked.
Angel started in on a long and boring explanation; Spike stopped listening about five words in. Instead he watched the way Blake hung on the big vampire’s every utterance and the way Angel’s gaze kept finding its way to Lilia. She was his type exactly: small and blonde and bossy. The pouf had strayed to the other side of the fence now and then over the centuries, but with Lilia about, poor, handsome, slightly dim Blake didn’t stand a chance.
Spike settled himself slightly more comfortably against the wall, and winced when he jostled his shoulder.
“Am I boring you, Spike?”
“I’ve heard it all before, Peaches. ‘Let’s fly to the rescue, blah-de-blah, fate of the world hangs in the balance, yadda yadda, don’t have a bloody clue about how to organize anything so I’ll just keep on talking out my arse.’”
Angel didn’t frown. It would have been better if he had. “And I suppose you have one of your usual genius plans?” he said, teeth bared in a smile.
Spike shrugged. “We find ‘em, we kill ‘em. That’s a good enough scheme.”
“Yeah?” Still smiling. “And I suppose you know where they’re hiding. And how to get to them before they do more damage to the city water supply. And then how to wipe them out without getting us wiped out first.”
Spike opened his mouth to reply, but Angel jumped in first. “Look at us, Spike! One night’s skirmish, shoulda been easy. But Lilia’s got a badly sprained ankle and Derek almost ended up with a concussion, and you just stood there stargazing!”
“I fought too! I got….” He snarled into silence. Wouldn’t do any good to pull up his shirt; the wounds had already closed on his skin, although he could still feel the ache deep inside.
Angel just rolled his eyes and angled his body back toward Lilia and the others. “So what I was thinking,” he began, but Spike didn’t stay to listen.
***
Despite the name, Vesuvius was a fairly quiet bar and, as far as demon bars went, relatively classy. It had once been a strip club and the stage still remained, but now was used only on Tuesdays for karaoke night. Mercifully, today was Thursday.
Spike’s usual table in the back of the room was free. He waved a bit at the waitress, a pretty Bhanrse half-breed. Her long pink tail was sticking out from beneath her skirt as always and, as always, he found himself wondering what that tail would feel like during a nice shag. But he’d never know-Sallee had an eye only for other girls.
“Hey, Spike,” she said when she made her way over. “Usual?”
“Just bring the bottle tonight, love.”
She frowned a bit, then nodded. He always tipped well.
As she went to fetch his drink, he looked about the place. It was close to half full, mostly the usual crowd. Some demons, some half-breeds, a few humans who were curious or had a kink for scales or fur. The two vamps sitting at the bar gave him a nervous look, but he knew them and they’d been noshing only on the willing as far as he knew. He certainly wasn’t in the mood to dust anyone. Part of the reason why Vesuvius was quiet was that he came often, and the nastiest of the locals knew to stay away-for which Dot was grateful. Spike could have drunk here for free, but Angel gave him a sodding allowance and Spike had very little he cared to spend it on. It wasn’t as if he was going to put it into a retirement account.
Sallee returned with a glass and a three-quarters-full bottle of Jack. “Anything else? Dot has some O-Neg, I think.”
Spike occasionally drank human when he came here. It was hospital rejects, or so Dot said. But he wasn’t really hungry now and just wanted the fire of booze in his belly. “No thanks, love.” He pulled a fifty from his pocket and handed it to her. “This do it for now?”
“Sure. Just holler if you get dry.” She took the bill and made her way to a nearby table of Brachen.
The level of amber liquid in the bottle gradually decreased, but Spike’s level of unhappiness stayed the same. The worst of it, really, was that he was angry with himself. He’d known what a tosser his grandsire was since the nineteenth century-known nearly since the night Spike had risen. Shoving the bloody soul into Angelus had made him slightly less sadistic and malicious, but that was more than made up for by the marked increase in brooding and self-righteousness. Spike had never expected Angelus to acknowledge Spike’s strengths in the old days, not even when Spike had killed his first Slayer. And later, he’d never bothered to hope that one day Angel would congratulate him on having fought for his soul-not a bloody curse, but a hard-won prize-and on helping save the world soon after. Certainly there had been that bit when he was barmy, but at least he hadn’t spent a hundred years feeding off vermin and feeling sorry for himself. Now he knew he’d never hear Angel thank him for being the first to stand at his side when Angel declared his suicidal scheme at Wolfram & Hart, for getting torn nearly to bits in that battle and then coming back for more, and then more.
So why had he stayed?
Perhaps he was a masochist.
Or perhaps he was afraid. Because where else did he have to go? Angel barely tolerated him, but at least he knew Spike.
For a brief time after they’d defeated the lawyers, Spike considered finding Buffy. But deep inside, he’d known that would never work. He’d known from the moment his soul was stuffed inside him. And wasn’t that an irony? He won his soul so he could be the man she deserved, yet the soul made him realize he could never be that man.
Never be any kind of man at all.
He could have gone off on his own, of course. He was hardly a bleeding fledge; he’d manage somehow. But he’d always been shite at being alone. And there was that voice deep inside, the really nasty one, and it whispered to him that nobody would ever want him, nobody could ever want him, and the best he could hope for was Angel’s contempt.
“Mind if I join you? Or is this a solo mope?”
Spike wanted to growl at the bloke. But the truth was, he didn’t really mind having that depressing train of thought derailed, and the man was grinning at him sort of goofily and it was hard to take offense.
Spike thought for a moment, then gestured at the empty chair across from him. “Hope you have your own drink, mate, ‘cause I’m not sharing.”
The man’s smile never faltered. He plopped himself down into the seat a little clumsily and lifted the brown bottle he held in his hand. “Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Nectar of the gods, my friend.” He took a long swig.
Spike took some time to examine his new companion. He looked human, but he had an odd scent to him, something Spike couldn’t quite place. He looked to be in his early thirties, a bit above average height, and quite fit. He had slightly messy dark hair and clear, greenish eyes and a bit of stubble on his square chin. He was attractive but not overly so, amidst the glut of actor-wannabes and ubiquitous plastic surgery. He looked…pleasant. Hardly the type to be in a demon bar, even an upscale one. His clothes were as unoffensive and unremarkable as the rest of him-khaki trousers, white collarless shirt, brown sport coat.
He withstood Spike’s scrutiny with patience and good grace. When Spike finally leaned back a bit in his chair and had another burning swallow of Jack, the man smiled widely. “Name’s Trevor Batt,” he said.
“Spike,” was the curt reply.
“Yeah, I know. I mean, everybody does. You’re kind of famous.”
Spike narrowed his eyes. “If you’re here because something’s haunting you or you’ve an apocalypse needs averting, you’re wasting your time. Go take it up with Angel.”
Trevor laughed. “No hauntings and not a single impending apocalypse. At least that I know of. Look, I’m not all that fond of drinking alone, and I saw you and thought to myself, “Man, I bet he’s interesting to talk to.’ That’s all.”
Spike relaxed a bit. “’M not interesting,” he mumbled.
“Oh, I doubt that! I’ve heard some stories about you, and if they’re even half true, well, I’m impressed.”
“You know what I am?”
Trevor’s smile didn’t dim. “Vampire.”
“You make a habit of chatting up vampires?”
“If I did, I sure wouldn’t last long! Nope, you’re my first vamp.”
“And what are you?”
Trevor shrugged. “Just a guy. Made a few bucks in the dot-com game a few years back and managed not to lose it. Now I’m kind of retired, but I dabble in this and that.”
“You dabble. In demon bars.”
Trevor had very white, even teeth. “It’s kind of a hobby. Some guys golf or play fantasy football.”
The man was a puzzle. But a puzzle was good right now, a diversion from Spike’s usual gloomy thoughts. Spike decided to play along, at least for now. “So…are you from the City of Angels?”
Trevor slumped back in his chair, clearly sensing that he’d been accepted, at least tentatively. “Nope. Is anyone from here? I grew up in the world’s most boring suburb, outside of Chicago. Lived in San Jose for a while. But I like the warm beaches and the sun, and- Oh. Sorry. Is that an insensitive thing to say to a vampire?”
Spike couldn’t help but snort. “People don’t generally worry about being insensitive to vampires, mate.”
“Well, maybe they should. You have feelings, right? Don’t worry, I won’t get all hysterically PC on you or anything, but…geez. I don’t wanna offend you.”
As Trevor spoke, there was an earnest gleam in his eyes. And something else as well, perhaps.
“I’m not a nancy,” Spike announced. “I know there’s loads of rubbish out there about vampires, about how we’re all sexually insatiable and not very picky about what we shag, but it’s just rubbish. Yeah, I know vamps who are poufs, or who play for both teams, but I expect they were like that before they were turned. Maybe didn’t admit it to themselves, but they were.”
Trevor looked more amused than affronted. “I wasn’t coming on to you, don’t worry. I promise, nothing more than a little bromance.”
Spike lifted an eyebrow. “Bromance?”
“It’s when two guys- Ah, hell, it’s a stupid term. Really, I just wanted to talk, that’s all.”
Spike tried to think of the last time anyone had wanted to talk with him. Nothing came to mind. He smiled and poured himself a bit more whiskey. “All right, then. Let’s talk.”