Parallax (2/8)

[whichclothes]

Title: Parallax
Author: whichclothes
Chapter: 2/8
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 the remainder of the chapters when I return to town on Monday. Written for plot_wout_porn .

Previous chapters here.




Two

Spike didn’t see Angel for a few days. Didn’t see anyone, actually, other than an occasional quick encounter on the stairs or passing through the lobby. He could have joined them in their makeshift lounge in the evenings. They wouldn’t have kicked him out. But they wouldn’t have welcomed him either, and he was tired of being tolerated. It reminded him of his mother’s spinster Aunt Flora, a shriveled woman who’d always looked to young William like a fairy-tale witch, and who had the disposition of an irritated wolverine. Still, she’d been invited to Christmas dinners and other family events out of feelings of social obligation, and everyone had argued ahead of time over who had to sit near her during the meal. Afterward, she’d be steered to a straight-backed chair in a corner and as studiously ignored as decorum permitted. Spike had always wondered why she bothered to attend at all. Now he knew: she had nowhere else to go, and even her reluctant relatives were sometimes better than nobody at all.

Spike didn’t want to be Aunt Flora.

So he kept mainly to his room during the day, watching the telly, and after dark he went to Vesuvius or if he was in the mood for something rougher, The Spit.

But on Wednesday afternoon, there was nothing on television he could stand to watch and he’d finished his book and it was still several hours before he could venture outside. So he made his way down to Angel’s office, which he was relieved to find empty of its usual occupant.

The office had several packed bookshelves. Most of the books concerned mystical shite-Angel had taken them from Wolfram & Hart as well as from poor Wesley’s flat. But a few shelves held literature instead, and it was those that Spike perused. Unfortunately, all the books were to his grandsire’s taste-Sartre and Dostoevsky and Tolstoy and Goethe and Proust and bloody Joyce-everything boring, depressing, or pretentious the old pillock could dig up, and all in the original languages, of course. But then Spike caught sight of a well-worn copy of Juliette, almost hidden between L'Étranger and Die Leiden des jungen Werthers. “Perverted old sod,” Spike cackled, and removed the book.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Spike spun about-probably much more guiltily than necessary-to see Angel standing in the doorway. Glowering, of course. “Just borrowing a book,” Spike said.

“You’re messing with my stuff.”

“I haven’t touched any of your ‘stuff’ except this one book.”

Angel flinched a bit when he saw what it was. “That’s a first edition.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Liam! I’m capable of reading a bloody book without destroying it.”

“I’d trust it to a two-year-old eating spaghetti first. Or…or Xander Harris!”

“Right.” Spike opened to the middle of the book, grasped the front half with one hand and the back with the other, and very slowly and deliberately ripped down the spine.

“Hey!” Angel rushed over and snatched the pieces of book out of Spike’s grip. He cradled the halves to his chest for a moment, then growled, dropped them, and punched Spike's face hard enough to make his nose crack and to send him crashing back into the shelf behind him.

Spike stood up straight again and wiped the trickle of blood from under his nose with the back of his hand. They knew this dance. They’d danced it hundreds of times before. They would begin with harsh words and quickly evolve into hard fists and sharp fangs. They’d end up throwing each other about the room and rolling on the floor together until they were both too battered to go on.

Today, Spike didn’t want to play.

He stalked toward Angel, who took a half-step back and then gaped when Spike just went around him. Angel was still staring stupidly when Spike left the office.

***

He was restless. An entire bloody hotel to wander about in, but he couldn’t find a comfortable spot. He was sick to undeath of staring at the walls in his own room, and everywhere else he went, it seemed, there was one of Angel’s gang, startling slightly at his appearance and then, clearly, waiting anxiously for him to leave. He didn’t understand how such a small number of people could be so many places.

He was finally driven to wandering the top floor, which was risky because it was still mostly in ruin, and there were no coverings over the windows. He moved from shadow to shadow, sometimes yelping quietly and smoking as a ray of California sunshine caught up with him. Sometimes he stopped to examine the bits of debris that were scattered about. Squatters had stayed here at some point, leaving their used needles and empty plastic bags on the floors. Pigeons had come in through a broken window and roosted on broken furniture, but not recently. Perhaps they didn’t fancy sharing an address with vampires. And there were other items up here as well, small things for which he had no explanation. A broken doll that reminded him of Drusilla. A waterlogged set of Encyclopedia Britannica, volumes Ch- through Fr- only. A hand mirror in an ornate enameled frame; the glass was cracked but still all there. An axe with old human blood flaking off the blade. A pair of men’s dress shoes, black and very dusty. A decorative pin of the sort a woman might have once worn on her dress; it was in the shape of a bee, and it was made of heavy gold with diamonds along its back and rubies as eyes. He slipped the bee into a pocket of his duster; it was old and exquisitely made and probably worth a small fortune.

He watched the sunset. It was lurid, as sunsets often were in LA. The smog made for pretty colors, fiery oranges and delicate pinks and even blood reds.

When the sky was dark, he made his way down the stairs to the lobby. Angel was there, talking to Yuri and Lilia about something that had Yuri nearly shouting with excitement: “-tell you, I feel energies and they are not good!” Yuri was fully human but, through some chain of events that was too confusing for Spike to bother untangling, had been raised by a clan of Pobornik demons in Belarus. They’d taught him some basic magics, sent him to the States for university, and then got themselves wiped out somehow or other. Yuri hoped to avenge them someday, but in the meantime he seemed content as one of Angel’s minions.

Angel barely afforded Spike a hostile glance as Spike walked by.

Spike had a car of his own, a piece of shit ’64 Plymouth Valiant that could be a powerful little monster if someone could be arsed enough to scrape away the rust and get the V8 running properly. Angel had given him the car two years earlier when he grew tired of Spike nicking the Viper. Spike still nicked the Viper now and then, but tonight he drove the Plymouth to Vesuvius.

The place was busier than last time, and someone-well, something, a demon Spike didn’t know the name of but which reminded him of an octopus with feathers-was in his seat. Spike scowled and it scurried away, its many legs moving in a way that made Spike slightly nauseous. Sallee took one look at Spike’s sour face and brought him a bottle of Jack and a glass without even being asked. He muttered a thanks, and started viciously mutilating the black and white label.

“Gone from moping to simmering, I see.”

Spike looked up with a half-formed snarl. But Trevor was smiling at him disarmingly and Spike let his face settle back into a frown. He waved a hand at the empty chair. “Still dabbling?” he asked.

“Yeah. I like this place. When someone makes a pass at me, I can try to guess the gender and species, and also judge the likelihood I’ll end up as dinner rather than a date.”

Spike cast a dismissive look about the room. “Mostly vegetarians here. You fancy a walk on the wild side, go to The Spit instead. Or Tom O’Hawk’s.” He grimaced. That place was distasteful even by his standards.

“I think I’ll confine my dabbling to safer grounds, thanks.” Trevor had a bottle of pale ale again, and he took a long pull. “So, uh, most of these guys here are terrified of you, aren’t they?”

Spike shrugged. “Dunno. More likely of my grandsire.”

“Really? That’s not what I heard.” He leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. “I heard that some folks think Angel is kind of, uh, getting a little soft. No offense or anything. But you’re supposed to be the real muscle.”

Was Angel getting soft? That thing with the lawyers had taken a lot out of both of them. Spike had recently been thinking that Angel was nearly back to his old, cape-swinging self. But perhaps not; perhaps Spike was missing something. All he said to Trevor, though, was, “Huh.”

Trevor sat back in his chair and smiled again. “Anyway, I know for a fact that plenty of these demons would shit themselves if you looked at ‘em cross-eyed.”

Spike shrugged again and downed a glass of whiskey.

They drank in silence for a time, but it was companionable silence. Sallee brought Trevor another beer when he emptied his first.

“So, um, if you don’t mind my asking, how come you stick with Angel? Is it some kind of vampire family thing?”

Spike snorted. “No. It’s just…he has a bloody huge hotel, and it doesn’t cost me anything to stay there, and he has plenty of blood to drink….”

“You’re a pretty capable guy. You couldn’t get room and board on your own? I doubt that.”

“Guess I can't be bothered.” And because Trevor's question made him uncomfortable-it was one he couldn't honestly answer-Spike changed the subject. “How’d you suss out about demons and whatnot, anyhow? Most humans walk about with their heads too far up their arses to notice.”

Trevor laughed. He had a nice laugh, deep and rich. “Yeah, know what you mean. And it took me plenty of years, too. But I was heavily involved in several online companies and one of them sold herbal stuff. Herbs4Health.com. You know, stuff for people who go in for holistic medicine, or who like to make their own teas, or who like to do craft shit. Potpourri, like that. But I noticed some of the orders were kind of…unusual. To make a long story short, that led me to the world of witchcraft. And once I learned that magic was real, well….”

“Demons were just the next door down.”

“Exactly. I can’t believe how blind I was for so long-how blind everyone is. I mean, look at this place!” He waved his hands about, nearly spilling his beer. “It’s right under everyone’s noses.”

“People see what they expect to see.”

“Amen.”

They talked for an hour or two after that, about nothing in particular really. Trevor asked Spike a few gentle questions about his past, but nothing too intrusive, and Trevor spoke a bit of his days at university and about his failed marriage. It was simply an ordinary conversation, but Spike had those so very rarely; and the longer they spoke the more he relaxed, until all his frustration and anger had ebbed away and he discovered himself smiling and laughing. Happy.

Finally, Trevor looked at his watch and sighed with what seemed to be genuine regret. “I gotta call it a night. I have an appointment in the morning. Sorry.”

Spike hid his disappointment with a grin. “Not everyone can keep vampire hours.”

Trevor took a last swallow of beer and stood. “Nope, guess not.” He hesitated a moment, and then added, “Um, I don’t know what your schedule’s like, but maybe we could get together again sometime soon?”

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “A date?”

The other man chuckled. “Platonic. We could meet here, or- I know! There’s this band playing on Saturday at Darlings. Abrupt Edge, they’re called. They’re pretty good. Kind of old-school punk with a little 90s grunge thrown in.” He had a tense, expectant look on his face, as if he really wanted Spike to take him up on his offer, and as if he thought Spike might.

Spike considered it for a moment. He hadn’t been much of anywhere in ages. And when was the last time he’d been invited anywhere? “All right,” he said.

Trevor beamed. “Excellent! I’ll, uh, we can meet at the club, maybe? It’s over on-”

“I can find it, mate.”

“Cool. Nine o’clock?”

Spike nodded and smiled. “It’s a date.”

***

Spike took an immediate dislike to Darlings as soon as he saw it. It was in an industrial part of town, and they’d deliberately kept the entrance worn and battered looking. He didn’t mind that. What bothered him was the queue of humans outside the door: people in their twenties, mostly, with fauxhawks and tattoos and piercings and designer copies of 70s punk fashions. And the bouncer, who was huge, dressed in a poncy suit, with that particular air of officiousness and menace only bouncers could manage. And the red velvet rope that was keeping the queue in check, and the little sparkly lights he could make out just inside the door.

He marched his way to the bouncer and waited to be let in. The bouncer looked him up and down with a bit of a sneer. “End of the line’s back there, buddy,” the mountain rumbled, pointing down the block.

“Not going to stand in a bloody queue, am I?” Spike countered.

“Then you ain’t going in. And nice fake accent, by the way.”

Spike bristled. He wanted to show his demon face, to pick this sodding idiot up with one fist and throw him across the pavement. But that would create a scene, and Angel would hear about it and pitch a fit-he heard about every bloody thing-and it just wasn’t worth it. So Spike growled and hunched his shoulders and spun around, meaning to march back to his car.

But just then a sleek limo pulled up to the curb, and Trevor Batt hopped out. His physique was nicely displayed in a pair of tight jeans and an even tighter white t-shirt, very expensive clothing meant to look down-market. Trevor loped over to Spike’s side, grinning widely. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught up in some boring crap.”

Spike opened his mouth to say he was going home, but Trevor slung an arm about Spike’s shoulders and swept him toward the bouncer. The bouncer had already stepped aside and lifted the rope, and was attempting something that resembled a smile. “Welcome, sir,” he said to Trevor.

Trevor handed the man a pair of bills-Spike got just a flash of Ben Franklin’s homely face-and led Spike inside. “You don’t have to-” Spike began.

“Oh, my treat. I asked you, after all. Next time’s on you.”

The cavernous interior was done up in industrial chic, all exposed ceiling beams and bare concrete with artfully applied graffiti. Busy bartenders-lit by hanging bulbs in wire cages-worked an extensive steel bar along one wall. Small tables were packed fairly tightly, but an open space had been left near the stage. The place smelled of sweat and alcohol, and the loudspeakers were blaring “Friday I’m in Love.”

Trevor leaned his head in close to Spike’s ear, presumably so Spike could hear him above the din, and said, “Don’t worry. The music’ll get better.”

Spike snorted, and Trevor led them to a table that seemed to magically become available right near the edge of the dance floor. As soon as they were seated, a pale, shirtless bloke appeared, jeans barely hanging on his hips. A vampire, Spike realized straight away, and the vamp recognized him as well because his eyes went very wide. “Uh, what can I get you?” the waiter said, trying to regain his composure.

“Sierra Mist Pale Ale,” Trevor said.

“We don’t have that.” The vamp had a flat, Midwestern accent. He was barely more than a fledge, Spike reckoned.

Trevor smiled. “Why don’t you double-check? Never know what you’ll find if you really look. How about you, Spike?”

“Double shot of Jack, neat.”

The waiter bobbed his head nervously and scurried away. “Didn’t know this was a demon place,” Spike said when he was gone.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Our fearless server. He’s a vamp.”

Trevor craned his neck to look after the vamp’s retreating back. “Really? How can you tell? I mean, without the fangs and stuff showing.”

Spike tapped his own ear. “No heartbeat.” And then his nose. “Scent’s different as well. Like a human’s, but...muskier.”

“Wow. Vampire senses must be really cool.” Spike’s companion looked genuinely impressed.

“Yeah, I reckon so. They come in handy. ‘Course, there are times I’d trade them for the chance to lie out in the sun.”

“I guess there are some downsides. The not entering without an invitation thing, that could be a bitch sometimes, I bet. And having to obey your sire.”

Spike had been looking at a pretty brunette wearing what amounted to a leather bikini, but now he swung around to face Trevor. “Obey my sire?”

“Well, yeah. I thought there was the whole vampire hierarchy, and a childe has to obey his sire.”

“First off, I am not a childe, with or without the final e. ‘M a century-and-a-half old, mate. And second, I told you, all that sire shite is just rot. Stoker’s daddy issues coming through or, even worse, Anne Rice’s fantasies. I don’t have to obey anyone, least of all Angel.”

Trevor looked abashed. “Oh. Sorry. But then why does he get to be in charge of you? He’s kind of...close-minded, isn’t he? From what I hear, I mean. Never met the guy. But I think it would make more sense for someone like you to run things. You’re a natural leader.”

Spike wasn’t certain whether the bloke was taking the piss. In any case, before he could respond their undead waiter appeared. He plopped a glass of whiskey in front of Spike and a brown bottle in front of Trevor.

“See?” Trevor beamed. “I knew you’d find some if you looked. Just gotta make the effort.”

The waiter looked confused, but perked up a bit when he saw the size of the tip Trevor gave him. Then his eye fell on Spike again, and he remembered to be frightened. “Um, you’re not...um...him, are you?”

“And which him would that be, pet?” Spike purred.

The waiter licked his lips nervously. “Uh....” And then, in a near-whisper, “William the Bloody. One of the vampires with a soul.”

Spike smiled sweetly. “I generally go by Spike, these days.”

The waiter swallowed. He’d probably have gone pale, if he were capable. “God, please. I swear, I’m not eating anyone, okay? Well, sometimes I bite my boyfriend, but he likes it. I promise I’m not killing or anything. Just trying to make, an, uh, honest living.” He flapped his hand about to indicate the club in general.

Spike reckoned he was probably telling the truth. In any case, Spike wasn’t in a particularly righteous mood. “Tell you what, love,” he said. “As long as I don’t hear of any patrons of this fine establishment showing up dead by barbecue fork, we’re good. But if I do hear of it....” He allowed himself to trail off ominously.

The waiter shook his head so enthusiastically Spike was afraid it might fall off. “You won’t! I promise! Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Spike! If there’s anything I can do for you-I can get you free admission here anytime, or-”

Spike waved him into silence. “That’s fine, pup. Right now, you can get me a refill, yeah?” Because he’d drained his glass while the boy was babbling.

As eager as the puppy Spike had alluded to, the waiter grabbed Spike’s empty glass and ran off. Trevor gave his rich laugh as soon as he was gone. “You have quite a way with people, don’t you?”

“He’s not people. He’s a demon.”

“Well, demons are people, too, right?” Trevor grinned and tipped his beer toward Spike in a mock toast.

They were both distracted by a commotion from the stage as the band arrived and began to get settled. They were pretty minimalist, just two blokes with guitars and one on drums. At least they weren’t dressed in the ersatz retro of most of the club’s customers-the band members simply wore well-broken-in blue jeans and t-shirts. A bit of fiddling with amplifiers and mics, and then they began to play.

Spike liked them. They weren’t spectacular by any means, but they were far from awful. The singer had a decent voice. They did some predictable covers but they did a passable job with them-he especially fancied their version of “Rudie Can’t Fail”-and their original tunes were quite good. Four songs in, a goth bint with dyed-black hair and a skull tattoo on her bicep stopped at the table and tried to tug Spike onto the dance floor. Trevor waved him on, so Spike shrugged off his duster and allowed himself to be towed.

Honestly, Spike had never been much of a dancer. When he was human, he didn’t seem to have the grace for it. He’d trod on his partner’s feet during a waltz, or blushed and sweated his way through a quadrille. Of course being turned gave him the coordination and confidence he’d previously lacked, but he still didn’t enjoy it much. Unless it was a slow dance, of course, the sort in which dancing was nearly clothed sex.

But the dancing that was happening here was fast and mostly formless, and he soon found himself lost in the joy of movement, a thrill very akin to what he felt when fighting or fucking. After a song or two, the goth girl was replaced by a willowy blonde, and then by a bird with close-cropped hair and milk-chocolate skin, and then a wiry boy whose fringe kept flopping in his eyes. Sometimes he caught sight of Trevor, who mostly sat and watched from his chair. But once Spike glanced over and saw Trevor writhing in between a girl and a boy who looked enough alike to be siblings, and a ridiculous stab of jealousy went momentarily through Spike’s chest. He ignored it away.

When the band took a break, Spike flopped into his seat and downed the fresh drink that had materialized at some point. “Having fun?” Trevor asked.

“Bloody brilliant!” And it was, because while he was dancing-or even when he just sat and listened to the music-he wasn’t thinking, and that was a good thing.

They drank some more and, when the band came back, danced some more, until the band finally packed up and left, and the club began to clear out. Trevor looked over at Spike. “I know you don’t need to eat or anything, but I know this all-night diner....”

They went in Trevor’s limo. Spike had ridden in limos only occasionally. This one wasn’t huge, but it was nicely equipped and he had a good time playing with the buttons and switches. “It’s kind of embarrassing, really,” Trevor said, waving his hands around. “But driving in this city can be such a bitch, and I can get a lot of work done in this thing and stretch out a little while I do.”

“’T’s nice,” Spike shrugged. “You must have made loads off the Internet.”

“I was lucky. Got in early, made a few good investments, got out again before things went south. But that’s a really boring thing to talk about, even for me. How about you finish that story about the Nazi submarine?”

Spike barely made it back to the Hyperion before dawn. He was knackered, but in a pleasant way, and his throat felt hoarse from all the nattering.

Angel was hovering just inside the doors to the lobby. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, stepping into Spike’s path.

Spike went around him. “Out.”

“We have responsibilities, you know.”

Spike stopped and turned and gave Angel an even look. “You have responsibilities. Self-imposed. Don’t mind helping out now and then, but you’re not my keeper.”

Angel huffed and looked very close to stomping his foot. “There was almost a riot tonight with some Curgrov demons and-”

“Did the world end?”

“What?”

“Did the world end? I spent one bloody night away from under your great thumb, enjoying myself for a change, and did the world end? Because it doesn’t bloody look like it.”

“Lilia got a horn in her arm.”

“Well, I’m certain you were there to kiss it all better, Peaches. Good night.” And he spun on his heel and stomped up the stairs.

***

Trevor had said he’d be gone for a week or so. Some business matters to sort. Spike was ashamed of himself for being a bit upset about it, mooning about the hotel like a lovesick teenager. He wasn’t in love with Trevor. He didn’t even want to shag the bloke-and he still wasn’t certain whether Trevor fancied men anyhow. But they were friends, and Spike hadn’t had a friend in...well, much longer than he cared to remember. It felt bloody nice, being with someone who wanted to be with him, who was interested in his stories, who seemed to appreciate him.

Three days after Trevor had gone, Spike stayed lazily in bed until past sundown, watching an old Bogart film on the telly. When he finally made his way to the lobby, it was very quiet. He wandered into the lounge but only Yuri was there, tapping away at the computer.

“Where’s himself?” Spike asked.

Yuri didn’t even look away from the monitor screen. “London.”

Spike felt his mouth drop open. “He’s gone to bloody England?”

“Canada. London, Ontario. He rented van. I stay here. No passport.”

“Why in bloody hell has he gone to Canada?”

“M’raghi. Our demons have friends there, causing trouble.” Yuri’s fingers flew over his keyboard. Spike couldn’t tell if he was working or playing a game of some sort.

“When did they leave?”

“Sunset.”

That was nearly two hours past. Spike clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Why didn’t anyone come get me? I was just upstairs.”

“Rudy suggested it. Angel said no. I do not know why.”

“Right,” Spike said, more to himself than Yuri, and he stomped out of the room. If Angel had taken a van, then Spike could certainly catch up to him in the Viper. He started to the front door but then came to a halt halfway across the lobby. Why should he go chasing after them like a lost calf? If Angel didn’t want him, fine. Let them get beat up for a change. Spike had better things to do.

And he stormed out of the hotel, hoping he could find one of those better things.