Parallax (3/8)
Title: Parallax
Author: whichclothes
Chapter: 3/8
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! This fic is complete and I'll post 2 chapters daily.
Previous chapters here.
Three
Angel and the rest of his crew still hadn’t returned several days later. Spike asked Yuri about it, as casually as he could because Yuri didn’t seem worried. “Jamie texted,” Yuri said. “They are fine. Still cleaning up demon mess.”
Spike nodded stiffly and went back up to his room. Of course Angel wouldn’t bother to ring and let Spike know he hadn’t been dusted. Why would he? It wasn’t like they were answerable to one another. Spike swore and punched a hole in his wall.
Later that evening, he went to Vesuvius. Shortly after he arrived so did Trevor, who made his way over to Spike’s table with his usual wide grin. “Hey, man. How’s it going?”
Spike shrugged. “’S all right.”
Then Trevor’s eyes went wide. “Did you get in a fight?” He was looking at Spike’s hand. The knuckles were still bloody, although the small abrasions had already mended underneath.
“Not really. Just...punched something,” Spike replied vaguely.
“I’d love to watch you fight someday. I’ll bet it’s a thing of beauty.”
Spike tilted his head for a moment. “Really?”
“Sure!”
“And you’d stay out of the way?”
“Hey, I’m curious, not suicidal.”
Spike stood. “Then let’s go.”
They took Spike’s car, mostly because Spike reckoned that parking Trevor’s BMW in The Spit’s neighborhood was a bad idea. Trevor exclaimed over the Valiant, though. “I love old cars,” he said, stroking the cracked plastic of the dashboard. “So much more character than the modern ones. If you’re willing to sink some cash into this one, it’d be really sweet.”
Spike looked at him dubiously. “Or it’d be a really expensive piece of shite.”
“No, I’m serious. Look, I’ve got a guy. Alejandro. I used to own a ’57 Thunderbird. It was nothing but a heap of rust in someone’s barn when I bought it-you’d hardly even know it used to be a car. But ‘Jandro did the mechanical work and his brother Diego did the body, and that thing was a work of art when they were through with it. Remind me later, I’ll give you his number.”
The Spit was a cesspool, no question about it. The security...thing...at the door was some sort of demon that made a Chorago look svelte. Spike wasn’t certain whether it was capable of speech; it generally grunted at him when he arrived. This time, its grunt seemed a bit more emphatic, and aimed at the human trailing along with Spike. “He’s with me,” Spike said. The demon made a movement that may have been a shrug, or perhaps a small earthquake, and shifted slightly so they could enter.
The place was dark and noisy, with dozens of demonic voices raised in various languages, and Lynyrd Skynyrd blaring from speakers somewhere, and a telly above the bar blasting what appeared to be American Idol. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the individual scents of numerous species, many of which did not place a strong value on personal hygiene. The wooden floor was sticky with Christ knew what.
Everyone in the bar seemed to pause and stare for a moment when Spike and Trevor entered. Perhaps because some knew Spike, by reputation if nothing else, or perhaps because Trevor was the only human in the place aside from a nearly-naked man with a collar around his neck, leaning up against the leg of a female Serparvo. Spike considered making a scene about that-the soul objected to slavery-but the bloke’s dick was obviously hard and he was looking adoringly up at his owner, apparently content with his station.
Spike lifted a lip in warning, and most of the patrons turned back to their drinks and companions. Spike led them to a table against one wall. He noticed that Trevor looked neither frightened nor overwhelmed, just interested, as if he were strolling through a museum. Or a zoo.
They sat, and a glowering Braznarc brought them a pair of shot glasses. He poured them full of whiskey, splashing a bit on the scarred wooden table, waited for Spike to hand over some cash, then slouched away. Trevor looked at his drink unhappily. “Wouldn’t bother asking for Sierra Nevada here, mate,” Spike said. “They won’t have it.”
“Oh, you never know,” Trevor replied, but he sipped at his drink anyhow. Then he set the glass down. “So, your thing you punched...was that some kind of nasty you and Angel were after?”
“Nah. Angel’s out of town.”
“Really? Vampire vacation? Where do vamps go on vacation, anyway?”
“The pouf would likely choose some catacombs somewhere. But he’s not on holiday. He’s after some Canuck demons.”
“Yeah?” Trevor’s eyebrows went up. “How come you didn’t go?”
“Wasn’t invited.” It came out sounding more bitter than Spike had intended.
“Why not? I mean, he’s gotta realize you’re his best asset in a fight.”
“Pillock can’t realize anything past his fat arse.”
“Well, that’s just stupid, then.”
Spike nodded once and threw back his drink.
Trevor put his finger in a small puddle and moved the liquid about. “I don’t know why you stick around someone who obviously doesn’t appreciate you. You tell me there’s no vampire family obligation, okay, but I just don’t get it.”
Spike wondered the same thing most of the time, but he didn’t say so. He waved his glass in the air for a refill.
“Why don’t you dump him, Spike? Seriously. Take off on your own. Or...or stage a coup, right? You lead his band of merry men. And women.”
Spike shook his head. “’T’s complicated.”
“Well, whatever. If it was me, I wouldn’t let someone treat me like that. But I’m just a human, I guess.”
Spike was spared having to reply when his gaze caught a Chaos demon a few tables over. It seemed unlikely that this was the same one Dru had the fling with in South America, but perhaps it was. They all looked the same to Spike. In any case, this one was giving him the evil eye and, as far as Spike was concerned, that was good enough. He leapt to his feet and marched to the creature’s table. “What are you looking at, mate?” he asked.
The demon stood. Its body was taller than his by several inches, and including those slimy antlers, it loomed over him. “A filthy half-breed and its human garbage,” the demon said.
That was more than enough. Spike vamped out and flew at him.
It was only a middling brawl, really. This Chaos demon was fairly big but it was slow, and Spike was doing a good job at avoiding being impaled by the antlers. He danced around the thing, getting in a kick or a blow now and then, mostly toying with it. Its friends didn’t seem inclined to assist; they just gave the fighters a wide berth and watched.
When the fight was over, a half-dozen tables were broken and several chairs as well. The Chaos demon was sprawled on its back, breathing but bloody and probably not conscious. Spike had a few minor wounds and one larger one-the sodding thing had got one good stab into his shoulder-and his shirt was ruined, which meant he’d have to go shopping soon.
He sat down across from Trevor and swigged the glassful of blood that had appeared. Human, and fresh. He decided not to ask where it came from; at The Spit, he was better off not knowing.
Trevor’s eyes were shining. “Wow!” he said. “Wow! That was fucking incredible.”
Spike shrugged, then winced slightly. “It was all right.” He watched dispassionately as the demon was dragged away. “Wasn’t much of a fighter.”
“You were so fast! I mean, that guy hardly touched you. And you didn’t even break a sweat.”
“Vamps don’t sweat.”
Trevor rolled his eyes. “I was speaking figuratively. You could’ve beat a whole herd of those things, no problem.”
“I don’t much fancy his kind.”
“He didn’t seem all that fond of you, either.”
Spike sighed. “Vampires aren’t generally popular among other demons. Too human, I expect. And vamps with souls,” he spread his hands out, palms up, “even less so.”
“So you’re too human for the demons, and most humans are scared shitless of you, and other vamps are creeped out by the soul. And the one person who should understand is being an asshole to you.”
Why did the subject always seem to turn to Angel? Spike sighed again, even more wearily, and then stood. “Let’s go before we overstay our welcome, yeah?”
***
The night was still young, Trevor said. But Spike couldn’t go much of anywhere in his current tattered state. “Hang on,” Trevor said as they made their way to the Valiant. He pulled out his mobile phone and mumbled something into it. Once they were in the car, he gave Spike a series of mystifying directions, until they were well into a considerably posher bit of town, and Spike was pulling to a halt in front of a shop called, simply and cryptically, “Here.” The windows were decorated with naked manikins draped in sparkling streamers, which gave Spike little indication of what the shop’s wares might be.
“Don’t expect they’re open this late, mate,” Spike said.
Trevor opened the passenger-side door and climbed out. “I know the owner. C’mon.”
Sure enough, a smiling girl opened the shop door for them. She was as tall as Spike and very thin; she looked like she’d just stepped out of a magazine advert or a fashion runway. “Hi, Mr. Batt,” she said, giving Spike a careful once-over.
“Mai, this is my friend Spike. And he’s found himself unexpectedly in need of a new outfit.”
Mai cocked a perfect eyebrow. “I can see. Anything in particular you had in mind?”
“Oi,” Spike interrupted. “You don’t have to bloody dress me, Trevor. I’ve clothing of my own, you know.”
“Well, yeah, but right now, this place is closer than the Hyperion, isn’t it? Besides, it’s my fault you ruined your shirt. I’m the one who asked you to fight.”
Mai looked suddenly much more interested in Spike. “Fight?”
Trevor chuckled. “Oh, he was incredible! You shoulda seen how he- Well, never mind. Something in black, I think.”
The something in black ended up being a silk tee that fit Spike as if it had been made for him, and felt like heaven against his skin, and then a silk button-down in deep red. But the shirts looked stupid with Spike’s old, dirty jeans, so he ended up in a pair of leather trousers as well. Bloody impractical, and a bit too reminiscent of Angelus for Spike’s taste, but he could tell by the flush on the girl’s face and the way her pupils dilated as she regarded him that he looked a right treat in them.
Trevor refused to let Spike pay. There were no prices on the clothes, and Spike was fairly certain he couldn’t have afforded them anyway. He felt bloody idiotic, like he was some sort of sodding concubine or something, but he couldn’t suss out how to refuse without insulting his friend. Mai slipped Spike a piece of paper that probably contained her phone number, he thanked her with his very best leer, and then they were back in the Valiant.
“Now that you have me all dressed up, did you have someplace in mind?” Spike asked.
Trevor smiled, his white teeth shining under the streetlight. “Yep.”
What Trevor had in mind was another club, not too far away from the shop. Spike had no idea what this one was called, if anything, because there was no sign hanging on the big stucco building. The bouncer here was small and unassuming-looking; either this place didn’t need muscle, or the bloke was scarier than he looked. He smiled at Trevor and waved them both in.
The club was large, with a high ceiling. The room had been done up to look as if it were outdoors, with faux stars sparkling overhead and a big, painted-on full moon. One entire wall was taken up by a screen, onto which was projected a film that Spike recognized immediately as Ocean’s 11-the original, with Sinatra and the rest. And he realized that the entire club was meant to resemble a drive-in theater, with actual gravel covering the floor, and stainless-steel tables instead of cars. The bar was made to look like the concession stand.
A bird in a 1960s era bikini led them to a table. As they wound their way across the floor, Spike recognized a few famous faces among the nattering crowd. Nicholas Cage. Ben Affleck. Cameron Diaz. And was that Harrison Ford? Spike tried not to stare.
A pretty waiter came by and took their drink orders. He came back very quickly, carrying, naturally, a bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, as well as a double shot of whiskey. The whiskey was in what appeared to be a miniature soft drink cup, which made Spike scowl. The waiter also plopped a big cardboard container of popcorn onto the center of the table before he left.
Trevor took a handful of the popcorn and shoved it in his mouth. “It’s the in place,” he said when he’d swallowed. “This week, anyway.”
Spike gave him a long look. “Exactly how much did you make in Silicon Valley?”
“Enough. More than enough. Plenty to play with. And it’s perfect-I’m rich enough to enjoy life without worrying about the hassle of paparazzi or anything.”
“Huh,” Spike said.
They watched the film for a time, and Spike discovered he was enjoying himself. When the caper was over, they put on Elvis instead. Girls! Girls! Girls!
“So, were you in the US in the sixties?” Trevor asked at one point.
“Eighteen- or nineteen-sixties?” responded Spike, although he knew the answer.
“Well, I meant nineteen. But man! The things you’ve seen firsthand. Do you have a favorite decade?”
Spike considered that. “Twenties were fun. Don’t know whether I’d enjoy them as much now, soul and all. Didn’t much fancy the Depression, and the fifties were dead boring, unless you got creative. Seventies were good. People fucking everything that moved, and none of them worried about diseases. Not that that was a problem for me, anyway.”
“You were with Drusilla most of the time, weren’t you?”
Spike was slightly taken aback. He hadn’t mentioned her to Trevor, hadn’t spoken of her at all in ages. “What, is there a bloody biopic of me or something?”
“No, just stories. I told you. I hear things, now and then. Probably half of them bullshit, like the obeying the sire thing.”
Spike sighed. “Yeah, I was with Dru then. On and off, really. We’d be together a few years, and then she’d run off after something or other. We’d always end up back together, though, sooner or later. Until Sunnydale.”
“You miss her.”
“No. Yes. I dunno, mate. It was just-she never really loved me, yeah? Sometimes she fancied she did, but she was too bloody barmy to stick to it. I loved her, though. That was real.” He swallowed his whiskey all in one go, relishing the burn as it went down. He chased it with several kernels of popcorn.
“That’s a long time to love someone,” Trevor said. “And not get anything back.”
“Wasn’t her fault. Angel fucked her up long before I met her. Besides, she always loved him first.” He’d rarely admitted that, even to himself. He wished he had more booze.
“And that vampire slayer, um...Buffy? She loved him first, too, right?”
Spike winced. “Yeah. Captain Forehead was the bloody love of her life, the great tragic figure. I was-I was a diversion. A way to scratch an itch.” Even as he said it, he knew that wasn’t exactly true. It wasn’t exactly false, either.
He glanced over at Trevor, who was giving him a serious look. He knew what his friend was thinking. Angel. Always bloody Angel, wasn’t it?