Parallax (8/8)
Title: Parallax
Author: whichclothes
Chapter: 8/8
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!
Thank you for reading, and thanks to quinara for hosting plot_wout_porn!
Previous chapters here.
Eight
For five days, Spike wished desperately that he could be back in his dream, where he’d felt safe and nearly at peace. Where he’d remembered how it was to feel like a man again, perhaps even a man of worth.
But he was in Master’s house, and he was nothing but a frivolous toy. Worst of all was his knowledge that the entire situation was his own bloody fault. None of this would have happened if he’d stayed away from Master to begin with, if he hadn’t foolishly believed that someone might want to be his friend.
So he cleaned and he fetched things, and he obediently opened his mouth or bent over, and he watched his grandsire diminish day by day, and there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it.
And then, on the fifth day, Master was in a talkative mood. “Angel’s not much fun anymore, is he?” he said, ruffling Spike’s hair and watching an advert on the telly for shaving cream. “I’m thinking it’s about time to move things along. I have this image in my head of the two of you, both dressed in tight leather pants and nothing else, with little chains around your necks. And we’re going clubbing-well, some human places, but also The Spit, I think. Demon hang-outs. And you two kneel beside me, all pretty and…servile. That’s a pretty picture, don’t you think?”
Luckily, he didn’t seem to expect Spike to answer.
“I have some friends who might like to…admire…my things, too. Maybe I should have a party…. Yes! That’s a great idea!” He leapt to his feet and began to pace back and forth. “I could get some really major VIPs to come. Not here, though. Somewhere really…. Hmm. The Getty, maybe? No.”
He stopped moving back and forth, and stared at Spike. “Vampires. Maybe somewhere with a sort of appropriately demony atmosphere.” He snapped his fingers. “Forest Lawn! Of course! Outside the Old North Church, maybe. I wonder what it looks like at night….” Without another word, he strode out of the room. Spike heard the door to the garage slam and then, faintly, the engine of Master’s BWM start up.
Spike still had two more days before Willow told Buffy what was going on. But he hadn’t had any brilliant ideas since he’d spoken with her, and he knew none were going to come to him now. He couldn’t abide the thought of Buffy and the Scoobies arriving here and having to fight him. He wouldn’t mind if it were Buffy who finally dusted him-being done in by a Slayer, and that Slayer specifically, seemed quite fitting for him. But what if she hesitated a bit and he killed her first? Or what if he killed one of her friends? He was her bloody Champion, and he didn’t fancy his last act being so harmful to the woman he’d once loved.
But there was a way around that. He could ring Lilia or Rudy right now and tell them where he was. Let them have at him. Not that he especially wanted to kill them either, but at least better them than Buffy and her friends. And Angel’s lot wouldn’t hesitate at all to attack him, so perhaps they stood a better chance.
Spike had never rung any of Angel’s people before and he didn’t know their numbers. He hoped that Angel had them in his phone book. So for what Spike hoped was the last time, he made his way upstairs and into Angel’s room.
Angel was curled in a tight ball on his side, with his back to the door. Every one of his vertebrae stood out sharply. “Liam,” Spike said quietly, but that was all he could manage, and Angel didn’t even twitch. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing Spike could say would make it any better. Spike opened the cupboard and knelt in front of the small pile of clothing. This time, he lifted the duster in his arms and buried his nose in it. Then, with a furtive glance over his shoulder, he did the same with Angel’s shirt.
A dead heart cannot break, he told himself.
He put the clothes back down and reached into his duster pocket for the little brown book. But as he did so, his fingers brushed against something unexpected, something small and hard and a bit bumpy. Puzzled, he drew the object out.
Oh. It was the golden bee, the little bauble he’d found up in the Hyperion’s top floor, what seemed like years ago. He cradled the pin in his hand, wondering who it had belonged to and how it had come to be lost up there. Surely someone must have missed it-it was finely made and encrusted with jewels and likely quite valuable.
Valuable.
“Bloody hell,” Spike murmured, and then he jumped to his feet and ran out of the room, down the hall, and to the tiny room where Master kept the talisman. Spike opened that door cautiously, but the room was exactly as he’d seen it last.
He didn’t know whether the bee would be enough. It certainly wasn’t worth as much as a soul. But it was beautiful and precious and possibly quite old. Something a bloke like Master might appreciate. It was all Spike had.
If this didn’t work, Spike would be zapped with agony and paralyzed, and Master would go on with his plans, and soon Buffy and the rest of the cavalry would show up. But most of that would happen anyway, so what did he have to lose?
He wished he knew something to pray to, something that might heed the pleas of a repentant vampire.
With firm steps, Spike approached the pedestal. Moving his fingers carefully, so as not to touch the obsidian cube, Spike lay the bee on top of the polished wood of the pedestal, right along the edge. “For you, Master. A trade,” he said. Then, with a deep breath, he reached for the talisman.
Nothing happened. He wasn’t wracked with pain and he didn’t fall to the floor, unmoving. Instead, his fingers pressed against the smooth, black surface. The talisman was cold, like ice. Spike lifted it and brought it near his face, then turned it over in his hands. There was nothing remarkable about it; just six identical sides of dark glass. Had he been human, he would have seen his reflection in them. He wondered what he’d look like. His hair had grown quite long and hung in curls almost to his shoulders. He reckoned that there must be several inches of light brown showing now above the bleached blond. He must look a right prat, he thought, and smiled bitterly at his own joke.
And then, quite suddenly, something released in his head. It felt a bit like when he’d traveled over mountains and his ears had popped, but this involved his entire brain. It was if he’d been gradually subjected to a relentless pressure, and now the pressure had suddenly been released. The relief was so great and so fast that he fell to his knees, only barely managing to avoid dropping the talisman, and he roared out a mixture of triumph and fury and sorrow.
It was ages before he trusted his legs to hold him again.
When he could walk, he made his way to Angel’s room. Angel hadn’t moved. Surely he had heard Spike’s cry, but he was perhaps too broken to react or maybe he thought it was another of Master’s games.
Spike shoved the talisman into his duster. He threw his own clothing on very quickly and then walked to the chest of drawers where the key still lay, undisturbed in the thin layer of dust.
Spike unlocked the cage and opened the door.
Angel didn’t move.
“You can go whenever you’re ready,” Spike said. “I’ll send Lilia and the others here to fetch you. I don’t…I don’t even know if you’re listening. But I want you to know…. Christ. I’m sorry. You’ll never believe me, but it’s true. I didn’t mean…well, doesn’t matter, does it? I’m sorry.”
He meant to go downstairs and ring Lilia and wait for Mas-for Trevor. But even as he turned around, he heard footsteps in the hall-running footsteps-and there was Trevor Batt himself, flushed with rage.
“What the fuck have you done?” Trevor screamed.
Spike didn’t even get a chance to respond before Trevor launched himself, his teeth bared in a snarl, his outstretched hands ready to wrap about Spike’s neck.
But Spike was a demon, and he was free.
With a bellow of his own, Spike shifted his face. As Trevor closed the space between them, Spike grabbed at the larger man’s shoulders and dragged him nearer, into a parody of an embrace. Then he sank his fangs into Trevor’s throat.
It had been a very long time since Spike had bitten a human. The rich, hot blood flooded his mouth and slipped sweetly down his throat. Trevor screeched and tried to pull away, but Spike held him fast. He wasn’t careful about this bite-he ripped through skin and muscle and veins, he tore at the wound like a fighting dog-and he growled and he fed and he fed. When Trevor’s knees buckled, Spike held the man upright against himself almost like a lover, and he continued to drink until his prey’s heartbeat slowed, and then stuttered, and then stilled.
Spike dropped the lifeless corpse onto the blood-spattered carpet. Trevor’s eyes were still open. He looked surprised. Spike wondered where he was now, and whether he was finally regretting having bartered away his soul. The murder that Spike had just committed sat perfectly fine with his own.
He left Angel alone with the dead man. He made a quick detour into the loo to do a fast wash-up, and then made his way down to the kitchen to ring Willow and Lilia.
***
He’d meant to leave town completely.
But he couldn’t imagine where to go, so he pawned the small items he’d nicked on his way out of Trevor’s house-a Rolex, diamond and platinum cufflinks-and he rented a rathole of a motel room. He’d taken Trevor’s car as well, because he didn’t want his Valiant any longer, not now that Trevor had it fixed up, and he sold the BMW to a bloke he knew who wasn’t especially particular about proof of ownership. So he had enough dosh to last him a bit and there was a butcher who would sell him animal blood, so he was set.
Mostly he stayed in his dirty room, staring at the obsidian cube. Considering the possibilities.
Nearly three weeks after he’d killed Trevor Batt, Spike picked up the phone. He’d memorized the number by now.
“Spike! Goddess, where are you?”
“City of Angels.”
“Everyone’s been searching-”
“Yeah, I’ll wager they have.” Angel first among them, he was certain, looking to avenge Spike’s treachery and recent homicide.
“Spike, what are you-”
“Look, love, I didn’t ring you to natter. What you said, about you and your witchy pals destroying the talisman, do you still reckon you could do it?”
“Um, sure. It’d be pretty tricky, but it’d be a good way to practice-”
“How do I get it to you, then?”
There was a long pause. “It’s yours now. Don’t you want-”
“No. No human should be trusted with a thing like this, and certainly no demon. Certainly not me.”
“Okay. I’ll…I’ll come and get it.”
Half an hour later, she appeared in his motel room with a loud bang and the scent of England. Even though he was expecting her, he couldn’t help but startle violently, and fling himself toward the door. Which would have done him little good in any case, as it was four in the afternoon and glaringly bright out.
“Hi, Spike,” she said, smoothing down her blouse and tucking her hair behind her ears.
He slumped slightly. “Red. That’s quite an entrance.”
“Yeah, and when I get back I’m gonna have to sleep for like a week, ‘cause my gas tank’s gonna be on E. But it beats flying coach.”
He nodded and peeled himself away from the wall.
She tilted her head at him. “You know, Angel’s been looking for you.”
“Yeah, you said.”
“And Buffy. She, uh, kinda found out about the whole…” she flapped her hands, “thing.”
His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. “Lovely,” he said, and was pleased when his voice didn’t break.
“They want to-”
“I know what they want to. But I don’t want to talk about the Slayer or the pouf.”
She frowned. “Are you all right? What that man did to you-”
“’M fine,” he said, and hoped she hadn’t notice the way he flinched. “Look, the knickknack’s over there. If you could just take it away now….”
She looked at the talisman that sat on the bed, but didn’t make a move to take it. “I have to trade you for it, remember? Or else-zap!”
“Oh, just take the bloody thing. It’s yours. I don’t want it.”
She shrugged. “Rules of magic, sweetie. I have to give you something valuable.”
“There’s nothing I want!” he yelled, and then felt bad, because none of this was her fault.
But she didn’t appear upset by his outburst. “I’m trading you a favor, Spike.”
“A favor? You’ve already done me plenty. You’re doing one now.”
She shook her head. “No. It has to be something new. But…don’t worry. It’s taken care of. Deal?”
He nodded wearily. “’T’s fine.”
She smiled at him and picked up the talisman. She looked at it curiously for a moment, wrinkled her nose in distaste, and tucked it into a little pouch she wore around her neck. “We’ll smoosh it as soon as my magics are back up to snuff.”
He nodded, and felt an enormous relief. “Thank you.”
“Take care of yourself, sweetie,” she said, as if she really meant it. Then there was another loud bang, and she was gone.
***
Spike was trapped like an insect in amber. The tiniest movement took enormous effort, and he certainly couldn’t manage to get up and find something to eat. He just lay on the lumpy motel bed, unfocussed eyes pointed at the television screen. Not waiting, because there was nothing to wait for. Just stuck.
He felt himself growing gaunt and weak, and wondered whether he would enter a coma before his prepaid nights ran out, and if so, what the motel manager would do about it. But it was a vague, academic sort of question, like wondering whether the sun was going to go supernova in a billion years.
So when a knock sounded on his door he ignored it, even when it grew louder and more urgent. But then the door burst inward, the flimsy locks giving like paper, and Spike had the strength only to roll to the floor between the bed and the wall.
“Spike!”
Oh, bloody hell. Well, might as well get this over with, he thought. With considerable effort, he climbed back onto the mattress and collapsed there, panting as if he’d run a marathon, his muscles trembling from the effort.
“Jesus Christ, Spike, you look like hell.”
“Cheers,” Spike said, his voice thin from lack of use.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just get on with it.” And he rolled onto his back and spread his arms wide, bracing himself a bit for the feeling of wood digging into his chest. He shut his eyes.
And nothing happened.
He cracked his lids open to see Angel looming over him, frowning. But there was no stake in his hands. “You haven’t been feeding,” Angel finally said.
“So? That’ll make your job easier, won’t it? Won’t have to worry about me kicking your arse.”
“My job? What the fuck are you talking about?”
Now Spike was confused. “Dusting me, of course, pillock.”
Angel rolled his eyes theatrically and then sat down heavily on the bed, shaking it with his weight. “I didn’t come here to dust you.”
“Then why? And how did you find me, anyhow?”
Angel looked uncomfortable. “Willow called. We-”
“She told you where I was?” Spike didn’t know why he was surprised at that. It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve that sort of betrayal.
“Yeah. And she sent you a message, too. She said to tell you the talisman’s been destroyed.”
Spike found the energy to cock an eyebrow. “You’re the witch’s messenger boy now?”
Angel didn’t answer at first. He picked up the edge of the ugly duvet and rolled it absently between his fingers. An advert came on the telly, loud and obnoxious, and Spike shakily moved his arm over to the remote and clicked it off. Finally, in an uncharacteristically soft voice, Angel said, “I believe you.”
“What?”
More loudly, Angel said, “I believe you. You said you were sorry and I believe you.”
Spike’s mouth fell open, then he shut it with a snap.
Angel went on, still looking down at the blanket, not meeting Spike’s eyes. “I was so furious with you-”
“For taking you there.”
“For allowing him to use you that way!”
Perhaps Spike’s starved mind was slow, but he couldn’t imagine why Angel would care who used him or how. “I don’t-”
But Angel leapt to his feet as if he’d been stung, and he stalked to the far corner of the room and stood there with his back to Spike. “Willow…she yelled at me. A lot. She told me what that bastard did to you, with the talisman. How he made you do those things. And…how you tried to stop it.” In a tiny voice, he added, “How you were going to sacrifice yourself so I could be rescued.”
“Oh,” was all Spike could say.
Angel spun around and marched back to the bed and glared at Spike. “Why the hell did you allow yourself to get close to that guy? Even you are not usually that stupid.”
Spike was too worn down to put up any defenses, too tired for anything but the truth. “I thought he was my friend,” he said and curled onto his side, his back to Angel.
After a moment, the mattress dipped as Angel sat again. A big hand landed on Spike’s shoulder and he flinched. The hand moved away immediately but then, after a brief hesitation, returned. “You have friends, Spike. Real friends.”
Spike’s laugh sounded more like a sob. “No, mate. I haven’t.”
“You have-I kinda thought we were friends, actually.”
Spike twisted around to stare at him incredulously. “How? You hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“You do. You’ve…tolerated me, I expect due to that great broody conscience of yours. But you don’t-” He stopped, because the next phrase would have been “want me” and he just couldn’t say that.
Angel sighed. “You’re such a moron, Spike. You’re…you’re important to me, okay? You’re cocky and irritating as hell, but you’re strong and brave and nobody will ever understand me like you do. You’re family, okay? The only family I have.”
Spike was gaping again. “You can’t stand me,” he finally managed to say.
Angel shook his head. “No, it’s you who can’t stand me.”
“Then why the bloody hell have I stayed with you all this time? I’ve never left you, Liam, never, except when I had to to save Dru. Even then, I would have stayed if you weren’t being so bloody daft.”
To his surprise, Angel chuckled. “We’ve been going at it since the day you were turned, haven’t we? Each of us expecting the worst of the other. But you’re right-you’ve been there when I needed it. It’s family, William. Just because we beat each other up doesn’t mean we don’t care.”
Spike had a sudden memory of the way Buffy and Dawn used to squabble and spit at one another, and he nodded slowly.
Angel’s hand landed on him again, this time on his wrist. This time, Spike didn’t flinch.
“I thought you were hanging around me just because you liked giving me a hard time,” Angel said. “It took-well, all that yelling from Willow I mentioned. And then Buffy called too.” He shuddered slightly. “They reminded me that you’re a hero. They made me think maybe…maybe I wasn’t seeing you clearly.”
It took all his remaining strength, but Spike pushed himself upright to a seated position, and he looked directly into Angel’s eyes. “What do you see now?” he asked.
“A hero. A friend. A brother. A…a loved one.”
Spike stopped breathing.
Angel reached over and tugged lightly at Spike’s hair. “That was a whole lot of gut spilling. Come on. Let’s get you some blood and a pair of scissors. I’ll even find you some bleach so your hair can go back to glowing in the dark. Come home, Spike.”
The corner of Spike’s mouth quirked a bit. “You’re going to have to carry me.”
Angel’s smile was broad and joyful. “I’ve been carrying you for years,” he said with eyes sparkling.
“You could use the exercise, with that fat arse.”
“Idiot,” Angel said, standing and scooping Spike into his arms.
“Berk,” responded Spike as he leaned his head against his grandsire’s broad chest and sighed with contentment. He closed his eyes and mumbled, “You can buy me a car tomorrow. Think I’d fancy a ’59 Sport Fury.” Just before he fell asleep, he felt Angel’s laughter rumbling against him.
---fin---