Strange Bedfellows
Eek, this is an old one. Okay, I've been writing for less than a year so it's not really old, but it is about the fourth story I ever tried to write. There may be typos and verb tense disagreement and who knows what other types of badness, but it's also a story I really like for some reason. And it was this story that originally got me to talking with ShinodaBear, so that may also be why it has a special place in my heart. I thought I might as well use it as a get back into the swing of things fic post. Other and newer ones should be along shortly.
Story Notes: Set after NFA. Angel and Spike survive, others aren't so lucky. Angel POV.
A/N: In the dictionary "strange" is defined as: unexpected, hard to explain, and difficult to understand. "Bedfellows" is defined as: somebody who becomes paired with somebody else and -in the archaic form- somebody who sleeps in the same bed as somebody else. Apologies to all for any grammatical errors or just plain wrongness. Feedback is always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either.
Rating: PG-13 The Angel in my head may not say it out loud often, but in his head he swears a lot. Usually because of Spike.
Strange Bedfellows
Dear God in Heaven, he was tired. He just wanted to curl up for a couple of months and sleep, blessed sleep. But oh no, here was Spike yammering on in the background about something or other. Why!? Why did he seem to be stuck with looking after them both? Spike just prattled around making snarky comments all the time while he did all the work. He found them shelter. He found them food. He was the one going completely stark raving mad! If Angel didn’t know he was damned for his past crimes before, he did now. This must be some kind of karma thing coming back to bite him on the ass. And why was Spike still trailing after him? There was nothing holding them together anymore. They weren’t close. They weren’t friends.
So, okay, Spike did have a soul now and he was trying to do good. He was the first one to jump on board with taking out the Circle of the Black Thorn. But Angel reasoned that Spike just liked to kill things and so that one didn’t count. Except, Spike was also there in the alley when he could have gotten a running head start on Wolfram & Hart’s payback.
It took Angel about twenty minutes of brooding, and Spike was still nattering on about whatever, but he finally decided that it was one of the great mysteries of his life, or un-life. Spike was just there. It was Fate giving him a big, fat finger. Wherever he was, Spike was sure to turn up sooner or later. He couldn’t even get on a submarine at the bottom of the ocean during World War II without running into Spike! Even after Spike died, Angel couldn’t get away from him! And if that wasn’t proof that the Powers That Be had a sick sense of humor, he didn’t know what was. When he finally went back to Hell, Spike would probably be there waiting with a gift basket, or maybe hot pokers and a grin.
He couldn’t hold Spike’s unsouled past against him, though, or he would have to hold it against himself. Drusilla had made him a vampire but, Spike was right, Angelus had made him a monster- taught him to truly revel in the kill. Maybe that was one of the things that made it hard for Angel to be around Spike. Or it could just be Spike’s sparkling personality. However, Spike was trying to atone for his sins, albeit in a completely Spike-like way that was as annoying as hell. Angel could and did, however, hold Buffy against him. Oh and wasn’t that just the visual he needed when he was trying to go to sleep?
Maybe he could suggest, in a completely off hand way, that Spike would be better off on his own. No, that would just make Spike stick around longer because he just loved getting under the skin of ‘the Great Poof.’ And just when had Angel ever earned that particular nickname? Well, so, ummm, there was that one... No! Not going to go there.
Anyway, all that was in the past. There was no reason that Spike should be taking up most of the bed in a cockroach-infested motel room, that Angel had paid for, on the edge of nowhere. What the hell was he watching anyway? Shouldn’t he be sacked out and hogging all the covers? No, wait, Spike hasn’t been up half the night hunting, has he? Spike hasn’t spent all of the morning and most of the afternoon worrying about what they were going to do next. Spike has been sitting on his ass watching daytime television. And alright, Spike still couldn’t move very well and he had almost gotten his arm ripped off saving Angel from that giant, three-horned, acid-spitting demon; but that was still no excuse for laziness. He could’ve picked his towel up from the bathroom floor, or at least mopped up the water, and he could’ve cleaned up the motel room a little. Spike wasn’t hurt that badly. Right? No, Spike was fine. He was just playing it up so he wouldn’t have to do anything other than watch TV all day and night.
What were they going to do? Right, and now it was back to ‘they’, wasn’t it? Angel didn’t have any more money and, of course, none of his company credit cards worked. Wolfram & Hart had somehow frozen his bank account so his ATM card was useless. Spike never had any money.
They had been hopping from one motel to another trying to stay in front of the bounty on their heads. So far it was working, but they couldn’t keep it up much longer. Spike had been getting slower and slower and Angel wasn’t able to find enough wildlife to feed both of them properly. They were weak and getting weaker every day.
So, back to the question of-
“Oi, Peaches! Lookit this.” And now here we have Spike talking to him. Again.
“What, Spike?” He probably wouldn’t give up until he got whatever response he was looking for anyway.
“Antiques Roadshow is on. Have you ever seen it?” And now here we have Spike pointing at the small TV bolted to the dresser that loomed across from the bed. Deep, calming breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Great, now Spike had him breathing. Again.
“Spike? I’m trying to sleep here.” Close eyes and play dead.
“No you weren’t. You were brooding with your eyes closed. Whole different thing.”
Why couldn’t he kill Spike again? Oh yes, Spike had a soul now and Spike was trying to do good now and Spike couldn’t defend himself if Angel just reached over and tore his throat out. Now there was a visual he could go to sleep with.
“I said I was trying to sleep. I might actually get to sleep if you would shut the TV off and stop talking to me.” There. Firm authoritative voice... which, of course, never worked when dealing with Spike.
“Angel, you’ve done this every night. You hunt, you come back to the motel, you curse at me, you shower, you curse at me, you lie down, you brood, you curse at me, you brood some more, and you don’t go to sleep. At least, if you’re going to be up anyway, you could talk to me.”
What!?
“Spike, we don’t have anything to say to each other.” Complete refusal to open eyes. Again, firm voice with no hint of annoyance. This had to count towards his penance. It had to.
“We bloody well do! We could talk about how you’re running yourself to the bone. We could talk about what we’re gonna do when we get thrown out of this rat hole. We could talk about what happened. We could talk about you leaving me behind. Move faster on your own. We could-”
“Spike, shut up. I’m not leaving you behind.” Wait. He wasn't? When did that happen? He would love to leave Spike behind. He dreamed about leaving Spike behind.
“I don’t want to talk right now, Spike. I want to sleep.” Uh oh, there goes the sound of the TV turning off and now he can feel Spike looking at him.
“You might be able to sleep if you would talk about it.” Soft voice. Concerned? No. No no no. He was not going to have a heart-to-heart talk, with Spike of all people.
“I’ve gotten all of my friends killed and I’m still here. We’re running a losing race with painful death; that is, if we don’t starve to death before that demon horde catches up to us. I haven’t slept in days and would just like to go to sleep. That’s all I have to say. So would you please, for the love of God, SHUT THE HELL UP!” Maybe a little more anger there than he thought, didn’t mean to shift into game face, but he was not going to do this. Spike could goad him all he wanted but Angel was not going to do this. Not here, not now and not with Spike.
“You’re making a complete sack of yourself. They knew what they were getting into. We all agreed to do it, Angel. It’s not your fault you didn’t die with them.” And now here we have talkshow wisdom from Spike.
“Well, that just makes everything all better Spike. I don’t know why we didn’t have this little talk days ago. Now, if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll tie you down and stuff one of your dirty socks in your mouth. Okay? Does that work for you? Because it’s looking pretty good to me right now.” It was. He could picture it perfectly: Spike tied to the bed, Spike gagged, Spike helpless, Spike no longer prodding at him. Maybe Angel would blindfold him, too. Then Spike would stop looking at him like that; almost like he was worried about him. Why would Spike be worried about him? Angel was the strong one.
Finally, yes, thank you, Spike has shut up. If he had a pen, or a calendar, he would write this down. Except, now Spike was sulking really loudly. He was breathing. Why was Spike breathing? He doesn’t need to breathe.
Spike tosses. Spike turns. Spike bunches up his pillow. Spike throws his covers off. Spike sighs. Spike tosses. Spike pulls his covers back on. Spike turns. Spike makes some strange noise in the back of his throat.
“We could call Buffy.” Very, very soft voice.
“No.” Drop it. Drop it right now.
Spike sighs. Spike tosses. Spike straightens out his pillow. Spike turns. Spike flips completely over. Spike gasps. And now here we have Spike bleeding. Again. But he has gone completely still. Maybe if Angel just pretended he didn’t notice? No, Spike knows he can smell the blood. Angel’s supposed to be one of the good guys; he can’t let Spike bleed to death right beside him. Can he? No. No damn it, he can’t.
Bedside lamp goes on. Open the nightstand drawer. Don’t look at Spike yet. Take out the supplies they had managed to steal along the way. What will he need? Quilting thread picked out from a hotel comforter, pieces of a sheet torn into strips, alcohol, yellow rubber cleaning gloves, two clean white hand towels, a needle, a butter knife, and duct tape.
“Leave it. It’s fine.”
No, it was not fine. It hadn’t been fine for awhile now. What the hell were they going to do?
“No. You’ll get blood all over the sheets. I’m not sleeping on bloody sheets. Sit up.” Pick off the duct tape and carefully unwind the makeshift dressing from his shoulder. Do not show any expression at all. “This still isn’t healing right and you’ve torn some of the stitches out.”
“Haven’t been able to feed properly, have I? Can’t walk to the shower and back without getting dizzy now. Think that acid-secreting demon did me in after all. I’m bloody useless. You should just leave me here.”
Completely ignore him while getting supplies set up. Watch the hands Angel, keep them steady. Don’t think about it.
“I’ll have to wash it out again before I re-stitch it. Don‘t move.” Hey, authoritative voice was back. Not a wavering note to be heard. Good job, Angel.
Move up on the bed beside and slightly behind Spike. One leg goes behind his back; one leg goes across his legs. Bare feet hook together. One arm goes across Spike’s chest and one hand towel gets pressed just under the gapping skin. Pull him back. Fold up the ragged rubber gloves and shove them in Spike’s mouth. Try not to enjoy that part too much. Smirk as his eyes flash. There’s the old Spike. Uncap bottle of alcohol.
Steady now. This was the hard part.
Pour a steady stream of alcohol directly onto the bloody tear. Lock muscles. Try not to hear the muffled roaring. Keep him still or the other stitches will tear. Tip the bottle again. Let Spike latch on to the arm across his chest while he screams. Wait until he stops straining. Mop up the blood, alcohol and pieces of rotten flesh with the hand towel. Try not to notice the smell or that Spike has tears in his eyes and blood at the corner of his mouth.
Let muscles relax. Move out from behind Spike and lower him gently to the bed. Thread needle and set it aside. Take both hand towels and walk to the bathroom. Angel was glad, for once, that vampires don’t have reflections. He doesn’t think he could look at himself right now. Run the water until the room fills up with steam. Wet the clean hand towel; let the other soak. Take a deep breath.
How much longer was he going to have to do this? How many more times before he just decided to stake Spike in his sleep? It would be kinder in the end, wouldn’t it? But does he mean kinder for him or kinder for Spike? He doesn’t know the answer to that and that’s why he won’t ever do it.
Walk back to the bed and pick up the butter knife. Pour a little alcohol on it. Straddle Spike’s legs. Brace one hand on Spike’s chest. Scrape the open edges of the wound. Don‘t notice Spike‘s muscles straining. Keep eyes firmly on the knife.
“Less flesh is coming off this time. I think the skin is starting to heal around the other stitches.” That’s right, be encouraging. Never mind the fact that he thought about staking Spike not ten minutes ago.
“I’m almost done.” Nice soothing voice.
Squeeze the warm water out of the towel and let it drip onto the wound. Go back to the bathroom and wet it down again. Come back and squeeze water onto Spike’s shoulder again. Mop up the pink-stained water. Clean the wound. Try to find healthy flesh and still make the stitches as tiny as possible. Take mangled rubber gloves out of Spike's mouth.
“Here. Let’s sit you up and then I’ll put a new dressing on.” And now here we have Spike not talking. Why wasn’t Spike saying anything? Spike never stops talking. Before he’s always gotten at least a ‘bloody ‘ell.’ Shit.
Wind the strips of torn sheet around Spike’s torso and over his shoulder. Wrap a length of duct tape over that to make sure it doesn’t come undone. Thank you God, he was done. This time.
“Spike?” Say something, damn it. He never would’ve thought he would be trying to get Spike to talk to him.
“’m fine, Angel.” No, he wasn’t. He didn’t say ‘knock off the mothering, Peaches’ or ‘enjoy having your hands on me, Poof?’ or any of the other things he’d said to Angel over the last weeks. Spike had called him by his name. But then, he’d been doing that a lot more lately, hadn’t he? Why? Just what did Spike think was going on here?
Pack the supplies away. Note to self: steal more alcohol from the cleaning lady. Help Spike lay back in bed. Cover Spike up. Move to his side of the bed. Lie down. Brood.
Gunn was the first to fall in that alley in L.A. At least Charles went out fighting. If Angel hadn’t gotten knocked out, if Illyria hadn’t dragged him down into the sewer, if she hadn’t thrown Spike in after... she wouldn‘t have died alone. He should’ve died with them. He meant to die with them. It was supposed to have been the end. Go out in a blaze of glory. Not this lingering death. Not trying to take care of a lame vampire while they both starved to death. Not running. He was supposed to be a champion. Champions don’t run.
Wait a minute. The bed was shaking. Why was the bed shaking? Was Spike crying? Spike doesn’t cry. At least, Spike doesn’t let Angel see him cry. Damn. He was never going to get to sleep with Spike shaking the bed like that. If he doesn’t do something he’ll have to spend another day staring at the back of his eyelids.
“Spike?” Turn over and move closer.
“’m okay. Cold in here is all.” No, it wasn't. It was mid-afternoon in Nevada in a motel with no air conditioning. Shit.
Should Angel touch him? Check if he has a fever? How could Spike have a fever? He should be a few degrees cooler than room temperature. It couldn’t hurt if Angel checks, could it? Reach out and lay hand on Spike's shoulder. Spike’s skin was human-warm. That can’t be good. Humans were what? Ninety-eight degrees? Spike was at least that.
“Cold, Angel. It’s so cold in here.” Shit. Shit. Shit. Nothing else to be done was there? He hopes like hell Spike really is out of it. If not, Angel will never live this down.
“Sit up, Spike.” Help Spike up. Take both pillows and stack them against the headboard. Lean back. Take a moment to thank the Powers they were both wearing pants. Spread legs.
“Come here, Spike.” And now here we have Spike looking at him. What the hell was that look anyway?
“Come on Spike. I have to get some sleep if I’m going to hunt tonight. I can’t do that with you shaking the bed.” There. Semi-plausible explanation; if you didn‘t look at it too hard. It seems to work anyway because now here we have Spike crawling in between Angel’s legs and curling up against him. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Too late now. Pull the covers up. Close eyes. Play dead.
Oh no. What was Spike doing? He was hugging Angel. Spike was delirious, he had to be. He was actually snuggling. Crap. If, no, when Spike got better Angel would definitely be bringing this up every time he heard a 'Great Poof' comment. Heaven help him. Why was he doing this again? Oh yes, Spike had a soul now and Spike was good now and Spike stood up with him and Spike was wounded saving him and... Spike was the only friend he had left.
“Angel?” Soft voice and Angel can feel Spike’s lips against his chest.
“Yes, Spike?” Big sigh. He knew. He just knew Spike was going to say something. It was about damn time.
“Could you talk to me? Just until I fall asleep?” Great, now Spike had him breathing again. Great big, gulping breaths because suddenly Spike’s weight on him seems to have gotten a lot heavier. Angel’s chest hurt.
“Uhhh, talk about what?” Angel doesn’t make idle conversation. He doesn’t know how. Spike knows that.
“Tell me a story. A good one; not something from one of your moldy old books.” What stories did he know? There was only one that he could remember right now. At least the heroine lives happily ever after in that one.
“Okay, Will. You may have heard this one though.” Wrap arms around Will- because it was Will with him now. Rest cheek on soft, matted hair. Clear throat. Deep breath.
“Once upon a time in California, there was a golden girl...”
***
Story Notes: Set after NFA. Angel and Spike survive, others aren't so lucky. Angel POV.
A/N: In the dictionary "strange" is defined as: unexpected, hard to explain, and difficult to understand. "Bedfellows" is defined as: somebody who becomes paired with somebody else and -in the archaic form- somebody who sleeps in the same bed as somebody else. Apologies to all for any grammatical errors or just plain wrongness. Feedback is always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never gonna be mine. Not making a profit here either.
Rating: PG-13 The Angel in my head may not say it out loud often, but in his head he swears a lot. Usually because of Spike.
Strange Bedfellows
Dear God in Heaven, he was tired. He just wanted to curl up for a couple of months and sleep, blessed sleep. But oh no, here was Spike yammering on in the background about something or other. Why!? Why did he seem to be stuck with looking after them both? Spike just prattled around making snarky comments all the time while he did all the work. He found them shelter. He found them food. He was the one going completely stark raving mad! If Angel didn’t know he was damned for his past crimes before, he did now. This must be some kind of karma thing coming back to bite him on the ass. And why was Spike still trailing after him? There was nothing holding them together anymore. They weren’t close. They weren’t friends.
So, okay, Spike did have a soul now and he was trying to do good. He was the first one to jump on board with taking out the Circle of the Black Thorn. But Angel reasoned that Spike just liked to kill things and so that one didn’t count. Except, Spike was also there in the alley when he could have gotten a running head start on Wolfram & Hart’s payback.
It took Angel about twenty minutes of brooding, and Spike was still nattering on about whatever, but he finally decided that it was one of the great mysteries of his life, or un-life. Spike was just there. It was Fate giving him a big, fat finger. Wherever he was, Spike was sure to turn up sooner or later. He couldn’t even get on a submarine at the bottom of the ocean during World War II without running into Spike! Even after Spike died, Angel couldn’t get away from him! And if that wasn’t proof that the Powers That Be had a sick sense of humor, he didn’t know what was. When he finally went back to Hell, Spike would probably be there waiting with a gift basket, or maybe hot pokers and a grin.
He couldn’t hold Spike’s unsouled past against him, though, or he would have to hold it against himself. Drusilla had made him a vampire but, Spike was right, Angelus had made him a monster- taught him to truly revel in the kill. Maybe that was one of the things that made it hard for Angel to be around Spike. Or it could just be Spike’s sparkling personality. However, Spike was trying to atone for his sins, albeit in a completely Spike-like way that was as annoying as hell. Angel could and did, however, hold Buffy against him. Oh and wasn’t that just the visual he needed when he was trying to go to sleep?
Maybe he could suggest, in a completely off hand way, that Spike would be better off on his own. No, that would just make Spike stick around longer because he just loved getting under the skin of ‘the Great Poof.’ And just when had Angel ever earned that particular nickname? Well, so, ummm, there was that one... No! Not going to go there.
Anyway, all that was in the past. There was no reason that Spike should be taking up most of the bed in a cockroach-infested motel room, that Angel had paid for, on the edge of nowhere. What the hell was he watching anyway? Shouldn’t he be sacked out and hogging all the covers? No, wait, Spike hasn’t been up half the night hunting, has he? Spike hasn’t spent all of the morning and most of the afternoon worrying about what they were going to do next. Spike has been sitting on his ass watching daytime television. And alright, Spike still couldn’t move very well and he had almost gotten his arm ripped off saving Angel from that giant, three-horned, acid-spitting demon; but that was still no excuse for laziness. He could’ve picked his towel up from the bathroom floor, or at least mopped up the water, and he could’ve cleaned up the motel room a little. Spike wasn’t hurt that badly. Right? No, Spike was fine. He was just playing it up so he wouldn’t have to do anything other than watch TV all day and night.
What were they going to do? Right, and now it was back to ‘they’, wasn’t it? Angel didn’t have any more money and, of course, none of his company credit cards worked. Wolfram & Hart had somehow frozen his bank account so his ATM card was useless. Spike never had any money.
They had been hopping from one motel to another trying to stay in front of the bounty on their heads. So far it was working, but they couldn’t keep it up much longer. Spike had been getting slower and slower and Angel wasn’t able to find enough wildlife to feed both of them properly. They were weak and getting weaker every day.
So, back to the question of-
“Oi, Peaches! Lookit this.” And now here we have Spike talking to him. Again.
“What, Spike?” He probably wouldn’t give up until he got whatever response he was looking for anyway.
“Antiques Roadshow is on. Have you ever seen it?” And now here we have Spike pointing at the small TV bolted to the dresser that loomed across from the bed. Deep, calming breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Great, now Spike had him breathing. Again.
“Spike? I’m trying to sleep here.” Close eyes and play dead.
“No you weren’t. You were brooding with your eyes closed. Whole different thing.”
Why couldn’t he kill Spike again? Oh yes, Spike had a soul now and Spike was trying to do good now and Spike couldn’t defend himself if Angel just reached over and tore his throat out. Now there was a visual he could go to sleep with.
“I said I was trying to sleep. I might actually get to sleep if you would shut the TV off and stop talking to me.” There. Firm authoritative voice... which, of course, never worked when dealing with Spike.
“Angel, you’ve done this every night. You hunt, you come back to the motel, you curse at me, you shower, you curse at me, you lie down, you brood, you curse at me, you brood some more, and you don’t go to sleep. At least, if you’re going to be up anyway, you could talk to me.”
What!?
“Spike, we don’t have anything to say to each other.” Complete refusal to open eyes. Again, firm voice with no hint of annoyance. This had to count towards his penance. It had to.
“We bloody well do! We could talk about how you’re running yourself to the bone. We could talk about what we’re gonna do when we get thrown out of this rat hole. We could talk about what happened. We could talk about you leaving me behind. Move faster on your own. We could-”
“Spike, shut up. I’m not leaving you behind.” Wait. He wasn't? When did that happen? He would love to leave Spike behind. He dreamed about leaving Spike behind.
“I don’t want to talk right now, Spike. I want to sleep.” Uh oh, there goes the sound of the TV turning off and now he can feel Spike looking at him.
“You might be able to sleep if you would talk about it.” Soft voice. Concerned? No. No no no. He was not going to have a heart-to-heart talk, with Spike of all people.
“I’ve gotten all of my friends killed and I’m still here. We’re running a losing race with painful death; that is, if we don’t starve to death before that demon horde catches up to us. I haven’t slept in days and would just like to go to sleep. That’s all I have to say. So would you please, for the love of God, SHUT THE HELL UP!” Maybe a little more anger there than he thought, didn’t mean to shift into game face, but he was not going to do this. Spike could goad him all he wanted but Angel was not going to do this. Not here, not now and not with Spike.
“You’re making a complete sack of yourself. They knew what they were getting into. We all agreed to do it, Angel. It’s not your fault you didn’t die with them.” And now here we have talkshow wisdom from Spike.
“Well, that just makes everything all better Spike. I don’t know why we didn’t have this little talk days ago. Now, if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll tie you down and stuff one of your dirty socks in your mouth. Okay? Does that work for you? Because it’s looking pretty good to me right now.” It was. He could picture it perfectly: Spike tied to the bed, Spike gagged, Spike helpless, Spike no longer prodding at him. Maybe Angel would blindfold him, too. Then Spike would stop looking at him like that; almost like he was worried about him. Why would Spike be worried about him? Angel was the strong one.
Finally, yes, thank you, Spike has shut up. If he had a pen, or a calendar, he would write this down. Except, now Spike was sulking really loudly. He was breathing. Why was Spike breathing? He doesn’t need to breathe.
Spike tosses. Spike turns. Spike bunches up his pillow. Spike throws his covers off. Spike sighs. Spike tosses. Spike pulls his covers back on. Spike turns. Spike makes some strange noise in the back of his throat.
“We could call Buffy.” Very, very soft voice.
“No.” Drop it. Drop it right now.
Spike sighs. Spike tosses. Spike straightens out his pillow. Spike turns. Spike flips completely over. Spike gasps. And now here we have Spike bleeding. Again. But he has gone completely still. Maybe if Angel just pretended he didn’t notice? No, Spike knows he can smell the blood. Angel’s supposed to be one of the good guys; he can’t let Spike bleed to death right beside him. Can he? No. No damn it, he can’t.
Bedside lamp goes on. Open the nightstand drawer. Don’t look at Spike yet. Take out the supplies they had managed to steal along the way. What will he need? Quilting thread picked out from a hotel comforter, pieces of a sheet torn into strips, alcohol, yellow rubber cleaning gloves, two clean white hand towels, a needle, a butter knife, and duct tape.
“Leave it. It’s fine.”
No, it was not fine. It hadn’t been fine for awhile now. What the hell were they going to do?
“No. You’ll get blood all over the sheets. I’m not sleeping on bloody sheets. Sit up.” Pick off the duct tape and carefully unwind the makeshift dressing from his shoulder. Do not show any expression at all. “This still isn’t healing right and you’ve torn some of the stitches out.”
“Haven’t been able to feed properly, have I? Can’t walk to the shower and back without getting dizzy now. Think that acid-secreting demon did me in after all. I’m bloody useless. You should just leave me here.”
Completely ignore him while getting supplies set up. Watch the hands Angel, keep them steady. Don’t think about it.
“I’ll have to wash it out again before I re-stitch it. Don‘t move.” Hey, authoritative voice was back. Not a wavering note to be heard. Good job, Angel.
Move up on the bed beside and slightly behind Spike. One leg goes behind his back; one leg goes across his legs. Bare feet hook together. One arm goes across Spike’s chest and one hand towel gets pressed just under the gapping skin. Pull him back. Fold up the ragged rubber gloves and shove them in Spike’s mouth. Try not to enjoy that part too much. Smirk as his eyes flash. There’s the old Spike. Uncap bottle of alcohol.
Steady now. This was the hard part.
Pour a steady stream of alcohol directly onto the bloody tear. Lock muscles. Try not to hear the muffled roaring. Keep him still or the other stitches will tear. Tip the bottle again. Let Spike latch on to the arm across his chest while he screams. Wait until he stops straining. Mop up the blood, alcohol and pieces of rotten flesh with the hand towel. Try not to notice the smell or that Spike has tears in his eyes and blood at the corner of his mouth.
Let muscles relax. Move out from behind Spike and lower him gently to the bed. Thread needle and set it aside. Take both hand towels and walk to the bathroom. Angel was glad, for once, that vampires don’t have reflections. He doesn’t think he could look at himself right now. Run the water until the room fills up with steam. Wet the clean hand towel; let the other soak. Take a deep breath.
How much longer was he going to have to do this? How many more times before he just decided to stake Spike in his sleep? It would be kinder in the end, wouldn’t it? But does he mean kinder for him or kinder for Spike? He doesn’t know the answer to that and that’s why he won’t ever do it.
Walk back to the bed and pick up the butter knife. Pour a little alcohol on it. Straddle Spike’s legs. Brace one hand on Spike’s chest. Scrape the open edges of the wound. Don‘t notice Spike‘s muscles straining. Keep eyes firmly on the knife.
“Less flesh is coming off this time. I think the skin is starting to heal around the other stitches.” That’s right, be encouraging. Never mind the fact that he thought about staking Spike not ten minutes ago.
“I’m almost done.” Nice soothing voice.
Squeeze the warm water out of the towel and let it drip onto the wound. Go back to the bathroom and wet it down again. Come back and squeeze water onto Spike’s shoulder again. Mop up the pink-stained water. Clean the wound. Try to find healthy flesh and still make the stitches as tiny as possible. Take mangled rubber gloves out of Spike's mouth.
“Here. Let’s sit you up and then I’ll put a new dressing on.” And now here we have Spike not talking. Why wasn’t Spike saying anything? Spike never stops talking. Before he’s always gotten at least a ‘bloody ‘ell.’ Shit.
Wind the strips of torn sheet around Spike’s torso and over his shoulder. Wrap a length of duct tape over that to make sure it doesn’t come undone. Thank you God, he was done. This time.
“Spike?” Say something, damn it. He never would’ve thought he would be trying to get Spike to talk to him.
“’m fine, Angel.” No, he wasn’t. He didn’t say ‘knock off the mothering, Peaches’ or ‘enjoy having your hands on me, Poof?’ or any of the other things he’d said to Angel over the last weeks. Spike had called him by his name. But then, he’d been doing that a lot more lately, hadn’t he? Why? Just what did Spike think was going on here?
Pack the supplies away. Note to self: steal more alcohol from the cleaning lady. Help Spike lay back in bed. Cover Spike up. Move to his side of the bed. Lie down. Brood.
Gunn was the first to fall in that alley in L.A. At least Charles went out fighting. If Angel hadn’t gotten knocked out, if Illyria hadn’t dragged him down into the sewer, if she hadn’t thrown Spike in after... she wouldn‘t have died alone. He should’ve died with them. He meant to die with them. It was supposed to have been the end. Go out in a blaze of glory. Not this lingering death. Not trying to take care of a lame vampire while they both starved to death. Not running. He was supposed to be a champion. Champions don’t run.
Wait a minute. The bed was shaking. Why was the bed shaking? Was Spike crying? Spike doesn’t cry. At least, Spike doesn’t let Angel see him cry. Damn. He was never going to get to sleep with Spike shaking the bed like that. If he doesn’t do something he’ll have to spend another day staring at the back of his eyelids.
“Spike?” Turn over and move closer.
“’m okay. Cold in here is all.” No, it wasn't. It was mid-afternoon in Nevada in a motel with no air conditioning. Shit.
Should Angel touch him? Check if he has a fever? How could Spike have a fever? He should be a few degrees cooler than room temperature. It couldn’t hurt if Angel checks, could it? Reach out and lay hand on Spike's shoulder. Spike’s skin was human-warm. That can’t be good. Humans were what? Ninety-eight degrees? Spike was at least that.
“Cold, Angel. It’s so cold in here.” Shit. Shit. Shit. Nothing else to be done was there? He hopes like hell Spike really is out of it. If not, Angel will never live this down.
“Sit up, Spike.” Help Spike up. Take both pillows and stack them against the headboard. Lean back. Take a moment to thank the Powers they were both wearing pants. Spread legs.
“Come here, Spike.” And now here we have Spike looking at him. What the hell was that look anyway?
“Come on Spike. I have to get some sleep if I’m going to hunt tonight. I can’t do that with you shaking the bed.” There. Semi-plausible explanation; if you didn‘t look at it too hard. It seems to work anyway because now here we have Spike crawling in between Angel’s legs and curling up against him. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Too late now. Pull the covers up. Close eyes. Play dead.
Oh no. What was Spike doing? He was hugging Angel. Spike was delirious, he had to be. He was actually snuggling. Crap. If, no, when Spike got better Angel would definitely be bringing this up every time he heard a 'Great Poof' comment. Heaven help him. Why was he doing this again? Oh yes, Spike had a soul now and Spike was good now and Spike stood up with him and Spike was wounded saving him and... Spike was the only friend he had left.
“Angel?” Soft voice and Angel can feel Spike’s lips against his chest.
“Yes, Spike?” Big sigh. He knew. He just knew Spike was going to say something. It was about damn time.
“Could you talk to me? Just until I fall asleep?” Great, now Spike had him breathing again. Great big, gulping breaths because suddenly Spike’s weight on him seems to have gotten a lot heavier. Angel’s chest hurt.
“Uhhh, talk about what?” Angel doesn’t make idle conversation. He doesn’t know how. Spike knows that.
“Tell me a story. A good one; not something from one of your moldy old books.” What stories did he know? There was only one that he could remember right now. At least the heroine lives happily ever after in that one.
“Okay, Will. You may have heard this one though.” Wrap arms around Will- because it was Will with him now. Rest cheek on soft, matted hair. Clear throat. Deep breath.
“Once upon a time in California, there was a golden girl...”
***