Chapter 16

Wesley sat up abruptly at Illyria’s words and looked shyly off to one side for a moment.  All he said was, ‘We need to work something out quickly.’

She nodded. ‘I require your assistance.’

Spike looked between them, sensing something more intimate in their words.  Whether Wesley felt this or not, he rose eagerly, and after only a moment’s hesitation, put his hand on her arm. ‘Lead on.’

Spike leant back on the couch. It was all still there—in his head—going around and around. The words had been spat out with hatred and fear, anger and bitterness.  All contradiction, all fragmented. He didn’t know how much had been the truth or how much Angelus, even in that moment of torment, had lied. Most of all though, Spike heard the oscillation in Angelus’s psyche: him, me, I. His sire didn’t seem to know whether he was Angel or Angelus.

Spike was damn sure he didn’t know any more.

 

 

He was summoned to the lab early the following morning.

By lunchtime, he’d accepted the plan.

Wesley focused on the minutiae, and Spike sensed that this was a defence mechanism and let him be. He wanted to know how Spike would find him. Spike told him that it would be easy. He wanted to know where Spike would trap him. Spike replied that there was only one place. He obsessed about the words Spike would say. Spike told him he’d just open his mouth and let them come.

Finally, clutching a small glass jar as if it were his own soul inside, Spike nodded at them both and left.

He’d told Wesley the truth; there was only place he wanted this to play out.

The door was still loose on its hinges, and he no difficulty getting into the warehouse.  The smell had lessened, purification almost past.

He put the lights on and studied the small studio. There didn’t seem many places to hide the jar, even though it was relatively small.  The light wasn’t particularly good, and he frowned, glancing up to see why. One bulb had blown, leaving two other lights illuminating the space. He grinned, dragged the bed over, replaced the dead bulb with the vessel and replaced the cover. He even added dust to cover signs that it had been tampered with.

He stepped down, carefully replaced the bed in exactly the same position, dusted over the tracks on the floor, and then practiced coming into the room and glancing around. It would not be found.

He retraced his steps, dusting over his prints and stepped out into the night air.

Now to invite Angelus to his resouling….

Again, he hadn’t lied to Wesley. Finding Angel was easy. He followed the trail of his victims. It was as if Angelus wanted to be found—by his childe anyway. His distinctive scent was on his kills. Some of them had been tortured before they died, and again, Spike recognised Angelus’s artwork. 

It was a hot night, an Indian summer that made the city street swelter and the bodies smell although they were only a few hours dead.  He tracked through sewers, storm drains and abandoned buildings. Some of the victims had not even been drained. They’d just been killed.

The trail stopped at the docks, only a few blocks from the warehouse. Spike wasn’t surprised by this; he was only surprised he’d not remembered and come here first.

The gang members had regretted calling Angelus a faggot by the time they’d died—curious he’d taken offence, given the way he tortured them, but still sorry. Very sorry.

Spike stood and surveyed the bodies. He couldn’t pretend that he was shocked or disgusted or even particularly moved. He found it harder to pretend that he was not aroused, for he was. He was a demon, and he still enjoyed the heady sense of power over victims, still ached to hear screams and know that pain was being eaten whole. 

Angelus just appeared at his side, looking down at his handiwork as if they were studying a quilt laid out in the sun, a patchwork of colours based on the theme of pain.

‘Hello, Will.’

‘Angelus.’

‘You know I’m going to have to hurt you now, don’t you?’

Spike shrugged. ‘To be honest? I don’t really care all that much.’

Angelus turned to him. ‘Spoil my fun, why don’t you….’

Spike quirked up his lip. ‘Make it good, and I’ll scream for you if you’re real lucky.’

Angelus laughed.

‘Want a drink first?’

Angelus laughed again, but it was a much darker sound. ‘As if I’d ever trust you again.’

‘You didn’t trust me the first time. You were only waiting until you could use me to get the chip taken out.’

‘And you betrayed me.’

Spike only shrugged once more.

‘What do you want, Spike? Is this some pathetic attempt to put my soul back in? Are you here to capture me? Cus, ya know, there’s no chip now; I’m well fed, and I’m just raring to go.  I’d relish it if you tried.’

Spike walked away from the scene of death and hopped up on a window ledge, bracing himself with one leg in the opening and lighting a cigarette.  As he blew a tendril of smoke, he said, ‘I’m not sure I want to bring Angel back to all this. He’ll still be dying inside. Maybe he won’t feed.’

‘Yeah, like I’m believing that.’ Angelus came over, pushed his leg out of the way and joined him on the sill, taking the cigarette from him.

Spike lit another.  ‘He can’t live with you inside.’

Angelus took a long drag. ‘I’d kinda like to kill him off for good, too.’

Spike shook his head. ‘One day, somehow, Wesley will get him back. He loves Angel. He won’t give up. Even now, he and Illyria are plotting ways to stuff your soul back in.’

‘I wish them luck.’

Spike rubbed his hand over his stubble idly. ‘If they ask me, I’ll help them.’

Angelus stubbed his cigarette out on Spike’s head, laughing.  Spike caught at his wrist. ‘I don’t want him back; I don’t want him gone. I’m as insane as you.’

Angelus tipped his head back staring at the echoing space above them. ‘You don’t know what insanity is. They did.’ He glanced over to the bodies. ‘At the end.’  He smiled softly and turned to Spike. ‘And now you’re gonna find out, too.’

Spike jumped down and backed away. He threw his cigarette into the dark, a small red glow in the all-enveloping night.  With a low laugh, he said, ‘If you can catch me.’  Then he was gone.

Angelus actually hesitated in surprise for a moment, then he howled with delight and leapt off the ledge.  When he made it to the entrance, there was no sign of Spike.  The dock was large, broad, not cluttered and left nowhere to hide, but Spike was gone. 

Suddenly, Angelus’s preternatural hearing caught the faint lap of water as if a ripple were stroking the pier struts. He ran to the edge of the dock and peered over. There was a distinct ring of ripples on the otherwise calm, inky water.

He lay down and put his ear to the decking.  With a grin, he scooted over to a particular spot, steeled himself, then punched through the wood, groping around. With a hiss of pleasure, he caught hold of a collar.  He began to haul Spike up through the smashed deck, but Spike fastened onto his wrist with his fangs, and Angelus was forced to drop him.  Without hesitating, Angelus ripped through the hole and tipped into the murky water.  He thrashed and found Spike.  He wrestled him, and they both surfaced.  Spike neatly lifted, grabbed the edges of the hole and levered himself out, the sound of his pounding feet distinct in the night air.

Angelus growled and tried to do the same, but he was too bulky when wet to slip through as easily as Spike. His coat caught on the raw edge, and by the time he’d wrenched free, Spike was gone once more.

His wet trail shone like a snail’s in the moonlight, and Angelus hummed as he sauntered along, following it. He miscalculated how hot the night though was, though, for the damp patches began to dry rapidly. Cursing, he began to run.

He skidded out into a quiet street.  Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his prey.  In a moment, he tipped his head up and scanned the rooftops.  He grinned and found the ladder. The handholds were still wet.  Scaling the rungs as if flying, Angelus landed gracefully on the roof in a crouch, waiting. 

Incredulously, he heard the click of a lighter and then a soft curse, ‘Bugger, soggy!’

He rounded the corner of a stairwell and found Spike in a crouch, trying to get a cigarette to light.

‘Do you think this is a joke?’

Spike shook his head. ‘Nope, only you’re so old and fat I’m giving you a fair chance.’

Angelus grinned widely and sprung. Spike leant back; the door behind him opened (as he’d known it would), and Angelus crashed onto empty roof space. Spike recovered from his tumble down the stairs and kicked open a door in the abandoned apartment block.  He went to the window, judged the distance to the ground and landed lightly, his coat billowing out behind, drying in the warm night air.  He took to his heels; pretty sure that Angelus would be close behind.  He was. There was a louder thump, and Spike actually felt the air pass him as Angelus’s body displaced it on landing.

He tore down the road, heading for the warehouse and made it a few feet in front of Angelus.  He crashed in and skidded to a halt in front of the bed. 

‘I won.’

Angelus came more slowly to a halt. He glanced around then came closer. ‘This wasn’t a game.’

‘Sure it was, Sire. You were testing me, and I was testing you.’

‘You were testing me?’ Spike noticed that Angelus did not deny the first part of his claim.  He nodded. ‘If I’m gonna go back to the old ways, I want it to be right—not grubbing around like some third-rate demon.’ He stood straighter. ‘So, sure, I was testing for exactly the same things you were, Angelus: could you be a companion for eternity?’

Angelus came menacingly close.  ‘Maybe you failed.’

‘Maybe you did.’

Angelus grabbed his head between both hands and began to squeeze.  Spike let him, closing his eyes.  Angelus laughed suddenly and dropped him.  ‘Sheesh. Why this place?’

Spike laughed. ‘Dramatic irony. And I know you love a stage.’

Angelus spread his arms and bowed to an imaginary audience.  Spike picked up a baseball bat and swung it against his palm idly.  Angelus eyed it balefully then cursed, his eyes straying to the source of the sweet, ripe smell.  

He sank to the bed and leant gingerly against the false wall.  ‘So, Angelus and William the Bloody, reunited.’

Spike swung the bat as if taking a pitch. ‘We should leave this city.’

Angelus nodded. ‘Sure. Europe, I’m thinking. Maybe the East—all those conflicts, no one would notice two hungry vampires.’

‘Not Prague.’ He swung again.

Angelus shrugged. He eyed Spike for a while. ‘What now?’

Spike turned to him for a moment, their eyes locked. Some silent communication passed between them that seared guilt into Spike’s soul, and then he smashed out the dead light.

Nothing fell out. The casing was empty.

Angelus bit his lip he was trying so hard not to laugh.

He reached under the bed and pulled out the small jar. ‘Oh! Look! Who put that there?’

He chuckled and tossed it from hand to hand, staring at Spike the whole time, challenging him to run.

At a slight twitch from Spike, he was at his side, the bat relieved from his grasp.  He thrust his face into Spike’s. ‘Did you really think I was that slow? Did you?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Oh, I’m hurt. And here I am, thinking I have my loving, obedient childe back with me for eternity. Isn’t that what you said, Spike?’

Spike decided there was nothing he wanted to say, so he kept quiet.

Angelus swung the bat and broke Spike’s left arm. ‘I asked you a question.’

Spike sank to his knees, cradling his arm. 

Angelus smiled.  ‘You never really got baseball, did you Spike? Too fucking English, clinging to your oh-so-superior cricket, thinking you can come to my country and starve us all like dogs while you said in your soft, nancy-boy voices: oh, good shot, Wexford, sticky wickets, what? Well, ya know what? I like this game.’  As if demonstrating his words, he tossed the jar into the air and swung the bat so hard against it that it smashed into thousands of tiny fragments of coloured glass that rained down on them, tiny glistening beads on their black leather.  There was faint puff of light like a damp firework, and it was over.

Angelus pouted and said petulantly, ‘Is that all I’m fucking worth? A freaking damp squid.’ Then he shrugged. ‘He only managed a hundred years. Loser.’

Angelus looked down at Spike fondly. ‘You should thank me. I’ve taken away your dilemma: bring him back, not bring him back. No bringing him back now—ever. What? You weren’t trying to trick me? Oh, Spike…. Don’t cry—I knew you would…. I’m not upset!’  He patted Spike’s shaking shoulders like an adoring parent, then swung the bat onto the shaved head, for all the world as if he were making a home run.

 

 

Spike woke to a world of pain.  He knew without testing his theory that one side of his skull was caved in.  He was lying in a warm sticky mess, which he assumed was his blood and possibly a few brain cells. He was well fed though; he’d recovered from worse injuries. 

He didn’t have time to think about any of his pain, external or internal, before he felt a body shift next to him. An arm snaked over his waist, and Angelus whispered, ‘Wakey, wakey.’

Spike opened his eyes and discovered two things simultaneously: he was in his apartment, and he was naked. 

He rolled onto his back, wincing at the pain.

Angelus peered anxiously down at him. ‘Does it hurt?’

Spike decided not to play this game, remembered the broken arm he’d gotten for not playing it the last time, considered for a moment, then decided he didn’t care what Angelus did, so kept silent.

As if reading his thoughts, Angelus looked wounded. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, little one! I want to give you pleasure.’

A chill ran down Spike’s spine at these words.

Once more, reading his thoughts, Angelus chuckled quietly and rolled onto his back. ‘Yeah, it’s a fearsome thing, love is. “I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion. I have shudder'd at it. I shudder no more. I could be martyr'd for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you.” Aye, pretty words, are they not?’

Blind on the side where Angelus lay, Spike nevertheless knew that he was naked, too.

‘But the trouble is, how do you rape a whore?’ Angelus sighed as if his question were something really troubling him. ‘I want to hurt and humiliate you, but I think you’ll just enjoy it!’ He levered over Spike and asked politely, ‘Will you enjoy it?’

Spike turned his head away and closed his eyes.

‘Pitch. What the hell is pitch? I mean, where the fuck do you get pitch in L.A. at three in the morning?’ He pouted, thinking. ‘Maybe boiling water….’ He poked the still form on the shattered end of his radius, which was sticking out from the skin.  ‘Have you got a kettle, Spike?’

When there was no answer, not even a grunt of pain, he said tetchily, ‘You’re no fun, Will. Oh…. What? Have I cut out your heart? Did you feel Angel die? Are you grieving? Childe, let me give comfort.’ He licked up Spike’s chest from navel to nipple, pausing over the tiny bud, raising his eyes to Spike’s blank face. ‘You like this.’ He bit savagely, drawing blood, which made him hiss with pleasure.

Spike moaned and arched slightly. Angelus paused again, seemed to lose his concentration on what he was doing then focused, muttering to himself.

It didn’t seem to matter what torments he inflicted on Spike, Spike didn’t respond. After that weakness, moaning and lifting to the pain, he shut himself away in a place where he could think quietly about Angel. He was remembering the last time he’d been on this mattress, and the memories were so much more real and potent than anything Angelus could do, that the other vampire hardly intruded on his consciousness at all.

 

Angelus’s reaction to the torture was predicable.  Gradually, the things he did became more overtly sexual.  He was aroused and rubbed his cock against the slim body as he tormented it.  He worked on Spike to arouse him, telling him that he had fiendish things planned for his erection, but singularly failing to deliver on these threats when Spike was hard.

After a while, it would have been difficult for an onlooker to tell that this was torture, and not love, except for the blood and the extreme pallor and stillness of one of the supposed lovers.

After some more time, Angelus cursed and turned Spike over.  Once more, he tried to pretend that he wanted to practice his artistry on this blank canvass, but the pretence was forgotten when he parted the hard cheeks.  His cursing was soft now and heavily laden with need. He took his erection and pushed it in.

Immediately, the pretence came back; as long as he told himself that this was rape, then he was happy.

He enjoyed himself for a while, rubbing his hardness against Spike’s incredibly soft inner walls. He enjoyed the feel of his cockhead, buried deep, and the tightness of Spike’s muscles around his shaft.  Then he pulled out and enjoyed the visual of pushing back in.

Finally, he pulled out and frowned.

Very casually, he turned Spike back over.  A pair of blue eyes fixed on him, but Angelus could not hold their gaze. He played a finger into one of Spike’s wounds, then suddenly bent his head and licked Spike’s undamaged nipple.  He shrugged his shoulders lightly and asked nonchalantly, ‘Did you like that?’

Spike only continued to stare at him silently. Angelus sighed. ‘What then? Tell me something you like.’ He closed his eyes like a child about to plunge a hand into something disgusting and took hold of Spike’s cock in a gentle fist.  He snapped open his eyes, huffed, and began to stroke with long, even pulls, taking care to cup his palm over the cockhead and twist to create friction.

Spike arched, and Angelus grinned.  Spike turned his head away and closed his eyes.  Angelus put his hand to Spike’s face and turned him back. He didn’t attempt to open the eyelids, just brushed his fingertips over them.

The next thing Spike knew, his cock was being pleasured expertly, and a tongue was being eased between his lips, flicking, sensuous and exploratory.  He clamped his mouth shut as best he could and would not allow entry.

When he opened his eyes, Angelus was braced over him, his size magnified by the distortion of Spike’s sight. To his one good eye, he appeared to blot out the world: sleek, hard and glistening.

Very slowly, Angelus took hold of one of Spike’s thighs and lifted it.  He didn’t need to guide his cock; it was horizontal and aligned, and tipping his hips forward, he sank in deep.  Very slowly he pulled right out, teased around the hole with his glistening cockhead, then when all was slick, thin tendrils of pre-cum hanging between them, he eased back in and began a strong, persuasive assault on Spike’s prostate.  Angelus held himself rigid, watching Spike’s expression. When it didn’t alter, he seemed to soften and lowered himself onto Spike’s belly, now jerking in small, sharp motions into him, playing with a nipple.  Still he kept his eyes fixed on Spike’s unresponsive face.  He nuzzled into Spike’s neck, licking over the old scar that joined them more profoundly than any sex act could.  He took the loose skin over Spike’s collarbone and bit it so gently there was hardly an impression when he pulled away.  Finally, his whole body started to shudder, and he whispered urgently, ‘Come with me!’

He cried a long drawn out sound of intense pleasure as he ejaculated, pushing himself in as far as he could go as if trying to send his sperm high enough to change Spike’s lifeless expression.  He milked it out with long thrusts then, very slowly, pulled free, watching as thick spills of his fluid dribbled out.  He rubbed his tip gently in the spills, fondling Spike’s still urgent, unrelieved erection

Finally, with a sigh, he lay down alongside Spike and, folding his hands under his head, sank into uncharacteristic silence.

Every sound in the apartment was magnified in this eerie silence: a rustle from the sheets as one of them shifted slightly, a drip from the showerhead, the occasional creaking of pipes cooling.

After what seemed like an age, Angelus brought his arms down. 

He contorted his face as if thinking deeply.

Then, very slowly and deliberately, he turned his back to Spike and lay on his belly, one leg bent up, as if he were a lover and sharing a bed after sex was to be desired.

 

Spike waited until the powerful figure next to him seemed to melt into the bed, becoming languid and fluid. 

He eased himself onto his side.

Conversationally, Angelus said, ‘You should have come.’

Spike laughed. ‘You dumb fuck.’  He seized Angelus’s arms and thrust his rigid cock as high as he could into the relaxed body.  With deliberate, controlled release, he filled Angelus with his DNA.